Pre-Party Nervous Breakdown

I’m plotzing. Yes.
You see, what I really fear is that the shindig is going to blow. And suck. And stink. I fear it will be like one of Mary Richards’ parties, where there’s not enough food or something and everyone stands around with thumbs up their asses (their own asses, not anyone else’s — remember, this is a party and not an orgy, kids), and Mary (or Jodi, in this case) winds up fretting in the kitchen, wringing her hands, and crying to Lou Grant (a life-size cardboard cut-out of Ed Asner, in this case).
You see, I fear it will suck because I know about this much about designing web pages (I can set HTML tables about as well as I can set a dinner table, i.e. “The fork goes where?”) and virtually nothing about “Flash” or anything else that would give a web page any sort of dynamic interactive participation, or whatever the hell they call it.
I suppose what I’m trying to say is this: The so-called party isn’t going to come with “bells and whistles” that you could find on another site. It won’t dance, it won’t sing, it won’t include an embedded MIDI. It won’t blink, it won’t wink, it won’t scroll. It won’t jump up and down. It won’t do the fucking hokey-pokey. It will, in all likelihood, just be a simple black background (no wood panelling, as I had thought would be jauntily hilarious) with a delicious buffet and a, uh, gift table. And when I say “table”, I don’t want you to expect some sort of image map that makes a fun sound whenever something is clicked. No, it’ll just be clickable static images.
So anyway, there you have it. Jodi, apologizing in advance for her lack of party-planning skills. She is the hostest with the mostest when it comes to the word thing, but when it comes to the web-designing thing, well, that’s another story that she can’t even start to write or approach.
Maybe what Mother really needs is to run to the shelter of a little helper.
Beg me to keep the party thing alive … before I wind up crying in the bathroom and refusing to come out, even though I’ll be wearing a fabulous palazzo pantsuit and have my hair done up all pretty and stuff.
Tell me I can really turn the world on with my smile. Tell me I’m gonna make it after all. OK?