A mere three days north of the Mason-Dixon and I receive a phone call from the Manhattan District Attorney’s office. A man that had once pursued me—namely inviting me to Madonna’s Christmas party—is now being investigated by the state as well as the Federal Government. He’s being charged with fraud and money laundering. They confiscated his telephone and computer records and found my name. I’m to testify against him—or something along those lines. It’s all very “Law & Order” and I feel like a duped Bridget Jones.
I’ll keep y’all posted…
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
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