Meanwhile Izzy and Rebecca were in Bergdorf Goodman, spending it to the ground. The entire morning had been a ferocious but fashionable maelstrom of wanton consumerism and torrid homoerotic girlie-groping in and around NY’s toniest boutiques. Snotty sales clerks gaped and gasped in commission-reckoning amazement as these two sizzling sartorial style-junkies swiped my credit card to the point of it setting it ablaze. Dior! Stella McCartney! Galliano! Zac Posen! They grabbed as much cloth-with-a-foreign-name-stitched-on-it as their arms could hold and carted it away to small rooms with poorly measured curtains. And no accent or accessory was spared. Izzy was rounding up a large herd of Balenciaga clutch purses when something caught her eye. She turned to Rebecca and whispered, “Am I crazy, or is that Angela Cartwright and some street bum over there buying up the other half of the store?”
“Who?” asked Rebecca. Prostitutes don’t get a lot of time to watch late night reruns.
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 