My Lunch with MopeyChick (plus audio)

PREVIOUSLY, in this entry:
Y'all....this is a teaser entry, which tomorrow will be updated with the title "My Lunch with MopeyChick," in which I will describe, in detail, every nuance of my meeting with the reknowned Charlotte-an.

You WILL want to come back tomorrow, for it will be rich with oozy gossipy goodness and sticky with the sweetness of shared blogger-on-blogger action.

Consider yourselves teased.

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What follows is the REAL entry:

Hear the author read it, badly:

The first thing I noticed about MopeyChick, after I made it to the ranch where she instructed me to meet her, was the soft golden glow that surrounded her and made her look not-quite-real. Like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to that aura, wanting to bathe in the light that shimmered from her hair and skin, and also from the diamond tennis bracelets on her wrists, the pearls at her neck, and the several toe rings on her perfectly manicured feet.

She was, in a word, dazzling.

Everything about her spoke of a woman of control and style: her glistening french knot hairstyle, the shell pink linen blouse, the bright floral pattern of her tasteful-yet-playful capris, the coordinating Manolo espadrilles with the daisy applique, and enhancement of a subtle hint of "White Diamonds" perfume.

I reached out to grasp her hand in greeting, and she drew back as if burned and hissed "Do not touch the Mopey! You have not filled out the proper forms and it is simply not DONE without permission!", at which point I know I was dealing with a true Steel Magnolia, and was instantly enraptured.

Once she'd inspected my credentials (I was glad to have found the college transcript, because she pored over THAT one for at least a minute), an agreement was made to, in the words of her Junior League friends, "Nosh and Natter" at a vegan steakhouse called "The Veal and Veggie" that she co-owns with her gangster porn-star brother, Mickey the Schlong. It wasn't a long trip to the restaurant, but it was made more difficult for me to get to because her chauffeur insisted on taking all side roads and driving the Boxter at incredible speeds. My Kia was having a hard time taking the turns.

In short order we arrived, parked the cars (hers in valet, mine on the street), and just before entering I was made aware of the rules of our engagement (other than the no touching thing): I was to speak only when spoken to, not look at her boobs, and agree with everything she said. "Of course," I recall saying, "of course, Miss Mopey, whatever you want."

Once inside, and after the flambouyantly gay maitre d'hotel had gushed over her new rack and her ability to match lipstick to manicure, we were seated in a plush velvet banquette, at which point the liquor started to flow. Perfect Skyy martinis with pink onions on the bottom of the quart-sized glasses were offered at regular (5-minute) intervals, and Mopey slung 3 down "just to get ready," she said. I sipped at mine, not wanting to embarrass myself with my inability hold any kind of liquor, and too afraid to refuse any at all.

And then, she started talking. She spoke of her exhausting trips to Milan and Rodeo Drive, of her aggravating dealings with her children's private schools and how she thought it might be best to hire a hot British man to teach them privately and give her backrubs on his days off, of the troubles she was having finding yet ANOTHER pilot for her jet, of things of drama and substance and such fascination that I didn't mind when she kicked me "accidentally" or threw her fifth drink at me because I was "looking at her improperly" or when she stabbed me with her fish fork while gnawing on the ribs of the dry romaine leaves that were her lunch. The glinting from her bracelets blinded my eyes, the scent of her perfume filled my nostrils, the sound of her whinging voice echoed in my head, and I knew I was in the presence of a creature the likes of which I'd never met before.

If I had to make a comparison to someone in the common experience,, I'd say she was like Lando Calrissian, all smooth and beautiful, which is but a luscious scrim of loveliness that hides a rodent-like sense of self preservation and narcissicm unequalled in this quadrant. I felt like she was just as likely to embrace me (once the correct forms were approved) as encase me in carbonite. Fire and ice, fire and ice....and oh, the very zenith of humanity.

Alas, all too soon our 30 minutes of nosh and natter were over, and she declared that I had tired her with my incessant jibber-jabering and she "must go somewhere quiet to recover." As she staggered demurely toward the door, leaving me to pay the bill, I swept up her used nakpin, inhaled her scent once more, and began to dab at the tears of joy and shame that dropped from my dazzled eyes.

The end.


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Really. That's JUST how it went.

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OK, fine, that's not REALLY how it went. Mopey tells all.