Dream.

In a dream, last night, I was having a pleasant conversation with Bea Arthur, on the (non-existent) patio of my home. It was a nice warm evening. The patio was more like something she would have had on "The Golden Girls." In fact, I'm not sure she was Bea Arthur, as much as she was Dorothy Zbnornak. While we chatted, however, I had the nagging thought, in the back of my mind, that I was to have a dinner party in just a matter of minutes and nothing was prepared - and the house was a mess. I excused myself to attend to my duties.
When I reached the kitchen, which was my kitchen, yet much larger and nicer, I began to feel frantic. It was a catastrophe! The oven was open and the interior had been decorated, by my nieces, rather Hedwig-like, with pictures and stickers and bits of ribbon tied to the racks. I attempted to divest it of its embellishments, but was having a rather difficult time with the stickers. My eye wandered over to the sink, to find it full of dirty dishes. This would never do! Cuba Gooding, Jr. was peeling potatoes at my bar, amid open bottles of beer, bags, crumbs, bottle caps, food stuffs and general trash and garbage. Why he had 3 ten pound bags of potatoes open, I don't know. He didn't seem to be in much of a hurry, either. I had to get into gear.
Some of the guests were already arriving (early, of course). I went to my stereo and put on the "54" soundtrack and cranked it up. "If you could read my mind, love, what a tale my thoughts would tell..." A little disco to get me into cleaning mode. I told him, "I'm just going to clean up around you. If there's something you're using, I'll leave it for you." I called my nieces in and told them to clean up the oven, pronto! I began tackling the dishes. I was determined that, even though I was getting off to a rough start, this party was going to happen!