I'll have the salad, please.

It's been a week since the fundraiser at the Waldorf Astoria--did I ever tell you how much I loathe those things? It's such a puzzle to me, these obscene parties. Spend twenty or thirty thousand dollars on champagne and caviar and bimbos with cigarette trays to stroke the egos of bloated and self-important politicians and executives and by the time the night is over, you have those same lunkheads ten percent poorer and twenty percent fatter. I say, take a week out of your life, make some phone calls and personal visits, take out an ad in the Times to thank them--and if you're so inclined, add the money you saved from putting a party and viola--you have one hell of a good fundraiser. But then, where would the cigarette girls go?

A good deal has arisen over the horizon that is my husband, Walter. After the Waldorf function I was quite famished. The lobster bisque smelled of last month's cheese and the bread was as leaden as the hostess's sense of humor, so I skipped both and stuck with the salad. Needless to say, I'd have given my right eye for a slice of pizza. So off I went into the Manhattan night to take my chances in Little Italy. For this venture, I put away my party dress and slipped on my denim trousers and best checked farmer's blouse. I was interestingly ravishing, I must say, a cross between Annie Oakley and some old broad who would be more comfortable under the carriage of a Buick than a man, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, I had my driver, Miles, drop me at the corner of Mulberry and Main, while I let him drive on to prowl Greenwich. No sooner did I turn into Vivaldi's for a slice of pepperoni did I catch a whiff of cheap tramp musk. I spun around and there they were--my Walter and that thing, attached to his arm like a sucking leech.

Now, my bunnies, I have nothing against men taking a lover--I believe I've made that amply clear. It's in the DNA--men need artificial sweetner like women need an occasional coiff. It reminds us that we are still pertinent and can still draw the eye. But there are rules, and rules must be obeyed. Be discreet. Never take a lover that would reflect poorly on your wife--either making her look foolish or frumpy, or stupid for having settled for a man whose standard are clearly in the gutter. And this..."woman" that Walter was dragging around like a fishing lure--she was clearly in the latter. And, I might add---she was my friend.

Was.