Good morning, or afternoon--pick a time of day, I don't mind. I am in a truly foul mood at the moment, owing to a number of factors, which as always I am happy to enumerate. In theory, anyway. You know what? I'm not that happy to enumerate, so forget it.

Rather than enumerate, I'll sum it all up in an acronym I think we all can understand: PMS, the convenient term for the phenomenon that allows us (i.e., girls) to believe that everything about our lives is catastrophic and to forget that perhaps hormones are affecting our perspective just a bit. It's been an effort, but I do understand that perhaps my life isn't actually a giant, smoking hole of despair, and that a trip to Gump's will cure anything. Except that I don't actually live anywhere near Gump's, so I can't walk there and inhale the healing aromas of bitter orange potpourri and 18k gold known to soothe every ailment known to man.

Our analagous local store is Pierre La Fond, in Montecito, but it's a pale imitation. Last time I was there, to purchase a wedding gift for a relative who six months later was divorced (and never sent a thank-you note, it now occurs to me, bitchy me), I ended up with a Pinocchio-themed tape measure identical to one owned by "Elaine" from "Seinfeld," according to the saleslady. I also bought a new perfume, "L'Ombre Dans L'Eau," or "Shadow in the Water," which I initially loved but which was essentially shouted down by all I encountered. I still wear it when I need to make a point--the point that I can offend five of the six senses, I guess. Or four of the five. I don't know. I haven't yet mastered the ability to send dirty jokes via telepathy.

Pierre La Fond will have to do. I'm off for restorative inhaling and unnecessary expenditure.

Star of the day. . .Donnie Wahlberg