Fortunately, I have never said I was a nice person. Or if I did say it, you should probably know not to trust me on the subject.
It's not nice to have warm, fuzzy feelings over the misfortunes of others.
But. . .
Mea Culpa. I couldn't help myself.
There I was, thumbing through my new issue of Vanity Fair (purchased frugally for a six dollar annual subscription rate on E-Bay) and I happened on Michael Shnayerson's article about the cutbacks the super rich are having to make in the wake of the Wall Street crisis.
I particularly liked the trophy wife gazing at shelves of $6000 handbags bemoaning the fact that she will have to cut back her maid service. She couldn't just sell one of those fancy bags? Pardon me if I'm feeling sorrier for the maid than I am for Ms. Trophyette.
Actually, it is the personal trainers, the nannies, the charities who depend on monies from the well-monied, the waiters and the real estate agents who are the real losers here. But the very wealthy, down to their last ten million or so, seem more worried about the upkeep on their summer homes than the fate of those they employ.
Poor, pitiful them.
And shame on Grace for having a laugh at their expense (both literally and figuratively!)