We are nearly prepared. Yes, PHE 2006 is just about to land on us, and land on us with this sickening, alcoholic *thump*.The RSVP list currently stands somewhere around 40. There will be thirteen people staying in our house alone. I have a fridge full of food, and I'm not done yet.

I have a sweater to finish knitting for Saturday—if I'm diligent, I will finish tonight.

In my brain, the storm-signal flags are at 'PHE hurricane warning' level: instead of black-on-red squares, blue-on-white squares with little penguins at the bottom. Not to mention the little dusty white fingerprints from the all-purpose flour I've been going through like water.

Oatmeal cookies? Check.
Gingerpeople? Check.
Molasses spice cookies? Tomorrow.
Chocolate chip cookies? Not gonna bother until Saturday and Sunday.

I could think that maybe I dreamed one of you, but not all of you; the carnage of my kitchen proves that you were here, really here, and that this house bore witness to a party the likes of which I haven't seen in many years. You were here, and I remember sitting in my favorite spot in the the reading room, far-cornered on the thirdhand couch with a drink in my hand, looking from one face to another and smiling to myself as I clutched my drink. "You said you wanted a birthday party!" was exclaimed to me over and over, as Yet Another Geek came here with proffered alcohol and food.

Occasionally, a phrase uttered in complete seriousness comes back to bite you in the ass. Occasionally, phrases uttered in complete innocence result in anything but.I offer my current example: "Hey, I want a birthday party this year! Why don't we do a big group birthday party for all of the October birthday folks, and maybe send out an invitation to tech staff to see if anyone will want to drive up from Atlanta?"

Several days afterward, I found your snifter
lying in the cranny between sofa and table,
having come to rest next to the wall
after being brushed aside during the party.

The cats hadn't bothered it—yet—
but the dust was starting to stick, feather-
soft, to the rounded rim and fluted bowl.

I reached out to it, one breast pressed flat
against the side of the couch as my fingers
danced tantalizingly close, closer, and finally
brought the elusive glassware within reach.

Victorious, I cupped it with my fingers
and brought it gently to my nose, in an airy