WILLOW MANOR BALL 2011

Tonight, tonight

The world is full of light

With suns and moons all over the place...

Welcome to the cyber event of the year!  Willow Manor is bathed in soft candlelight and armloads of my favorite yellow roses. Like Mrs. Dalloway, I insisted on buying the flowers myself. The carpets are rolled back, ready for some waltzes, tangos, two-steps, and twists. Valentino said tile floors are best for the tango, but the creaky hardwood floors at the manor will do the trick.

We dance for laughter,

we dance for tears, we dance for madness,

we dance for fears, we dance for hopes,

we dance for screams, we are the dancers,

we create the dreams.

Albert Einstein

Please check into the comment section of this post and let us know you've arrived, and who might be accompanying you. If you would like us to visit your blog, to admire your lovely attire and date, make sure you sign the Mr. Linky widget at the end of this post.

Thank you so much for coming.  I hope you enjoy the evening, which is miraculously lasting a whole 24 hours.  Remember, everyone who leaves a comment today, will be considered a guest, and eligible for one of two elegant door prizes.  So, please come in and enjoy the manor magic.

The band has already started up.  Leonard Cohen, our traditional Willow Manor Ball Master of Ceremonies, is unfortunately unable to be here tonight.  Lenny rang last night, home on the sofa, with a nasty case of bedbug bites, from his last gig in Bratislava.  

But, I am proud to announce, the brilliantly talented Melody Gardot has agreed to fill in.  There were no flights, soshe drove all night from Philly, arriving just minutes ago, looking absolutely stunning. Mel's already unleashing some of her delicious scat. 

Speaking of les etoiles, Lucille Ball is the first to make a grand entrance, escorted by the magnificent Erich von Stroheim.  Not wanting to be remembered for his role of Max in Sunset Blvd., he chooses full military attire over tuxedo, which I must admit is very becoming, if not a little frightening.  I wonder if he keeps the gloves on while he dances? The touch of a gloved hand is so very sensuous. I shall soon find out.

As I show her to the powder room, for a little freshening of that bright red lipstick, Lucy promises to let me borrow her amazing white fox.  She always looks very statuesque on the screen, so I am surprised to see that she is just my height, 5' 7". Her red hair is brilliant and she dazzles with confidence.

Oh, confidence reminds me, my escort for the evening is the inimitable and enigmatic R.A.D. Stainforth, yes, the same Stainforth who reads my poetry from time to time.  Mr. Stainforth has impeccable taste in music, and was so kind as to help with this evening's selections.  The latest scuttlebutt is the "R" in R.A.D. stands for Ronaldo, and that his mother is Argentinian. 

He is due to arrive any moment, and I am more than a tad nervous, since I've never actually seen him, not even a photo. He tells me he'll be wearing a white gardenia in his lapel. I've instructed Phipps to keep an eye out for his dark blue Jaguar, with Nigella Lawson, some kind of British food writer, in tow.  She is supposedly somewhat of a celebrity in Stainforth's part of the world, but I must admit, I'd never heard of her before reading his blog, Black Dogs.  After googling, I'm not in the least bit threatened, but just in case she becomes an issue, I gave Lucy the key, and asked if she might give Nigella a tour of the manor wine cellar, maybe leaving her there, just for a little while, of course. 


William Powell, who also received my special invitation, arrives with the stunning Virginia Bruce on his arm.  Apparently, there is a little misunderstanding, when Myrna Loy hears from Lucy that Mr. Powell was my intended date, that is, before Mr. Stainforth accepted. 

They are sorting it all out in the manor library.  I just peeked in, and see that Powell and Loy have obviously made amends, and are are entertaining each other with a game of wall shadows.  Tom's Dinosaur Hand will fit right in, which is a good thing.  Maybe now, he won't be so tempted to pinch quite as many derrieres on the dance floor, as last year.

'Magine my 'emoshe when Miss Fitzgerald agrees to sing one of my favorite Gershwin songs, 'Swonderful.  Oh, this song makes me feel amorous. Mr. Stainforth is all over dancing with Gustav Mahler's foxy wife Alma...excuse me...time for me to break in, I think...sing it Ella!

