Muffy de Rothschild resurfaces in the Saint Nick of time

A special message from your dear friend, Muffy de Rothschild

"FELIX NAVAL DAD, amigos!" as I’ve learned to say in Mexican. 

Yes, it is I, Muffy -- from whom most of you haven’t heard since 2007.

You no doubt wondered what had become of me when you didn’t see me at any of the local balls or on the ski slopes of Gstaad. Nor did I host my yearly fundraiser, which has raised so many millions to provide Botox treatments to the visibly disadvantaged. “My bad,” as we also say in Mexican.

I must confess that for me, 2008 was an uproarious year, full of surprises. Pinky, my erstwhile husband, lost a bundle on American real estate and other bits and bobs, so last January he moved us to palatial digs in northern Mexico to keep an eye on his business dealings there. Well, what fun that was! “Arriba!” Or is it “Arriva”? One hardly knows. Or cares!

(Lest you begin removing me from your address book, never fear -- my own fortune was squirreled away in Switzerland.)

Before I knew it, Pinky had me on the go, meeting up with muy mysterioso “contacts” – many of them from our dear British Columbia -- in out-of-the-way taquerias. I never knew such places existed, but as I waited for these charming fellows and our regular exchange of packages, I grew quite fond of something called tequila, a sort of Mexican cognac with a delicious kick.

Well, I grew so keen on these rendezvous that I even won myself a nickname – “The Iguana” -- although Pinky churlishly insisted on calling it an “alias.”

At any rate, one thing led to another and I wound up in jail, Pinky having fled to Guatemala or some such. Well, you learn a few things in prison, and you make many dear friends -- not the sort of friends you ever wish to see, hear from, or hear about ever again, but deeply treasured chums nonetheless. I think Martha Stewart will back me up on this.

And now it’s time for me to give all of you my usual recommendations for the best and brightest objects to put under your trees.

Believe it or not, I’ve given up on ordering from the Neiman Marcus book to which I was once glued, Platinum Visa in hand, every November. It seems gluttonous, somehow, to spend so much money on such meaningless things. Honestly -- Neiman Marcus wants to sell me a cupcake-shaped car for $25,000? I don’t care if this working vehicle was “launched at Burning Man as a cooperative art car project” -- as an icon, cupcakes are so yesterday. We’ve all moved on to cream puffs. I personally have them freshly made for me daily.

Adding to my ennui over Neiman-Marcus’s Fantasy selections this year is the fact that my dear Uncle Bootie has died. He quite suitably keeled over at the age of 90 after alighting from a helicopter on the roof of the Dubai Burg Al Arab Hotel. He was cryogenically preserved, naturally, so we haven’t seen the last of him, but his demise means I have far less of an interest in purchasing gifts of gadgets, gizmos and interstellar travel.

Having said that, how Uncle Bootie would have loved NM’s  Mission One, the world’s fastest electric sport bike, according to the catalogue. With its maximum speed of 150 mph, he could have popped quite a few of his precious wheelies. And oh, how he loved dreaming of bopping about from planet to planet one day. Poor, dear Bootie never did get his moment on the moon this go-round, but never mind. Once that nincompoop from Cirque du Soleil went up in space, there went that neighbourhood.

You may recall that in 2007 I told you about a new catalogue, one that had arrived on my doorstep quite of its own accord. It was called Imagine… and contained such fabulous options as Dresstacles, which you put on whenever you’re likely to see fashion faux pas. These chic spectacles re-dress everybody you meet. I wear them constantly and all the world looks like it stepped out of the current issue of VOGUE. My Dresstacles made prison perfectly bearable.

Well, this year, the Imagine catalogue landed on my stoop the last weekend in November. I snatched it up and began flipping through it, only to discover it had gone Do-Good! My gracious heavens, how it maunders on about the poor and the disenfranchised and how we should buy their families herds of pigs. It even mentions A Christmas Carol, the miraculous transformation of Scrooge, and Tiny Tim throwing off his crutch!

Talk about red herrings! I tell you, that Charles Dickens has a lot to answer for, ruining Christmas the way he did. He mustn’t have read the Bible and focused on the magis’ gifts, the way I did as a young girl. Hello, Comrade Dickens -- do the words gold, frankincense and myrrh ring a bell? I can assure you that none of those kings gave the Baby Jesus a reusable lunch bag.

Anyway, Imagine suggested all kinds of dreary ways we can improve the environment -- “Buy Al Gore a decent sweater” is what I would propose -- and “reduce our footprint.” Why, I’ve been starving myself for well over 50 years – I barely make a mark on any beach!

Even Imagine’s gourmet section – which in its first year contained treats that would conveniently evaporate as soon as you bit down on them – has “gone rogue,” to quote my friend, Alaska Governor Sarah Palin. As if I would curse any chum or family member by ordering them “6 dozen freshly made hemp and rosehip turnovers.”

I blame Imagine’s earnest new outlook on the Obamas -- they’re having the direst influence. When the First Lady buys J. Crew cardigans, and the President chides bank executives for taking bonuses they darn well earned, the whole world’s gone to H in an Hermes hand-basket.

Oh, dear, this was supposed to be my holiday message, full of inspired tips for how to please yourself and your nears and dears, preferably in that order. I’ll have to start this letter over, I suppose. Maybe I’ll put La Bamba on the turntable first, and have a bit of a dance.

I’m going to have another quick swig of tequila while I’m at it. Quite truthfully, darlings, I just don’t know what to think any more. And I believe a squeeze of lime and a lick of salt go well with that.