Dear besties,
From the Department of Big-Ass Mea Culpas:
Well, friends, it turns out that America’s favorite scrappy-do movie star was NOT actually in Vermont over Easter. Contrary to what I wrote a little more than a week ago and what a number of online gossip sites “reported” around that time, Sandra Bullock did not dine at the Fair Haven Inn on the day Jesus rose from the dead.
Yikes! That means I was wrong. But how could that have happened? I’m never wrong.
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Dear besties,
A few days after Sandra Bullock took home the Oscar for best gal-next-door actress, it was revealed that her motorcyclist husband Jesse James was slumming it with a woman who has multiple facial tattoos and a fascination with White Power. Classy.
Naturally, our pal Sandy went into hiding after the philandering was revealed. What else do you do when your husband, whom you credit your career turnaround, has been caught engaging in a colossal act of scumbaggery?
But Sandy, sweet Sandy, didn’t bury her head under a mountain of eiderdown pillows on her California king-size bed. No, the Blind Side sasspot repaired to the Vermont countryside where she could cry on the shoulder of her sister Gesine far from the long lenses of the Hollywood paps. Gesine used to own the eponymous bakery in Montpelier and currently peddles fancy French macarons (they’re not macaroons, you philistine hayseeds) from somewhere in southern Vermont.
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Dear besties,
Sunday marked the first time I have ever sat inside a giant piece of produce. It also marked the first time I have ever rowed a giant piece of produce on Lake Champlain. But when you’re a celebrity like me, you participate in quaint community activities like this, if only to give the fan(s) what they want — a sighting of me in the flesh. I also sign autographs at Borders on Saturday afternoons and give readings of my work at the University Mall Wednesday nights and alternate Tuesday mornings.
That’s me, representing the 7D Crew, goopy-gourd styley.
Anyway, since I was deemed the “sportiest” Seven Dayser, it was my responsibility to represent the word factory in Sunday’s Giant Pumpkin Regatta, which raised money for Linking Learning to Life — some program meant to help keep kids out of jail or something. I was happy to oblige, since it meant not only did I get to flap around in the water, but I also got to dress up. Yippee!
I decided my costume would be functional and fashionable, so snorkeling gear made the most sense. If I was going in the drink, as least I wouldn’t get water in my eyes. Maybe I could even catch a glimpse of a zebra mussel or two underwater. I borrowed a wetsuit and fancy snorkel set from a friend and somehow squeezed my way into the three millimeter neoprene. And because no costume is complete without a wig, my boss graciously provided one from her enviable collection of fake hair.
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Dear besties,
I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve written. I had a nasty incident with graphite pencil earlier last week and have been unable to think of anything clever since. But now I’m back, more cleverer than ever!
Lots has happened since I last wrote. I went to a crazy person’s house. Then I went to another crazy person’s house. Then my car got towed. Then I wheeled my friend around in a wheelchair. Then I took my dog to the vet because of a kinked tail. Then I fed some horses. Then I fell on the ice. Then I fell on more ice. Then I tore my apartment apart trying to find a clean pair of underwear. Then I drank a lot of tea. Then I ate too much cabbage. Then I got the gas. So as you can see, I’ve been really busy.
But that’s no excuse. The news doesn’t stop, so why should I? I am clearly weak. But I pledge to be better. I’m going to start doing hand exercises so my fingers don’t get so fatigued when I’m typing. Anyway, that’s not really what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you that I’m pretty pee-ohhed at Beyonce. Yeah, that Beyonce. Not your coworker named Beyonce or your neighbor’s cat, Beyonce. The famous Beyonce. It’s because of her that I’m going to have to take out a second mortgage on my imaginary house in order to afford maple syrup. Uh, thanks Beyonce. Thanks for thinking of the little people.
I’d like to share with you a letter I wrote her after this disturbing bit of information came to light.
This is Beyonce wearing a bikini she borrowed from me last year.
This is Beyonce ruining my life.
This is my future home.
Dearest Beyonce Giselle Knowles,
I have a bone to pick with you. Perhaps that’s not the nicest way to open a letter to someone as fameuse as yourself. No doubt you’re not used to being addressed in such a way. Well, I’m not used to paying more for maple syup than I do for my make-believe single malts. Apparently, I have you to thank for this.
In a recent Bloomberg article charting the dramatic increase in the cost of maple syrup this year, you were cited as the main reason for the spike. Apparently in order to lose some ellbees for your role as second fiddle in the 2006 movie “Dreamgirls,” you told people you were on a “maple syrup diet.” And apparently you dropped a whopping 14 lbs by ” consuming only lemon-and-maple-flavored water for about two weeks,” according to Bloomberg Sounds tasty. So you see, your cleanse/starvation diet three years ago has had a ripple effect in the maple syrup industry (things take a while to reach Vermont, hence the three-year lag).
I’m glad you shed some weight and belted some songs, but now my maple syrup is going to cost me $70 a gallon. And because I’m not a mono-named superstar with a fanny that won’t stop married to grandpa Jay-Z, aka Jiggaman, aka Hova, aka S-Dot, I can’t exactly afford that. I mean, if you were willing to upgrade me, say, so that I could flash an Audemars Piguet timepiece or an Hermes briefcase or some VVS bling, then paying $70 a gallon for maple syrup wouldn’t be such a big deal. But since you and I aren’t exactly on those terms yet, I’m lucky if I can afford Aunt Jemima. You don’t want me pouring Aunt Jemima on my pancakes, do you? You wouldn’t cleanse with Mrs. Benjamin’s, would you?
Listen, B, I like you. I really do. I love that you totally paid homage to Bob Fosse in your “Single Girls” video. I think it’s amazing that you can run up a wall in heels. It’s equally impressive that you’re able to rep your family’s House of Dereon denim company in every single song you sing. Really, who’s your lyricist? Fantastic. And the fact that you’ve inspired a legion of gay boys to bust out their videocameras and film themselves dancing to your “Single Girls” video in front of the full-length mirror in their mom’s bedroom is priceless.
You’ve done a lot for people already, B.K. But we Vermonters, who use maple syrup for everything including cooking, bathing, annoiting the sick and running our cars, we need you to help us out. Tell the world the maple syrup diet is no more affective than say, the cabbage soup diet or the Hollywood juice diet. That will drive the prices back down to a reasonable level so that poor saddos like me can afford it. You will be known as a saint in Vermont (well, except by the farmers who were peeing in their Carrharts about the liquid gold streaming from their trees). Your status will be even more exalted than Samuel de… um, you know. That guy. Anyway, thanks in advance for your help.
Your best friend forever and sister in fierceness,
Lauren “Micha Fierce” Ober
She hasn’t responded yet, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed that her people will call my people and we’ll all get liquored up on maple syrup cocktails.
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