A Look of Alarm

This morning, longtime hubby stared in the direction of the formal dining area and looked rather alarmed.
"Honey?"
"Yes, honey?"
"Thanksgiving's in three weeks."
"This much, I know."
"Yet I see no evidence of the holiday unfolding in our aging palatial estate."
"Such as?"
"The ceremonial schlepping of the chairs from the garage."
"You left out 'back-breaking.' What else?"
"No obsessive-compulsive, early bird setting of the table."
"Tables. Plural."
"No Amazonian ordering of nice-looking, eco-friendly disposable napkins."
"I prefer to call them fancy fake napkins. Go on."
"No reserving of the already-brined Trader Joe's turkey."
"Turkeys. Plural. They don't let you reserve them."
"Oh, right."
"Have I taught you nothing, man of my dreams?"
"More than I can ever thank you for."
"You're welcome."

"Does this mean what I think it means?"
"What do you think it means, devoted spouse?"
"We don't have to do Thanksgiving?"
"You got that right, mister. It's not our turn."
"What say we celebrate with a little bit of Sherry?"
"At 8 a.m.?"
"It's 5 o'clock somewhere."