Thanksgiving pre-ramble

It is late and I am tired, and should be in bed.
But fear and loathing are keeping me more than wide awake, yet
somehow delightfully unable to complete even one of the 254 duties
on my Thanksgiving roster.
My brother will ome over early Thursday morning - D. will go pick him up,
thus acquiring another Saints-of-the-Modern-World merit badge.
I will be cooking.
Turkey, dressing, peas in butter sauce, my mom's black cherry/raspberry jello,
garlic-mashed potatoes and possibly the best gravy ever made on Earth. Pumpkin pie, raspberry-apple pie, and the obligatory puffy white rolls. All of which is basically
prep for the real Thanksgiving, which comes the next day when we have leftover
mashed potatoes and gravy for breakfast and heavenly turkey sandwhiches for dinner.
And then lay around, watching ice skating so we can be cruel and critical, or
Spanish T.V. so we can make up our own dialogue.
When I could still have wine while I worked, I was really dedicated to creating
THE most beautifully inviting table and THE most classic holiday ambience;
I worked my ass off to achieve perfect... perfectness.
I could - and would - work slavishly for days on end, multi-tasking like Martha.
Now, I suppose I am like a regular person - or maybe a slightly irregular one.
I am resistant to over-doing, and have left many jobs to the most horrifyingly last minute.
I have pared down my usual menu, given up on making THE indelible
holiday memory, and basically decided to do what I can (and want to) do.
Even the idea of perfection makes me tired...
I hope good is good enough.
However, the ghosts of perfection must be persistent, because here I am,
still up at 1 a.m. - stunned by all I have not done.
Tomorrow I WILL vacuum up the dog-hair tumbleweeds and dust off the major flat
areas around the house. I will. I will.
Won't I?