Listen children, we hate to leave y'all in a state of celebrity real estate panic and withdrawl, but we have been working our fingers to the nubbins and wearing out the wheels of our Rolodex and during the last few weeks our poor gin soaked mind has melted into simpering puddle of mush.
So last night Your Mama and the Dr. Cooter booked ourselves some last minute and first class airline tickets to a warm and sunny destination where we plan on doing little besides play tennis, eat big salads at our favorite outdoor eatery and lay around in the nood sunning our naughty bits on our rented terrace.
We may drop in for a visit and float an item or two while away, but Your Mama does not plan on hanging around here and discussing anything celebrity related until the middle of next week. So get yourself a nice big bottle of Bombay Sapphire to ease the pain, keep your lips zipped and do not even think about giving Your Mama any grief or sass about our being a-way.
Your Mama has well earned a weeks damn vacation, and ev-er-ee one of you children know it.
Before we go, we do recommend you peruse this inneresting article in the pink papered New York Observer about the 9 most difficult co-op boards in New York City. Fascinating stuff.