Today, December 27 is the feast day of Saint Fabiola. She was one hot saint, from what our friends writing in the Penguin Dictionary of Saints have to say about her. A rich bitch and party girl from a prominent family in fourth century Roma, she dumped her first husband cause he was a jerk and then snagged herself a new man. Then, as now, the Christians did not approve. Fab (as I like to think of her) was herself christian and so eventually she felt the need to make up with the old poopers. She “performed severe public penance” and then took off for Jerusalem to join St. Jerome who was revising the New Testament there. I’m convinced it was some kind of rehab. If you just substitute “Paris Hilton” for “Fabiola” in our story so far, I’m sure you’ll see my point.
Anyway, Jerome, who sounds like a real piece of work, was not embracing of dear little Fabby. He wrote about her “…her idea of the solitude of the stable of Bethlehem was that it should not be cut off from the crowded inn.” Well, duh. Is this my kind of gal or what? I’m telling you, Jerome must be patron saint of combovers and pissy closet cases. Fabiola went on to be venerated for opening a series of hospices for pilgrims. Probably with a dynamite little cabaret in each one.
December 27 is also the anniversary of the date when we got our house, the Villa Fabiola. It was big, shabby and ugly, but we were convinced all it needed was some homo magic to fabulify it. Luckily, we were right.