It seemed like a good idea back in September or October sometime when Kat said, “Let’s throw a Beaujolais party.” “Totally,” I said, so come Saturday night there were wines and chocolate-covered almonds and cheeses and olives and Maud’s gingerbread and these incredible spice and walnut biscuits and thirty-six fat red roses spread out around the house like lusciousness when Maud and Kat and I decided to taste test before the guests arrived. We winced, opened another bottle, winced some more, and then Maud rinsed her glass and said, “Do you have any good wine?” We figured we could just hide the bottle of Lan Rioja when everyone else got here.

And then people got here, and of course it was fine, because alls some people want, like the crazy drunk girl who couldn’t stop feeling her boy-toy’s buttocks, is a slosh fest, in which case, drink up, buddy; and alls other people want is a pot of Stockholm Blend, in which case, well, we like people who like tea.

Kat’s friend Marisa brought us gifts, which turned out to be a bergamot citrus soap and a gardenia magnolia soap from Fresh, which means Marisa is invited to every party from here on out.

Philippe was here for like six minutes.

When I buzzed India in, I thought the security camera showed her with her cake carrier in hand, and, oh, how nice it is to be correct, because then she appeared at the door with a lemon-glazed walnut spice bundt. We like India a lot.

Jeff called, lateish, from another party. “Are you going to be there for a while?” he said. “Jeff,” I said, “I live here. I’m going to be here for months. Get off the phone and come already.” So he did, and then he went to the bathroom and there was a grand clatter, and he poked his head out from behind the door and said, “Nothing’s broken.” But this afternoon when I was cleaning up I found candle wax covering the weighing scale and the underside of the toilet bowl stained red with wine, so I want to know what exactly was going on in there.

When Mika and Jen began to say their good-byes, we ended up looking at comic books and talking for another half-hour. It’s nice when that happens, even if sometimes people need to go because they have a dog at home they need to let out, which makes me think of a small dog standing upright on its hind legs and crossing its two other paws over its crotch. In this thought, the dog is also shifting from one foot to the other, and has a nervous look in its eyes. At one point we (Mika and Jen and I, not any combination of us plus the dog) were talking about a woman with a speech impediment, and I said, “It’s like in that movie, whatever the hell it’s called, the one with the mouse, and he’s coming to America, and it’s like—” and then I sang the song that goes, “There are no cats in America, and the streets are paved with chee-ese.” “I can’t believe you are quoting ‘An American Tale’ to me,” Jen said. “Well,” I said, “I can’t believe I quoted ‘An American Tale’ to you and you were able to identify it.”

George drank wine out of an egg cup (“I’m pacing myself,” he said) and told me about his film, and about being sick while interviewing a mullah in Iraq somewhere: “. . .and I excused myself and was outside making these retching noises, and he just kept on answering the question.”

When there was the great shattering noise followed by the sight of Kat and Jeff crouched down scooping up shards of glass on the kitchen floor with their bare hands, I knew it was time to just walk away and leave well enough alone.

Tom, that deadbeat, never showed, and I said, “Tom, that deadbeat. But he will call tomorrow and be very sorry.” And then I got an e-mail from him today that said, in part: “didn't see you last night, it seemed ok at the time, . . .but i'm feeling the weight of it now, such that I am afraid to call you,” which made me laugh, which is why we always like Tom a lot, even when he is a deadbeat.

Around five, Kat was curled up on the long ottoman. “Kat,” I said, “I’ve made your bed downstairs.” “Mmmm. Innabit,” she said. “You’re ice skating.” “Ummm, okay,” I said, “well, so, I’m going to bed now.” “You’re ice skating,” she said.