So technically, I should be in the kitchen making dinner rolls from scratch, cranberry sauce, a chocolate cake and something involving carrots. But seriously? Four things? It’s Thanksgiving, and I only have to cook four things? Pleeeease, people. I am just going to lie here on the couch and eat some bonbons. You know what? Better plan. I will nap on the couch while eating bonbons. (Sleep eating. It’s a skill.)

Never in my adult life has so little been required of me on this holiday of glutton and football – or as has been true for all women in my family, this holiday of indentured servitude.

Can it get better? Oh yes it can. My husband offered to make the cake.

Three dishes, my friends. Nap, bonbons and a pedicure is what I’m saying.

Usually I’m in the kitchen for three days cooking for a dozen people. This year I’m combining dinners with a girlfriend who, in a fit of insanity and masochism, said the words, “I’m going to make a turkey and prime rib. Could you just, you know, bring some napkins and a gravy boat?”

Uh, yeah! Napkins, gravy boat and a big ol’ vat of who’s-my-favorite-crazy-person?

Just thinking about the things I’m not doing is enough to send me back into my pajamas. Renting extra tables and chairs to cram into my one-bedroom apartment over a tennis court? Not doing it. Wrestling a 20-pound bird and three gallons of brine into a Tupperware container originally intended to hold off-season sweaters? Not doing it. Desperately trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with the bottom crust of this stupid, f*ing apple pie who-the-hell-decided-this-was-our-national-dish? Nope, not this time.

I am awash in sloth. I’m not even sure I can be bothered to type this. Maybe I’ll just let my face fall forward until my nose hits some keys.

So who wants to take this cranberry sauce thing off my hands?