Dear Lypsinka,

I am in a dreadful pickle and desperately need your assistance! You see, I recently purchased three lovely hand-made purple Persian velvet throw pillows. The other day my neighbor Beatrice came over for high tea. We always have tea in my sitting room, where my sweet, innocent terrier Ginger entertains us with his madcap antics. After an hour of sipping and chatting I excused myself to put on a fresh pot of water. When I returned from the kitchen I noticed that Bea's bag was quite a bit more stuffed than I recalled it being upon her arrival. I raised an eyebrow but thought better of saying anything.
Upon her departure, I stretched out on my sofa with Ginger, only to find TWO, not three purple Persian pillows. I was beside myself! I searched my sitting room twice over but to no avail. How could this happen to me in my own home? Right in front of my little baby's face, could I possibly be a victim of a pillow-napping??
Well, three days pass and not a word from my suspected pillow-thieving neighbor. So I ring her up and tactfully question her about my missing item. Imagine my, utter shock... when Bea accused my sweet little Ginger of attempting to procreate with said pillow! Have you ever heard such a thing? I was (and still am) utterly aghast. She then claimed to have had some special cleaning solution that removes such stains and didn't want to embarrass me with the indignity of having to accept and clean up after Ginger's naughty deed. I of course demanded the pillow's immediate return, to which she complied ...stain and all!
Between the two of us, dear Lyppi, my theory is she stained that pillow herself in order to conceal her act of theft!
Now that we've come to this dreadful state, how do I remove this awful mark of the devil from my third lovely, velvet throw pillow?

Mrs. Hermione Wanke

Dearest Hermione,
Gosh, what an oogie mess! Luckily I recently had brunch with my good friend Barbara Eden, who had a very similar problem with someone on the set of her Jeannie TV Show. Coincidentally, one day Barbara arrived on the fabulous bottle set only to find two of Jeannie's throw pillows stuck together! Imagine that, even back in the 1960s! Turns out Jeannie had a dog named DJ who was also quite fond of lovely hand-made purple Persian velvet throw pillows! Well, what Barbara did is my advice to you: Get rid of it! (The pillow, not the dog, luv.) Toss it into the fireplace. Leave it on a dark road somewhere. Do something with it...anything...just get it off your sofa at once, drop that bothersome Bea and just for good measure, march that little Ginger on down to the vet for a fixing he'll never forget!!!


Epperson with Peggy Moffitt and Barbara Eden. Barbara, please! (The poinsettia is not attached to Peggy's head. For a change.)



Dear Lypsinka,

I must tell you about a terribly appalling situation that I recently encountered. You see, my good friend Mildred decided to throw an elaborate dinner party on the occasion of her husband Desmond's 45th birthday.

It was quite an elegant affair, and it would have been perfect, except for the fact that this charming couple also happen to be the proud owners of three perfectly dreadful creatures from the wretched feline family.

You see, I simply cannot use the same powder room as other party guests. So I decided to wander about the host's home looking for a more private accommodation. I came upon the small wc located near the master bedroom, where I thought I could find some privacy.

I prepared myself to sit on the gorgeous porcelain bowl only to discover that some horrifying device used to capture cat droppings had been placed over it.

I screamed in utter shock at what my derriere had just been exposed to. Suddenly this trio of ghastly beasts lunged at me from all sides. It was as if Seigfried and Roy had let all their tigers loose upon an unsuspecting audience member.

Here I was, with my intimates at my ankles being clawed at as if I was some carpet-covered log. Within a few minutes, my hosts arrived, only to find me strangling one of their "precious" creatures in self defense.

In their confusion, those two asked me to leave the party and have now filed a lawsuit against me for several veterinary and animal psychologist bills.

I have begun proceedings to countersue these former friends of mine, but I need to know what an expert such as you would have done in such a frightful situation?

Connie Sheridan


Dearest Connie,

What a pickle you've gotten yourself into! I've been trying to imagine myself in the same situation, but as luck would have it, I wouldn't have had to use the bathroom, a real lady just crosses her legs and keeps on looking pretty until she gets home.

But I have to say, your three cats at a dinner party situation reminds me of a time a few years back when I mistakenly invited the exotic Eartha Kitt, the lovely Lee Meriwether and the fabulous Miss Julie Newmar, all portrayers of TV's Catwoman, to the same gathering.

I panicked for a moment when I thought there was going to be an enormous catfight, but the evening ended on quite a high note, with the three ladies tying up Michelle Pfeiffer and forcing her to eat Tender Vittles. Julie and I remain friends to this day, in fact I even loan out my maid
John to her on occasion.

