Thanksgiving Means Too Much on My Plate

and I don't mean my dinner plate . . .

We've invited four of Pete's cousins and their families for Thanksgiving dinner. That means there will be about 18 at the table. We thought we were serving at 2 pm, so those who live in Manhattan get home at a reasonable hour. Turns out nobody received that email. So dinner is moved to 4 pm, so the Connecticut contingent can take the ferry over. Some are sleeping here, too, so we are turning the attic (formerly Clara's room) into a bunk house for the boys (there are a lot of boys -- although they really are men now), and moving Clara to a little room she covets in the new basement with radiant heat in the floor.

This would not be so much to handle if I didn't have a three-day show starting the day after Thanksgiving, and if our newly renovated house was completely decorated. I've done a lot in the last two weeks, but in my haste I have made some bad choices, like the rug I bought for the family room, which is going to be hidden in the basement really soon.

 We've turned it around and angled the chair and put a new coffee table in and tried to hide it with plants and baskets, but it is just wrong.   But with so much else to do -- including babysitting for the neighbor's little boy today and helping with show set up again tomorrow and more grocery shopping to do, I am going to live with it for awhile, even if it means wearing sunglasses every time I go into the room . . .