A Woman of Means

Yes, indeed, this is a woman of means. But by ‘woman of means’ I don’t necessarily mean what you think I might mean. I don’t mean that this is a woman of ‘means’ in the traditional sense of the word. You know — old money, title, stocks, bonds, gold, diamonds, real estate, grain futures, oil leases, options — things of that sort. No, she did not descend from either a background blessed with or a lengthy lineage larded with those (though I’m sure it really wouldn’t take her too long to get any one of them, or even all of them, once she was tempted to turn her wantonly womanly wiles to the task).

When I say she is a woman of means, I mean she has certainly got the means to get whatever ‘means’ she’d like. In fact, she has convincingly so proven throughout the last 55+ years or so of her ‘dating’ life (but, hey, who’s counting?).

For example, she had the means to coax Eduardo the pool boy of decades past into acquiring a virtually new replacement pool filter, pump, skimmer and three inflatable floating chaises (with drink holders) from some other suburban manse that just happened to be getting rid of them.

She then had the means to get Esme, that supposedly supremely untalented, ungrateful, and, by the way, bitchy, pedicure stylist fired from Salon de Rivage once she had the nerve to intimate that a deep discount (of, say, 100%?) was not warranted for toes that clearly looked absolutely far more horrid after than before.

Later, she had the means to plant Hubert — high-earning hubby no. 1 — in an early family plot adjacent to his mother’s crypt, once his pillow-stuffing plant was acquired by a global bedding supply company for well over 8 figures, as Hubert simultaneously began to show an adverse reaction to ground glass in his granola.

She certainly had the means to urge that no-talent empty-headed blow-dried comb-overed news reader from Channel 4 into a Page 6, Viagra-fired, malt-whiskey-fueled, Lear-jet-aided, Monte-Carlo-abetted randy and rabid romp that (questionably) fathered a paternity action as it permanently face-planted a television career.

She had the means to convince Medri, the Romanian owner of that hip loungewear boutique next door to the Rolls dealer that she was the only lady in the area sporting a 48-inch bust over a size 2 pant, and thus the only model capable of showing off his fall line to full advantage. (Doesn’t that guy Medri ever even glance at the typical Rolls couple strolling a few yards past his door?)

She also had the means to extract yet one more freebie cosmetic procedure (dare I say replacing some relatively low-mileage DDDs with a brand spanking new pair of bouncy EEEs?) from Kemo Kotter, The Cutter of Rodeo Drive, via the judicious use of a modest amount of Mexican marching powder, a buttonhole camera, a body mike, three greasy thugs from the strip club, a red thong, and a fake DEA card.

So now I guess she has the means to travel full circle, for she has once again booked the cheapest room at this luxury resort, staked out the most prominent position poolside, and is throwing some serious bedroom-eye action at the hunky towel boy that just got his driver’s license.