Now About That Book You Wrote About Me and My Mom Friends. . . . .


I know we haven’t spoken in quite a while, ever since you fled the Upper East Side for the Upper West Side, or, as you oh so delicately put it, the land of post-menopausal gray hair and the last ten pounds, but I thought, nonetheless, that you might want to know what effect your new book, Coming of Age in Sant Ambroeus, is having on us, your former friends, the glam SAHMs (Stay At Home Mothers) you’ve left behind. Well just yesterday, after drop-off, while getting into my Escalade en route to Physique 57, I heard this terrible thunderous clap and turned around to see all my fellow glam SAHMers scattering quickly in all directions. It was a bit like watching fugitives flee — sure, beautiful, skinny, toned, blonde, rich fugitivies — but fugitives nonetheless. You see, we tribe members of the glam SAHMs are all now running scared, but not of you — for god’s sake, please don’t flatter yourself! — we are afraid of them, the fat, flabby, unchic masses, the dreaded, dreggsy 99% of which you, erstwhile crow’s-footed Midwestern brunette née Wendy were once a part. Yes, thanks to you Wendy – the new you, the blonde, botoxed Wednesday you – every woman in America will now be doing what we glam SAHMers do, or at least they will now be dying trying. You see, whether you know it or not, Wednesday, the way of life, our way of life, which you oh so methodically and scrupulously scientifically describe in your book, will not be viewed by your new cohort of Upper West Side shlubs and — let’s face it — flyover readers as some kind of cautionary tale. God no! This is America and as Henry Ford once so brilliantly put it, the nature of capitalism is to turn luxury into necessity. What does this mean? Well, do you remember what happened with Coach bags in the ‘90s? Personal Trainers in the ‘00s? Need I say more? One minute you have us exclusively buying these things, procuring these services, and then all of a sudden you have. . . . .them! For example. Mark and I are supposed to take the kids to Disney next fall over Columbus Day weekend so of course I call up the disabled guide agency, you know, the one that all of us use, the one that lets you cut the lines for the rides, the one you were so grateful to me for passing on its number that you sent me a double orchid? Yes, that one. Well guess what? No can do. They’re booked solid through 2016. Then yesterday, while having Prosecco and crackers for breakfast with Hillary Duffkind, she tells me that her cousin in Peoria – Peoria! Illinois! – is getting a wife bonus. Now Wednesday, it’s one thing to tell the world about the disabled guide agency – I mean, it is at Disney, after all – but the wife bonus? Did you really have to go and destroy that too? That was our very own special thing here East of Fifth and West of Lexington, North of Sixty Second and south of Ninety third. And for some of us, well, that was all we had to look forward to after bragging about how we give away our Wharton and Harvard Law School-honed legal and financial skills for free to any frivolous charity that will have us. So there. Are you happy, Wednesday? Are you feeling like an alpha cat now? But lest you think you’ve come out unscathed in all of this just know that an alternate title for your book might well be The Death Knell of The Birkin. Yes, Wednesday, thanks to you, and the entire chapter you devoted to its significance, I’m afraid that’s a totem whose time has come as well. Pity you have so many of them.

Formerly Yours,