The last time I hosted Thanksgiving, my mother, unhappy with the poorly-made stuffing, left for parts unknown (actually Fargo, North Dakota), shortly before dessert was served, leaving me to wash the dishes all by myself. The next morning, my husband ran off with a 22-year-old rugby player, the cat got run over (eventually, though not immediately, fatally), the lawn service forgot to show up and I spent an entire cold, rainy weekend raking a hilly half-acre's worth of maple leaves. And when I checked my bank account, I found I was too broke to pay the mortgage or even to buy a fifth of decent brandy.
Which is why I'm confident that this year is going to go much, much better. (For one thing, my liquor cabinet is fully stocked)
(apologies to all who've already gleaned my tale of woe from twitter)