I want to blog, I do

But I am fried. Let's just say this. Tomorrow night, I am hosting a fundraising dinner for a local arts organization at my house. A bunch of people host dinners, the Academy sells tickets and hosts a big cocktail party, and then people pan out across our little corner of the world to different homes for festive meals. Ten people to dinner, a lot, but not scary. I've done bigger though not recently, it's true. In any case, everyone who's coming is a friend, and all but one of the people coming have eaten here before, at least once, some more. But that one person, who has not eaten here (though her husband has, a couple of times) is, as the H observed, one of the only people he's ever seen completely intimidate me and send me flying, gracelessly, tumbling, ass over teacup, off my ladder. She's got a big job, but I know lots of people with big jobs (I even had one, sort of, kind of, once--although it really wasn't so big, actually, lots of people pretended it was and kissed my behind, so the effect was similar, and, to be fair to myself, I actually did have a lot of responsibility and many projects and people and budgets to manage. But I digress into self-flattery.) She's a writer, but I know lots of them, too; most of my friends here, as it happily turns out, are writers or artists, and successful ones. But let's just say this--it's like some combination of Julia Child, Craig Claiborne, Nora Ephron and your older brother's impossibly cool girlfriend is coming to my house to dinner. I am insecure about a LOT of things. My cooking is not one of them. I know it's really, really good. But I am a little nervous. And I don't want to be.