What am I wearing tonight?  This ethereal, feathered heaven of a gown, delivered straight from Paris, perfectly perfect for a magpie, and I might add, very conducive to fluttering and twirling.  Stand back, my friends, while I shake my tail feathers.  Shoes?  No, I've opted for my favorite pair of creamy Irish knit woolly socks.  If the dance floor gets warm, no worries, since I adore dancing barefoot. I'm freshly pedicured with bright classic red polish, since I'm told Stainforth has a little foot thing going on.

What did I tell you?  It looks like the peeps have sampled my favorite Last Word prohibition era cocktails. Things are really heating up on the dance floor.  Seasick Steve and his band are cranking out Don't Know Why She Love Me But She Do to the max.  Everybody is getting pret-ty crazy...

Almost nobody dances sober, 

unless they happen to be insane.  

H.P. Lovecraft

Last Word Cocktail

2 oz gin, 

1 oz green chartreuse

1/2 oz maraschino  

1/2 fresh cut squeezed lime 

shake
add a fresh bing cherry...for cuteness


I instructed the bartenders to make up extra trays of these delicious babies, 
guaranteed to make you cross-eyed in less than five minutes flat.

Remember, this is cyber food.  

You can eat as much of, and whatever you like...

Feel free to help yourselves, between dances, to the exquisite buffet.  We hired the same fabulous local Central Ohio caterers as last year, and by popular demand, the menu is exactly the same: Scottish quail eggs, in honor of my Sorbie ancestors, caviar, chocolate mousse cake; the works, not to mention the open bar stocked with hundred of bottles of vintage champagne, dusted off and brought up from the manor wine cellar.  Speaking of, I haven't seen Nigella. I wonder if Lucy gave her the little tour?

My friend Sir Anthony Hopkins, "Tony" to me, is here tonight, looking exceptionally handsome.  He is such a dear, and never misses a Willow Manor Ball. I have quite forgiven him for pulling that gun on Johnny Depp a few years back, after a slight misunderstanding about who was to be my date for the evening. 

Traditionally, I save at least one dance for him, and because I'm rendered quite wobbly, after looking directly into his killer blue eyes, he probably thinks I've had one too many Last Word cocktails.  But, it's because he makes me so very weak in the knees.

He will soon be in the library for his reading of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot, who happens to be here, by the way.  I just spotted him with Wendy Cope, deep in conversation, or something, behind a potted palm.  

...and seeing that it was a soft October night...

To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

The last slow dance of the evening is Noel Harrison's The Windmills of Your Mind, sung by none other than the fabulous Barbra Streisand.  Nigella Lawson is nowhere in sight, thank God, and I am wrapped in the arms of the dashing R.A.D. Stainforth.  I am much relieved that he doesn't, in any way, shape, or form, resemble Charles Laughton, in any film role.  In fact, he has been in high demand with the ladies, and even some of the men, with his incredible tango abilities.  I thought Tony Hopkins' eyes were blue? Stainforth's are hypnotic; think Kaa, the snake, in Jungle Book.  

Dear, dear Mrs. Miller has been itching for control of the mic all evening, to sing her trademark song, Downtown. She sings with such gusto, she sometimes forgets the words, and fills in with a few whistles, which I find quite charming.  Whistling has become a lost art, I'm afraid.  Sing it, Mrs. M...

The Beatles are experiencing some scheduling problems.  George rang to say they were hung up in Altoona, Pennsylvania, at P.J.'s Bar & Grill, fixing a flat on the Volkswagen bus, and that they would most likely arrive at the manor too late to perform.  But, hey!  Looks like Ringo put the pedal to the metal, and here they are...yeah yeah yeah...

Well, my friends, it's been a lovely evening. Please drop by tomorrow around noon-ish for brunch and a rehashing of all tonight's gossip.  The winners of the door prizes will also be announced.    Someone please make sure Nigella gets safely out of the wine cellar. Glenn Buttkus, since you drove your powerful Impala, Mrs. Miller needs a ride home, do you mind awfully?  

Now, if you'll excuse me, 
I have a hot date with some poetry and a sunrise.  
Ta-ta...

Thank you so much for making 
The Willow Manor Ball 2011 a smashing success.  

We danced too wild, 
and we sang too long, 
and we hugged too hard, 
and we kissed too sweet, 
and howled just as long 
as we wanted to howl, 
because by now 
we were all old enough to know 
that what looks like crazy 
on an ordinary day, 
looks a lot like love, 
if you catch it in the moonlight.   

Pearl Cleage


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