I'm having one. For a few friends. Château Bimbeaux is gorgeous. Downstairs is clean and regal and candlelit strategically. The house smells like Nag Champa incense and Melusine's mulled wine which has been … mulling, I guess is the term … for over two hours. The guests should be arriving any moment. Perhaps I should turn on the oven to start cooking the lasagna. What's that, like 400°f? The garlic bread is prepped and sitting on trays above the fridge. There can't be too much garlic on garlic bread, but if it is possible, I'm sure someone will let me know tonight. Nalcée is working on stuffing mushrooms with parsley and garlic and god knows what else. That damn Saint-Saëns symphony is playing in the kitchen, smoothing out all the edges. My laundry is almost dry and smelling April Fuckin' Fresh. Clean sheets and socks remind me of mom, and I loves my momma. I am showered and powdered — rose soap in the shower from wiwiff, cucumber lotion après, and dressed in my formal dinner party wear: black jeans and a jersey shirt that says "Cock Star." I've done my banking, my post office run — all my devoirs are completed as a matter of fact. After dinner and digestion, some of us may mosey on down to Ye Olde Shimme Shamma Clubbe for Punk Rock Karaoke. Or not. It's a seat-of-the-pants evening. I have the next two whole nights off, and the world couldn't smell sweeter.