ROCK A BYE-BYE

Dear Savannah,

I want to start having affairs with women that don't mind the fact that I'm married. Maybe they're married, maybe they're just bored. Where is this pool of females located? We could talk forever about my marital situation, but for right now i'd like to get going on this. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Befuddled

SAVANNAH SAYS:

My, my. So many things have happened during my little flight from justi...er, hiatus, that I don't know where to begin. Should I tell you about the frightful nail fungus I endured after a manicure gone bad in Belize? Or perhaps I should fill you in on the horrifying episode involving a vacuum cleaner, a late-night pillow fight, and a group of drunken Bolivian midgets.

But, no, I really should begin with Rothrock. My dear, beloved, and now late Rothrock.

Experience has taught me life only allows a person so many "if only"s. Unfortunately, Rock reached his quota on a warm January evening at a cattle ranch in Argentina.

If only he hadn't chosen to wear that fuchsia silk shirt.

If only he hadn't laid out our picnic in a grassy field that, unbeknownst to us, contained a number of prize bulls grazing just on the other side of the ridge.

If only he hadn't sat on the fire ant nest.

My heart broken, I decided to return to the hacienda for healing, and the Securities and Exchange Commission be damned! Nothing could hurt me as much as Rock's death. Nothing. Except maybe the fact I broke a $300 bottle of Carruddes de Lafitte Rothschild while trying to clamber over the fence to avoid being trampled to death, myself. And the huge expense of having his body transported home. Or finding out later that I could have spared myself the uncontrollable crying jags and bouts of hysteria by having him cremated in South America for a fraction of the price.

But otherwise, nothing could possibly make me any sadder than I already was.

So imagine my surprise at returning home and discovering the SEC had never been out to investigate me to begin with! At last, some happy news!

Overjoyed at my return, the staff held a large "Welcome Back" party at my insistence. All the local luminaries attended, a veritable Who's Who of Scrub Brush Springs. It felt wonderful to renew acquaintances with all my old friends: Deke "Big Tex" Fontaine, Chablis LaRoca, even my poor excuse of an attorney, Bobo "Orange Sunshine" Diesel. We drank, we barbecued, I chastised the staff loudly in front of the guests.

It was magical.

And then there was the stranger.

A tall, dashing gentleman who seemed impressed by my ability to make salsa by crushing the tomatoes between my thighs.

No one knows where he came from. Or when he left. Rumor has it he's some sort of government official--I'm thinking senator or possibly even an aide to the governor. Quelle intriguing!

Well, as I like to say, time and enough tequila heal all wounds. Although I'll miss Rothrock, his hairy back and his snoring, one can only mourn so long. I feel myself rebounding already. Surrounded once again by my devoted staff and dear friends, I believe I can find the strength to go on.

As to your question, Befuddled, you can find the women you seek at the Hampton Inn, Route 67, Sparewax, West Virginia. They gather every other Tuesday evening, around 8:00 p.m. The pass phrase is "fish bone."

Good luck, dear!

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