Greetings from the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons Chicago! Why is the world so hard? Later on last weekend when I was in L.A., I thought i'd go pick up a new F430 after denting my SL65 while I was in New York in a terrible way (It's never acceptable to use damaged goods.) That fabulous Saturday morning, my Black Berry reminded me of my appointment with Ferrari of Bevely Hills 12:00 p.m. Being as prepared as I am, I instruct driver for my Maybach 62 to arrive at my Bel Air estate at 11:50 (Fashionistas are always a bit late.) But this blockhead took it overboard! While trying to slip on my Spring/Summer 05' Yves St. Laurent croc embossed boots, my platinum edition Vertu cell starts to ring. I reach for the phone with my Prada moisturized hands, and the driver informs me that he is running a bit late. I begin to freak out and demand that the Maybach pull onto my Belgian Block driveway in 10 minutes, or i'd have his low-rent ass deported ASAP! I glance at my Harry Winston watch, and he is still late so I decide to drive myself. I pick up the Bang&Olufsen phone and try to get reach of him, he's shut his phone off! Out of luck, I shuffle through my Hermes Birkin man-bag and in search of the keys to the Rolls Royce Phantom. No luck! I usually don't drive, so I had no idea where the keys where. I scream Maria's name resulting in an echo throughout the 40,000+ square foot Italian villa. When I grab hold of her, I demand she look through the butlers quarters for the keys. Approximately 10 minutes later comes before me and hands me a pair of keys. I look down through my oversized frames and notice the three pointed star gleaming off of Mercedes Smart-Key, so I storm out the house in my $1,800 YSL's and begin to hit the panic button with my Chanel manicured nails in search for the right vehicle. After about 2 mintues of playing match-the-key, I finally found the car. I slid down my oversized dark Versus by Versace sunglasses from my Creme De La Mer (16.5 oz, $1,200 a bottle) moisturized face, and attempt to match the keys with the vehicle. Eurika, I've found it! Eww, I begin to notice it was a non-AMG S-Class!!! I storm back into the house, grabbing hold of my Roberto Cavalli belt, as my hand made boots click-clacked all over the marble floor in a imposing demeanor. I throw the keys back at Maria and demand she park that car at back, God forbid our new neigbors (Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony) were to show up at our doorstep, only to be greeted by the eye sore of that dirty non-AMG, pre-face lifted Mercedes!!! After the Bel Air Estate was town apart by my in-house staff, one of my hired help finally came across a pair of keys to the Maserati Quattroporte. Great, I have never driven this one before! I run back into my dressing quarters as my hairdresser following me up the stairs grooming me as if it were award show season! I run out of the house, found the vehicle, and slid my Dolce&Gabbana trousers across the fine tailored Poltrona Frau leather seats. "How the hell do you drive this thing," I wonder. I am not familiar with the gear-box! I start the car, only to find out that it starts in automatic mode, great! My haute couture boots smash on the alumminum medals as the akward upshifts force my La Mer moisturized body to lunge in un-easy ways. I fear that my freshly styled crop (done by world-famous Guy Kreme), and my perfectly pressed Dolce trousers will be ruined by the time I make my dramatic entrance at the dealership! I clutch onto my Vertu phone in case of emergency! I proceed to merge the Grigio Nuvolari/Cuoio colored Italian masterpiece onto Stradella Rd, impressed by the grip of the Pirelli's. I take notice of the beautiful interior, promping me to pull down the vanity mirror to see if the glow of skin color clashes well with the interior trim. Very well I think to myself as I admire my Harry Winston watch beautifully nestled on the Cuoio steering wheel. I start to drive at a steady pace, and then noticed through the corners of my Versaces' what seemed to be a BMW. All I see through the dark lenses were the letters V12 glistening in my eyes. V12 7-Series? I dismiss that leased $999 a month vehicle llike last seasons Gucci collection, and turn my attention to my beautiful little puppy frowning upon me through the net of his Louis Vuitton dog-carrier. I find something for Marc Jacobs to eat, then I hear sound of the BMW speeding up. We merge onto Bellagio, I give him a dirty look, flip my hair and prepared for the launch. I tap the paddles simultaneously with my Prada moisturized hands, put the transmission in neutral and took off. I did quite well for a beginner, although I wasn't satisfied! I roll down the windows, stick my Harry Winston bejewled hand out (while blinding them with the rocks) and throw my low carb milkshake all over his trashy white vehicle. I slowly roll my windows up, and proceed with business. I reach for my Balenciaga bag in the back seat, grab a notepad, and search begin to search for Blue Star Jets on the Quattroporte's GSM Phone Kit. I had an appointment in Manhattan the next day to view some property in the Time Warner Building, so I wanted to be prepared. I look at the time, 15 miutes late! I become stressed and start to increase my speed. I glance at the Electrochromatic rear-view mirrors and notice what seems to be the same BMW comming up on me at full speed. Damn, I started to panic while ensuring Marc Jacobs that everything would be okay. He seemed very scared. We start to fly down Sunset in a dangerous pace, while I start to regret not taking our Mercedes McLaren SLR. I swerve with the Cuoio colored steering wheel, as the extreme bolstered seats grab hold of my Fendi shirt. I see him coming forth so my Yves St. Laurent's violently mash down on the pedal and unleash the 394 horsepower and 333 pound-feet of torque. I look back again, it seems as if i'm losing him. I make a sharp turn, stopped and had Maserati's road side assistance in close reach to me. At this time I have no idea where I am, so I search for Ferrari/Maserati through the navigation system. About 20 minutes later, I arrive at the dealer. To make a long story short, they didn't have the F430 I wanted in stock so I ended up throwing a fit. I flash my American Express Centurion (Alexander McQueen edition) and remind those Brooks Brothers clad salesman who their dealing with. I storm out of the tacky decoured dealership with my haute couture and ran over to my Quattroporte and attempt to leave, but a kind gentleman by the name of James assures me he can get me a F430 in a couple months! He takes my contact number and I leave. I roll down the windows, open the sunroof, merge onto Wilshire and speed off into the California sunset as the onlookers began to gawk over my fabulous glow!