If I haven’t written a diary in a week, it is not because nothing has been happening — au contraire, mon frère — far, far too much has been happening.
The Marquis is throwing a somewhat extended, hellaciously confusing, and ultimately whirlwind party this week for most of his family and friends who have flown to New Orleans from all points in the western hemisphere for a spontaneous holiday.
In attendance are a couple people you might know, fellow diarylanders: the inestimable and irrepressible Melusine and little miss hotsie-totsie herself, Badjuju who trekked her little kitty way over to this side of the pond from Edinburgh.
And this brings up the conundrum of the nature of the verb “to party.” (fiestarse, se fêter, &c.) To wit:
Is it better to fill a place with cherished friends and family and roll around in the mammoth bonhomie like a pig in slop, darting from this favourite cousin to that old friend from long ago and far away over to this fabulous aunt over to mum and brother and back to another imported friend — or — is it better to space it out, entertaining just mommie for a week, then next month asking a couple of friends down to stay, thus ensuring a little more focus and attention to each person?
I’m beginning to think Plan B is the wiser choice. Although I’m loving every minute of seeing these cherished faces en masse, I’m feeling gypped and a little sad that I cannot lavish upon each the love and attention they so rightly deserve. I feel like a flakey party girl, gadding about, quipping here, wit-trysting there, a hug to this person and a kiss to that, never having enough time nor energy to scratch the surface and have a decent conversation with any one person.
I simply am Parker Posey this week, dollinks. Flit, flit, flit. Flirt, flirt, flirt. Fly, fly, fly.
And I don’t think it’s really for me. I have one more precious day in which all these people will be in town, and I fear I’ve become overwhelmed. I am spending valuable afternoon time taking a much needed nap, sad and annoyed at everyone’s impending departure, hating myself for needing a quick breather, and (as always) cursing the thousands of miles that separate me from so many people I love.
It’s rough, to party! ¡Fiestar, me molesta! Fêter, ça m’en fou! Ich nich sprechen kein Deustchenhäägenstraße!
“Even smiling makes my face ache.” — Frank n’ Furter, Rocky Horror Picture Show.
But it’s weeks like these that memories are made of, upon which one will reflect in 50 years and sigh wistfully and say, “Those were the days, mon vieux, those were the days!”
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