Mounting tensions, treachery, and plots at Court allowed me to remove myself from the fray, and I spent an extraordinary weekend with Mr. Astor. He was a little under the weather on Friday, but I demonstrated that even a women of my social magnitude could whip up a cozy dinner of BBQ'd steak, mashed potatoes, and cole slaw for a hearty late afternoon meal. He had brought me a wonderful present: a satchel from a chic store in Bal Harbour, and I treated him right. (The great thing about being in love with a man rather than a boy is that you don't have to teach them anything; they know it already.)

Apart from the hilarious Serial Mom movie party last night, we saw--earlier in the afternoon--one of the funniest movies I've ever seen: Death At A Funeral. Only the British can make a movie like that. It's been a long time since I've heard a huge audience scream with laughter, and Leopoldo and I continued to recount the scenes and laugh the rest of the day.
Like many people of delicate taste, we sort refuge in Ditmar's Austrian pleasure parlour, D-Bar. In addition to the the maracas, there were conga lines, a jazz trumpeter, and the usual array of drunken socialites.

After Serial Mom, we all gathered at Scottie's bar for the usual cocktails and chatter. Ebony Excell suddenly attached herself to Mr. Astor and I wondered if she knew we had been listening to Alberta Hunter's "You Can't Tell The Difference After Dark" earlier in the day. Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish never made good on her threat to show up at the movie; presumably her handlers had made good use of that blow dart I had imported from South Africa and put a halt to her charge out the door of her mansion at Fourth and Ocean. Connie Chung had also supplied them with a quilted and elegantly embroidered frock that turned into a straight jacket. Serves Mrs. S-F right for touching Mr. Astor's shoulder the other day and proclaiming that she was measuring for pagoda sleeves; everyone knows pagoda sleeves have never come back!

Wasn't it General MacArthur who said, "Old showgirls never die, the just linger on."? Poor Andy; first the DUI and now this.

And, of course, there is Leopoldo--eight weeks later--by my side. I have to keep pinching myself about him. My tall, dark, handsome Latin lover has become my inseparable companion; a man who never went out much has fallen into the clutches of a social monster. He continues to shower lavish gifts upon me, offers me sane advice, and laughs at the same nonsense I laugh at. He is adored at Court by even the most evil and diabolical members; he has charmed the uncharmable and asked for my hand in marriage. Heady stuff for a cynical battle axe like me. I keep pinching, but I'm not asleep.