Dear Karl Lagerfeld,
I wrote you some months ago to inquire as to whether or not you had a position open as personal letter delivery girl, but I haven’t heard back yet. Perhaps there is nothing open at the moment, or maybe your HR person didn’t properly pass along my CV, or maybe you considered my stationery (embossed maroon genitalia adorned the envelope flap?) too prosaic, but I do hope you will forgive me for trying once more to seek employment with your outfit.
I would like to offer my services as a maid to your miraculous feline, Choupette. I suppose these positions –– there are two maids, no? –– are clambered over by fashionable French maids all the time, but I must state unequivocally that I love your cat more than they do. She is, as you say, a stunning beauty –– a face to rival Ingrid Bergman’s, locks luscious enough to put Catherine Deneuve’s to shame, and a grace so awe-inspiring it’s an insult to compare it to that of the Bolshoi ballerinas. I want nothing more in my life than to maintain the diary of her day, which I will do in painstakingly neat handwriting, and to scrub her Goyard feeding bowls with soft-bristled toothbrushes. I will even soothe her when she wakes up from her nightmares. If I cannot devote my being to Choupette as a nun would sacrifice her womb to Christ, I will promptly throw myself in the Seine clutching that precious image of her as a kitten playing with the iPad.
I am an ideal employee for this situation as I have a lot of experience with cats, although admittedly none as regal as your beloved, and also in that I don’t mind at all being humiliated and dehumanized at every turn.
References available upon request.
My best, and I do hope to be hearing from you very soon,
Itinerant Daughter
Choupette, your purr is my siren song.
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