Thanksgiving is generally my day to shine, but at the moment I'm feeling a lack of luster. Events of the past couple of weeks have conspired to eat up all my time and energy, so I've had not time to plan the giant, elaborate Thanksgiving me that I generally cook up at this time, putting together enough food for a small army when in actuality I only have 10 to 15 people coming by.
So, this year I'll be doing a scaled back version that might actually be right-sized for the number of relatives headed my way. Except for the 20-pound turkey my mother in law dropped off on Sunday -- I'll be dealing with that carcass for days.
Anyway, the unexpected time sucks of late November have also decimated my plans to finish National Novel Writing Month, so my little suburban horror story will have to be considered stillborn, since writing that pays my salary has to take precedent over writing that earns me nothing (at least, nothing immediately).
I know, I know, wah wah way, poor little me, etc. But what would a holiday season be without a liberal sprinkling of whining and self-pity?
What? Your family isn't like that at? Well, touch you, then.
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