Martha Stewart, I smite thee

This is all her fault. Or my mother's fault. Or someone else's fault. But it's clearly not my fault because that would mean that I'm ~nervous laughter~ a little crazy and ~wild eyed grin~ we all know that I'm solid as a ~crossing fingers behind back~ fucking rock. Um. Yea. So, anyway...

I'm OBSESSED with Thanksgiving. Normally I wouldn't give a rats ass about a holiday because I've been around for awhile now and the charm of sitting around some table with a bunch of people you're going to get pissed at after bringing up for the millionth fucking time that dumb thing you did when you were ten ha ha yea it was so funny when I pooped my pants on the school field trip to the Museum of Natural History thanks for sharing that little ditty in front of my new boyfriend mother and wearing a pair of pants that get so tight by the time you finish your mashed potato volcano with the gravy lava that you can't breathe without severe chest pains is gone.

This year, for the first time in many, I'm having a guest. A real live house guest who will not only eat Thankgiving dinner with whitey and I, but will spend the night. In my house. And I'm freaking out. Obligatory GAH.

I would have been pulling out all the stops for my man if we hadn't been living together since June but the bloom was off that rose the minute he discovered I am indeed a slob of epic proportions and it was no use trying to fake it with fancy meals and tidy rooms since he's seen the hairballs on my bathroom floor and witnessed me eating spaghettios right out of the can. Sigh. Sorry, baby. My ruse was nice while it lasted.

On Thursday the lovely Ginny (write something already, bitch) is traveling down from the slight north to feast and frolic with us and I'm very much looking forward to it because she's so funny that you'd piss your pants if you didn't keep up with bathroom breaks while hanging with this riteous chick and she's easy on the eyes too. Rowr.

I'd invite more people but I don't like hardly anyone and the pressure of having just one person in my house is driving me batshit insane and I suspect whitey too since, and you men can all do a collective groan now, I've already made a big long list of shit to do, dragged him (not really he volunteered to go with me because he's awesome like that) to buy "prospective I'm not sure they're gonna work out lets take them home and see" placemats with matching cloth napkins, and he cleaned out the fridge. My blowjob tally is now gone into January.

I don't know what takes over my normally lackadaisical (piggish) persona when someone is coming over. I'm compelled to clean like the ghost of Joan Crawford, redecorate the entire house, spend exorbitant amounts of cash on high-brow treats like goat cheese and crackers hand molded by Italian virgins, buy enough liquor to keep Nick Nolte happy, and I clean stuff. This is perhaps the sickest transformation of them all. Right next to buying live plants for fucksake. I can barely keep myself alive. What on earth am I doing buying plants.

Yesterday I was so frazzled with the 40 hundred frillion things I need to do that I was caught imobile and only managed to push a candleholder an inch across a table with my pointer finger. But it's in the perfect spot, now. Sweet Jebus, what has happened to me? I've actually been looking for more perhaps perfecter placemats online. At work. For an hour.

Today's current infatuation is my color scheme. Should I go with an orangy thing or go back to my blue stuff because that matches my good china so much better but I really like the yummy pumpkin pie candles I bought and we can always use the everyday white plates but that sort of looks stark against a nice autumnal linen and what about the sterling silver my mother gave me no that needs to be polished and I'm not going to have the time what with the flower planting and the dusting and the laundry and the light demolition because holy shit my kitchen sucks and I CAN'T HAVE SOMEONE SEE MY CRAPPY COUNTERTOPS.

I need help. Please send medication.