Dear Savannah,

Please help me.  I’m a mid-level European royal who secretly left my home country to marry a wealthy American businessman.  That was two months ago.  Since then, we’ve been living in Twichum Holler, Tennessee.  Life isn’t exactly as I’d envisioned it.  I’m pondering whether or not to remain in this marriage.

When I lived in London, my life was an endless whirl of shopping, A-list parties, shopping, a few hours of charity work, shopping, sacking the servants, shopping for mink coats, attending the spa, shopping for jewelry, attending the opera, shopping, bikini waxing, shopping, snubbing the commoners, shopping, and finally, shopping.  I thought since America is so much bigger than England, it would have truly amazing possibilities for shopping, even though Daddy has rescinded my expense account leaving me with only my five-figure per month trust fund income.

Here in Twichum Holler, however, my shopping possibilities include simply Jimmy-Jed’s
Pop-N-Shop (sort of a 7-11), Ruthie’s Mode-A-Day Boutique (featuring fashions au courant as of the 1950s), and the flea market every Saturday.  If I drive myself into Knoxville, there’s the Citadel Mall. It’s all right, but Sears definitely is no Harrod’s.

Also, when I lived in London, I had a number of servants to attend me, as well as a chauffeur.  My husband, Ray Earl, seems to expect me to be his servant.  I’ve noticed he gets upset if I don’t prepare a meal periodically, and I’ve yet to master how to employ the edge of the counter top to pop the cap off a beer bottle, although I can proudly say I have learned how to set the points in our 1972 Ford pickup by using a matchbook cover.

I’m slightly suspicious of Ray Earl’s claims of wealth.  It’s true he lies around all day doing nothing, but he does so in such a bourgeois way.  Our cabin is less than grandiose, and he knows nothing at all about how to play polo or golf – nor does he show the slightest interest in it.   I’m pleased he at least enjoys hunting, although possum isn’t as tasty as grouse.

Mainly, I guess I’m just homesick.  Well, that plus the fact Daddy now is threatening to
disinherit me.  He says he’s waited long enough for me to come to my senses.  Ray Earl is nice and everything, but I’m not sure he’s worth losing my impeccable manicure over.  Or my title, for that matter.  What do you think?

Sincere regards,

Lady Margaret

of Wentworth-on-Eames

Savannah Says:

My dear Lady, I know just what you mean.  When I had my title selfishly ripped from my bosom by the heartless royal family of Luxembourg [note from Elizabeth: actually, it was Liechtenstein], I thought I’d never recover from the crushing blow, even though I’d only been Princess Savannah for eight days.  How I missed the feel of ermine tickling my swan-like, alabaster neck and the weight of the jewel-encrusted tiara mashing down my expensive hairdo.  But, alas!, it was not to be.  At least I have that pair of priceless 15th century drinking steins, which I smuggled out of the castle by stuffing inside my bra, to console me.

Here in America, we have no royalty, you know – well, not counting the Kennedy family and, of course, Oprah.  Just because your husband has “Earl” in his name does not mean he’s titled.  I’m afraid you may have misunderstood this when he proposed to you.

This might be a good thing, however, because it presents an “out” for you.  I certainly would
not surrender my title for the King of Twichum Holler, and neither should you.  Simply call
Daddy and tell him you married under false pretences.  He’ll be so happy to have you home, he’ll not only spring for the airfare, he’ll probably treat you to an Italian holiday.  I’m sure Ray
Earl will be hard to forget, but a few minutes with a young Neapolitan cabana boy should do the
trick.

Good luck, dear!

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