I’m writing to you from a remote country club in Florida’s plastic surgery capital, Boca Raton. We’re running low on champagne and god only knows how long our caviar reserves will hold. My flight on Delta airlines was cancelled late Wednesday night. There is no real time table of when we we’ll make it out of this gorgeous hell hole. Blogging has been next to impossible because I’m forced to use my cell phone data to scavenge for 5 star restaurants that we haven’t been to yet.
My golden tan is throwing my body into fits of intense hot and cold spells. Most of my Tommy Bahama clothes are dirty. Yesterday at cocktail hour I heard a few country club members mumble under their breathe that they’d, “already seen that shirt”. The only planes leaving local airports are flying trash cans, owned by some company called Spirit Airlines?
Pray for me.