We Keeler brothers and sisters, will not be sitting around tables scattered throughout my kitchen and living room this Thursday.
Nor will we be hugging our kids, grandkids and friends.
No football pools.
No shake of the day.
No big chaotic mess centered around a bird.
But we can still raise our glasses.
And we will.
And we can still be thankful.
And we are.
However, I am growing concerned about the condition of the condition.
The condition that has been silenced by the media.

If you turn on the news you will notice that it is stuck in a loop.
There are two repetitive stories.
The one about the guy with the orange hair who ain't budging from his big white house.
And the other about how to properly wear a mask.
It is supposed to cover your nose, people.
And your mouth.
But, what about the story about the lack of zest?
The missing pizazz?
It is real.
At this stage of the game, there is nobody who doesn't know somebody with the condition.
And it is scary.
We hosts of Thanksgiving as well as any holiday, understand the kind of spunk required to enable one to get off one's duff to clean behind a stove or under a couch. It can only be spurred on by the threat of company.
It is two in the morning.
Do you know where your microorganisms are?
Could another pandemic be brewing between your shower tiles?
My sweet Sven worked so hard building this house back in the day.
Now only to be covered in cobwebs, dust and piles of clutter, with all hopes of whipping it into shape anytime soon, gone.
"What's that Louisa?"
Hang on, my sister is talking.
Apparently some of the family will be stopping here for a socially distanced, bring your own cocktail, to a party located in my driveway.
This is wonderful news.
I am elated.
I am teary.
I am.
Oh crap.
What if somebody needs to use the bathroom?
I'd better go clean it.
What if they go to the one upstairs?
I'd better go swish the brush around in there.
Uh oh.
They could enter the house through the basement door and use the restroom next to Grandma Meow Meows litter box.
All avenues are in danger.
There is potential for traffic everywhere.
What are the odds someone will have to pee?
Well, I would estimate one hundred percent of fifty percent.
The women.
Folks, do not let this holiday get you down.
This current loop from hell we are calling life, is only temporary.
Next year will be better.
And you, as a host, will once again have the ambition to get off your butt and be rid of whatever that is, that is growing under your kitchen sink.
I got to go.

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