*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Are you there readers? It’s me, Mrs. Tittle-Tattle. If ever there was a winter of our discontent, it was this past one. So when the frost and Nasdaq lifted, we clasped our manicured hands together, thankful for the healing balm of glorious spring and carefree summer. Let’s face it: we’re all sick of being cranky. It also helped that a certain scoundrel finally vacated the Upper East Side for the slammer.

While my mother recently jetted off to Rwanda to see the gorillas, we have to deal with the monkeys right here—and I’m not talking about that chimp from Connecticut who went AWOL, although he probably would have been a better hedge fund manager than those goons in Greenwich. I mean the simians who are still running—no, ruining Wall Street. Here a Ponzi, there a Ponzi, everywhere a Ponzi.

And while most of the country seethed over news that bailed-out bankers are still taking lavish “outings” and justifying their bonuses, many in my neck-lifted part of the woods are apoplectic about the Stimulus Plan’s $500,000 cap on executive compensation. Around here that’s practically petty cash, so you are going to see some serious Gucci belt-tightening going on. Everyone is trying to pretend they’re recession-proof because they’re afraid of not being invited to the right parties anymore, but inside their Stark-carpeted rooms, they are trimming the fat—and I don’t mean lypo (well, that too!).

People of a certain income are trying to figure out how to save without looking like they’re slipping from Super-Rich to rich. It’s hard to fake it, because many women are prowling Park Avenue noticing how many Birkin bags you had before the crash and how many you have now because you had to eBay one to pay your kid’s tuition deposit. While it’s considered obnoxious to be seen shopping at beloved high-end stores these days (I recommend dark sunglasses, a big hat, and a Food Emporium bag), you still have a lifestyle to maintain.

Well, here are my tips for How to Look Tastefully Rich on a Bailout Budget, but not so rich that people want to drag you out of your penthouse for a public flogging: 1. Shop at upscale thrift shops, and if someone spots you there, say you’re supporting cancer research and buying costumes for your daughter’s school play. When that horrible mother who always sneers at everyone comments that you’re wearing last year’s Chanel, tell her that your stylist said only the wives of rap stars are wearing the new stuff; 2. Volunteer your time, if not your money, to a charity­­—pretend you like taking a cab to Harlem and rolling up your cashmere sleeves to work at a soup kitchen and love spending your Saturdays picking up garbage in Carl Schurz Park; 3. Eat canned tuna at home but don’t skimp on the tuna rolls at Nobu; 4. Tell everyone you’re not having a Bar Mitzvah bash for your son because instead he will be performing a true mitzvah: starting a chapter of Habitat for Humanity to help cash-poor Manhattan families finish renovating their co-ops and townhouses.

Although many people are feeling underemployed these days, savvy social worker Betsy Marks is starting an exclusive mental health clinic and “job” re-training center for the wives of ex-Masters of the Universe. Formerly pampered ladies now divested of domestic staff are counseled on the power of positive thinking (“I’m positive I will one day meet another rich man who can support me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed”), trained to perform household tasks, and tutored in Spanish now that the housekeeper isn’t there to interpret what the painter is saying about the cracked moldings. If you don’t have available cash or credit, Betsy accepts jewelry (the real stuff), gently used fur coats, and tickets to the Central Park Conservancy Luncheon.

One upside to this downturn is that more kids might get into ongoing schools. At least one family from my son’s school, who was victimized by You-Know-Who, is moving their brood to the Hamptons and sending their kids to The Ross School. And so, the exodus begins, as they go forth from Mt. Sinai’s Crystal Ball into the hot, sandy dunes…

But despite the collective angst, I can console myself with the fact that I recently completed jury duty. One woman told me that her friend writes “Deceased” on her jury summons and mails it back, and they’ve never questioned it. I allayed my boredom by noting how many Upper East Side types were in the jury room, clicking away on their laptops and BlackBerries and reaching into their It Bags, and by pitying the indigent, minority defendant searching in vain for a “jury of his peers.” This crowd made the Maidstone Club members look diverse. After a while, all that sitting was starting to take a toll on my sanity, not to mention my hemorrhoids. But in the end, it wasn’t a bad way to earn $40 a day, and with all the unemployed executives around, maybe fewer people will be trying to avoid serving. Sure, a juror’s fee is not like those bygone bonuses, but hey, it’s a paycheck!