I’m down two glasses of wine. Everything is ready for the oven, the turkey is actually done, and at my sister’s behest, I have called my grandmother. I am cooking for the kids, the ex, and the housemate. When I say that, I get this weird eyebrow response. Yes, I’m awesome. I’m not only making a turkey, against my moral fiber, but I’m making it for people, with the exception of one or two, who could really care less. Why? Fuck if I know. That’s why I poured my first...







