Well I am just so proud I could just burst! The Men’s Vogue with my Captain on the cover has hit the news stands and I think all of you will agree that he looks good enough to eat! I mean remember when he had bleached blonde hair and hadn’t met a pair of sweats he didn’t like? Now look at him. Suave and sophisticated, a man of the world, someone any woman would be proud to call her own.
It was nice of Annie Leibowitz to come to Dubai to photograph us. She does wonders with her camera and I’m sure all of you are hating me just a little bit for having a man like my Captain to spend quiet time with after the two of you have worked hard to make sure that his career is on track. I don’t think that Boring Greek ever made the cover of a fashion magazine. All he had was those pathetic watch ads they had to beg for. My captain is featured in Rolex ads and they came crawling to us. What?
HeHe! Bet you didn't know I knew how to be gangsta.
My favorite picture in the spread is the one where we are silhouetted in the window. It’s sensual with out being tacky in my very humble opinion. And I have to say my hair and my other assets are shown to perfection. It shows what’s between us without me laying on my Captain’s lap in some kind of almost there outfit like some Fashion Disaster’s do. I mean when your claim to fame is your questionable fashion sense how can you be an asset to your man? When everyone is too busy snarking behind your back to notice how allegedly beautiful you are you’re not “upgrading” him at all.. No wonder he plows whatever field he comes upon.
And yes I know some of you are saying my Captain is being unfaithful to me but I understand your motivation. He’s wealthy, in peak physical condition, and a man of the world. I hate to be vulgar but some of these women, and I use the term loosely, would go after a guy with two cents over a dollar. Imagine the envy directed towards me because of my Captain and our relationship.
And let me just talk a minute about our place in Dubai. I’m sure you see how absolutely fabulous it is and why we chose it. It’s away from the hustle and bustle of tennis. My captain can practice and think about his game. It’s not like he just rolled out of bed and became number one in the world you know. He works long hard hours visualizing matches in his head. And he does hit with some up and coming players from time to time. Eight hour days at work? Leave that to Boys who want to be The Man. He is the Man and will be for some time.
I hope you all go out and buy the magazine so you can get an idea of our life together…excuse me I have to take this call.
“HFPY! Darling how are you! Good. I understand you are consulting for some people…who called you? I see. Well just tell her that the Big Mama look doesn’t work in tennis. She looks like a left over from Woodstock with that long wavy uncut hair and, uh, how do I put it delicately, full figured look. No I’m not talking about The Russian Mack’s sister. You know exactly who I mean. The Mack’s sister is a big girl. Big Mama is just, well, fat. I know, I know I shouldn’t say much but my work making sure that my Captain’s life is on an even keel means that I don’t exercise as much as I should. As you can see from the spread in Men’s Vogue I’m working hard on getting back to where I was in my playing days…oh silly boy. That was not Photoshop! Where ever did you get that idea?
Well TTFN, or Adios! I’ve been practicing my Spanish in case The Argentine makes it the official language of the ATP. We’ll be heading to Rome for the Master’s Series event there…HFPY! How dare you mention that dreadful place in the South of France to me! And I thought you were my friend. I’m sorry HFPY but I must hang up now. No, I’m sorry, we can’t be friends if you’re going to bring up…oh stop the begging and pleading. Apology accepted. I forget your ever boyish wife lives there. Have she and the ArgieB come clean about their relationship? Oh. I see. Wives are kind of funny when there are children involved…huh? Red Shoes? Who the hell is Red Shoes? Ah. It’s kind of hard to deny these things when you go up to every guy entering the locker room and say “How ya doing?” isn’t it? And showing up in clubs with someone holding hands is a sure way to get rumors started non? See it was French this time all you El Senor fans. It's over with us. He's dead to me.
Hasta la vista! That’s my new phrase for this week. And we are going shopping in Rome aren’t we HFPY? And please, when the Fashion Disaster calls tell her we're out having pasta.
2 comments:
Oh Sweetest MV,
It has been a while. You see, that hack in NY that was doing our correspondence for some time, since you tried to deny the rumours with that ridiculous restraining order, Miss Soul M-something, well, she cheated me. That's the last time I agree to pay someone with Rafa's trophies. It's hard as it is to pick out the ones where something isn't bitten off, and now I hope the Boy doesn't notice that even though he is going to win a 3-peat, but he'll only have to bowls. Don't tell anyone.
Besides, I was a little busy worrying about my Boy. First he's dancing on bars and talking Chippendales, then he's going out like to that silly Salute man. It was pretty worrisome. But looks like now it's back to business as usual. First he takes out Hedgehog Hair in Indian Wells, and now he's back to home. I know you didn't have a good time watching that final in Monte Carlo, but you sure do look pretty when mad.
So, since you publicly declared you don't have feelings for me (but you didn't deceive ME, my love), you can probably revoke that silly restraining order. I promise I will be discreet. How about it?
So, I will see you soon in Mallorca. Wonder if they'll let us sit together? You know, if they play to long, my place is just nearby. Maybe I can finally give you el Regalo Grande, huh?
El Tio.
P.S. Picked up a copy of Men's Vogue. Nice acting!
Thank that man (at least I think he is) HFPY, I hear he saved you from wearing leopard print leggings and hot pink tank top. Now, I'd still want you, but the Captain might have outgrown that.
You two are too many things.
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