I had just about finished my official birthday portrait when Mr. Astor whisked me off yesterday to my old horror: Downtown. Funny, how it doesn't scare me anymore; there was a time when I nearly jumped out of Ditmar's car when he executed a pretend-engine failure. There were still a few issues I had with the etching; sure I'm a serious sort of gal, but did I have to look so stern?

Meanwhile, yesterday we celebrated our nine-month anniversary, and I had given Leopoldo the new collection from Papi Underwear (the death's head design), and my sweetie took me to Miami and bought me a bolt of fabric to make curtains. Yes, that's how domestic I've become. Your beloved buys you fabric and you gush. Well, today I made those dramatic draperies to much fanfare; the pool boys were awash in compliments, as well they should.

All is set. I just came from Henrietta's apartment carrying off her trademark dishes of crab salad and cheesecake for the bash tomorrow. Twist has once again graciously offered themselves for the marking of the fact that I have, indeed, lived one more year. Was there any doubt?