I know y'all are out there, I can hear you breathing.  Someone peeks in the doorway, does a quick scan of the room, looks at me, looks at my open laptop with the grubby Nanowrimo stickers on it, mutters a quick "Sorry, I was looking for an author who . . . " and as I look up rather hopefully, if perhaps a teeny bit ingratiating, that someone says, "Uh, sorry to bother you."  And disappears.

Don't tell me I got all this wine chilled for nothing.  I know I only have white wine, but like I said, I have poor eye/hand coordination.  But look!  All the cups are made from potato starch!  Everything's green in here.  Well, except for the red walls.  And hey, if you don't eat some of these hot hors d'oeuvre thingies (I don't really know what they are, but they smell good), I'll have to eat them for lunch tomorrow.  And dinner tomorrow.

And if you don't come talk to me, or "comment", I'll have to go . . . write.  Or do the laundry.  One of the other.