As much as we all become distressed by life, The Palace offers a type of refuge for everyone. It is a place of interaction of friends, some political intrigue, but mostly a haven in the storm of life. There is nothing quite like having Geraldine near you, or Raymond and his friends cavorting, or the ravishingly handsome Marc of the Polish Guard asking you to lead the quadrille. Gorgeous boys like Jesse become a type of social cannon fodder. (I don't know what my Number One Son is doing here.) Still, Jeremy is gone; there is no order.

Late today, I was making my way to the front ballroom, greeting retainers and complimenting servants, when I happened upon--of all people--Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish and Mrs. Wilderming (nee' Vanderbilt) scratch their little fingernails on what they thought was my chamber door. It happened to be the liquor room, so I guess I must excuse it as an honest act. (Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish has been in a "frisky" mood lately, which means she is intense competition.)

I asked her "just how does the sanitarium let you out so much?" And she reminded me of an old trick when replying, "I just lower myself out with the rope of pearls." That's when I remembered my grandmother saying that a triple strand of pearls could get you anything you wanted. You could engage a Bolshevik, leverage a French banker, and I learned that you could not only lasso a Latino with them, but hog-tie them and pet them wantonly. Quickly removed, they could be put back on and any Lady of Quality could leave, looking regal and never open to question.

Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish and Mrs. Wilderming (nee' Vanderbilt) ran off giddily after about five magaritas. They had just come from a lunch that undoubtedly had a number of other magaritas. One court member just sighed as we watched them gather their trains and skip down the staircase; "Just WHAT do they do?", he asked. "I don't know," I replied, "but they do it well."