I'm cooking dinner for Jason.
It will be ready when he gets home.
I've got sparkling cider in the refrigerator and wine glasses to drink it with.
I have candles on the table.
Dessert is in the oven.
I might, just maybe, go so far as to shave my legs.
The table is set.
There is just one problem.
I'm nearly 35 years old and I still have to call my mom and ask on which side of the plate the spoon and knife go.
I seriously doubt that there is any hope for me.