Last weekend was a doozy. In fact, I’m still recovering. (Apologies for the delayed nature of this post, but I couldn’t get myself together any sooner.) I am fatigued from the fashions. In merely 72 hours of each other, I had my own birthday party and the Met ball. I can’t say they were equally glamorous — Anna Wintour, you beat me again! — but both involved costumes, dancing, high drama and the imbibing of spirits.

I love a good theme, and so does Giovanna Battaglia, the stylist who threw my birthday party at home with her boyfriend, Vladimir Roitfeld. We had been trying to think of a good theme party for months now, and my birthday seemed like a good enough excuse. (But even if I wasn’t born a Taurus, I think Gio would have still thrown this party.) It was her idea to do a 60’s theme, so we settled on Peter Sellers’ seminal 1968 film The Party as the inspiration. I was happy because I’m always looking for an excuse to wear a turban with a jewel on it. And lucky for a few of my girlfriends – Karlie Kloss, Lauren Santo Domingo, Jacqui Getty, Anne Hathaway, Kristina O’Neill and Giovanna among them – Marc Jacobs turned to the 1960’s for his spring collections of both Marc Jacobs and Louis Vuitton, so they’re costumes were sorted. The focal point of the evening was an eight foot tall pink elephant made of carnations, a present from my friend Fabiola Beracasa. And the whole thing came together under the watchful eye of my Southern sister Rebecca Gardner.

The rest of the weekend was a bit of a blur: Lauren did a dinner for Balmain’s Olivier Rousteing the next night, followed by the Dolce & Gabbana store opening; and then on the Sunday night I went to the Rihanna concert. She was late, of course, and would grab her crotch on every song, even the ballads, but I still love her music. Then it was back in drag for Monday night’s Met gala. Surely, you’ve seen some pictures from the Met. (And if you haven’t, go to www.vogue.com right now because they have hundreds and hundreds of the best ones from the night.) The Met gala has been referred to as the East Coast Oscars because Hollywood teams up with the New York fashion crowd for a night of glamour and excess. This year was more fabulous than last, but not as fabulous as next year. There were afterparties at the Boom Boom Room and Giancarlo Giammetti’s house. No one went home without aching feet and eyes exhausted by the splender.

I was quite proud of my ensemble this year. The theme was ‘PUNK: From Chaos to Couture.’ So my friend Taylor Tomasi Hill commandeered me a last minute harness, and then my friends at MAC came over to apply some temporary tattoos to my hands and neck. I had PUNK on my right knuckles and THIS on my left. (I had thought of a variety of four-word options, but I thought those were the most appropriate.)

It was one of those weekends in New York that just feels kinetic. Annie Hathaway went from brunette to platinum blonde from my birthday to the Met, for example. People know that the aesthetic stakes are high. How high? Let’s just say that I had to use paint thinner to remove my tattoos. It stung like hell, but it was worth it. For the record, I’m not just talking about the paint thinner here.