As for your problem, next time perhaps you should look before you, er, sit!

Good luck in court,
Love, Lypsinka

cornered by my living doll Julie Newmar

Dear Lypsinka,

I've recently begun dating again after my husband of 20 years left me for a younger woman. Last night, after dinner and a movie, my gentleman friend gave me a, what we used to call a "love bite". I think kids today refer to this as a "hickey". It might not sound like much of a problem but it's the first one I've ever received and I don't want anyone to know. Not the girls at the office, not the mailman, not the tellers at my bank, and especially not the other gentlemen that I'm seeing! You get the idea. I guess I'm just old fashioned but I don't want to be the subject of gossip. SOME of us still care about our reputations. So, as you can probably guess, I need to know how you would go about hiding this ugly reminder of my new-found free lovin'!

The Former Mrs. Blanche Gilhooley


Dearest Blanche,

I get the idea alright. It certainly sounds like somebody's making up for lost time!
I'm trying not be be judgmental, but just how many other "gentlemen" callers do you have, dear?

Be that as it may, I can only suggest that you purchase some temporary tattoos or Indian henna kit and try to disguise the miserable end product of your vampishly tawdry ways. Perhaps a lovely new scarf could do the trick as well.

But these are only short-term solutions to a what sounds like a trampy new lifestyle you're leading. To many people, a "hickey" is simply a "Mark of Whore-O," something that perhaps a character played by Melanie Griffith might have on her neck. As you consider your options, please enjoy this glamorous photo of my maid, John Epperson, and Melanie's
better half, the ever dashing and elegant Mr. Antonio Banderas! I'd let that Zorro leave his mark on me any time!

Dear Lypsinka,

I am a chorus girl in the road company of HELLO, DOLLY! Last week I was in the ladies' room backstage when I overheard two of the other girls ripping me to shreds!

I hid in my stall and waited until they left, sneaking out and back into the rehearsal. I am torn, I thought these girls were my friends and now I don't know if I should confront them, or perhaps do you think a bit of revenge is in order?

Miss Betsy Louise Tattinger

Darling Betsy,

If only I had a dollar for every chorus girl who's asked me the same darn question! Like I've often said, the staircase to fame has many a creaky step. Obviously these two "girls" need to be taught a serious lesson. Betsy, you've got to take matters in your hands and show these two hussies that no one can treat you like a common jazz baby!

So my advice to you, darling Betsy, is to recruit one of your lovely chorus girl friends and follow one or both of those clowns into the bathroom. When your target (s) is (are) in the stall, you and your cohort should proceed to maliciously malign her, making sure that she/they overhears you. When they emerge from the stall in tears, you know that you've succeeded and you and your friend will laugh until it hurts! P.S., my best regards to the lovely Carol Channing!

Love, Lypsinka

Carol Channing and John Epperson, Lypsinka's maid, at a Hollywood Christmas party, 1991.

Dear Lypsinka,

I am in quite a quandary, I am desperately hoping that you can help me. After receiving a series of dreadful hairstyles at Mr. Rinaldi's Beauty Parlor, I decided to drop my regular hairdresser Carlos. I've secretly begun seeing Antonio, a nice young fellow who works at the same salon. I usually make appointments for Carlos' day off, but on a recent Tuesday morning, Carlos showed up and caught Antonio blow-drying my hair. I tried to be polite by smiling and saying hello but this young man just looked at me as if I slaughtered his first born child. I'm due for a frosting next week, but I'm afraid to go back. Mr. Rinaldi is such a busy gentleman that I don't want to bother him with this, so I ask of you, Lypsinka what should I do?

Mrs. Fanny Quim

Sweet Fanny,

Sounds like you are in quite a pickle! Like I've always said, beauty comes with a great price. So if you want to look like a million dollars, don't let anything or anyone stand in your way! This Carlos character sounds like a dreadfully jealous crybaby if you ask me, and you have. Obviously he does not understand just how important your beauty needs are. He is selfishly placing his own fragile ego way upon a pillar, towering far above your God-given right to be the most fabulous you that you could ever dare to be! So my advice to you, dear Fanny is to throw all caution to the wind. You walk your pretty little self into that parlor, you not only get every single one of your brilliant locks frosted, but you sit in that chair as if it was a throne and order up a pedicure on a day that Carlos is sure to be there! You show that fifth rate Jon Peters who's boss: we are darling, we are!

Love, Lypsinka