Last night, while preparing a quite extravagant dinner for Mr. Astor, I saw flashing lights outside. There not having been a crime committed in this neighborhood since the neighbors painted their 1925 Spanish colonial a Bubble Gum Green, I rush out and saw this UFO, a mother ship, hovering over the house. I felt faint, but totally conscious and full of awe. The obvious out-of-this-world technology told me that the beings maneuvering this craft--so now close to my head--were not only obviously more intelligent, but also had a lot of coke on board. The sounds, though soft, of Abba started to emit from the craft and I suddenly heard voices. They told me they would beam me up and I would relive a world of fantasy and fun forever. I would be given new platform sandals and that powder blue jumpsuit I made long ago (it had been rescued years before by them and preserved for my return). Although dizzy from the thought of ruling the dance floor with steps long-forgotten, I begged off, saying I had pork chops covered in walnuts and Gorgonzola cheese in the oven for my hubby. That was just it, they revealed; they have been watching my kitchen gymnastics for years and were after my mind, not my dance expertise. The nerve.

After careful negotiations, they settled for a list of my recipes and a color, 8 x 10 glossy of me at my battle station; intergalactic peace was maintained and Mr. Astor was assured of dinners in perpetuity.