So, normally, I don't work on holidays -- especially not holidays that revolve around the mass consumption of turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. Because I already have a Thanksgiving ritual: Wake up. Put the last minute finishing touches on whatever I've been assigned to make (almost always a couple of desserts, as chocolate and butter seem to be my strong points). Lay around a bit. Consider going to the gym. Run out of time considering, so hop in the shower. Gather up my goodies and head out to celebrate, eat, nap, eat again, and finish off with a family poker game which leaves each member thankful that they left anything over a twenty at home. Wait 364 days, repeat.
But this year, there is one new task in the Thanksgiving ritual: work. It's my own fault, of course, for putting things off (because really? Boy Meets World is on and it's way more important I watch that one episode I've seen 47 times where Corey and Topanga get in a fight, then make up with a chaste kiss). But that doesn't mean I still won't lament and complain as though someone suddenly decided this book is due in two weeks. So somewhere between finishing touches and eating again, I'll be tapping away, crying cranberry tears and wistfully thinking of pumpkin pie.