God only knows what has happened in the last two weeks. "Season" here on Miami Beach has a way of taking over one's life. Last weekend we escorted Henrietta on the usual tour of clubs; amazingly, when I used to drink I could only last until 2 AM and there I was at 4 AM prying Leopoldo and Henrietta off of the bar and still wanting to stay later. On Sunday I attended a luncheon where there seemed to be no solid food and got convinced that I had to meet Henrietta at The Palace at two. This led us to Twist, which led to stripper boys. I never knew being sober could be such fun; everyone around us were acting like idiots (so much for the glimpse of one's past).
It was bound to happen sooner or later, and Alva Vanderbilt flew down from Newport. The entire social apple cart was overturned.
Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish immediately tried to enlist Alva into a motion to strip me of some social powers. Little did she know, that Newporters stick together in times like these. Alva said she was going to grind Mrs. S-F into a 60/40 chuck; Mrs. S-F retaliated by saying she was going to get revenge for what "you Yankees" stripped the South of. All I know is that we are all attending a croquet party at the Wickenhammer's's estate today at two and it isn't going to be pretty. I, of course, will be pretty; I will be in white and tan--classic, but restrained. I will also have a bullet-proof vest and a poisoned hat pin.