Have you ever been to a truly spectacular party, let’s say a New Year’s Eve/Birthday Party? At this party you find yourself drinking and laughing and drinking and dancing and drinking and arguing communist theory and drinking and smoking and drinking?  Well, of course you have.  Remember when you donned your great-great grandmother’s mysterious tiara bequeathed to you only one year prior,  blacked out and woke up seven years later?

It’s a damned inconvenience, I tell you that.  Particularly when you were the hostess and you don’t know which miscreant made off with your Baccarat punchbowl.  It has been odd not knowing how long I might stick around this go round.  Don’t get me wrong, I have practically begged the Great Nap to take me during certain conversations (honestly, Ezra Pound, you can’t preach precision when it takes you three hours to do so.) But here I am, having lived the last decade in the 21st century with my early 20th century sensibilities.  Other than trying to keep up with the Pret a Porter, I can’t say I mind living in this new more modern time, if I am allowed to stay awake through it.  The men are still dashing but now they have to help with the dishes.  The women are still enchanting but now they can ask a man out and pick up the check.  There is still beautiful fashion, even if no one chooses to wear it.  And nobody looks at you sideways when your wine order is the equivalent of your furniture budget.  One learns to live the life bestowed upon them, after all.

I understand if you take a moment to scratch your heads.  Why wouldn’t someone notice my absence after a spell?  Did no one think to check under the chaise at least once?  When you are of a certain class and indulge in certain proclivities, people get so accustomed to turning a blind eye that I suppose they forget to turn it back.

C’est la vie, yes?  My point is, darlings, I am here and now, so are you; the Chateau’s doors are once again open and everyone is invited.

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