Yup, This is How Thanksgiving's Gonna Be Around Here This Year

      The turkey's all slathered in olive oil, salted & peppered and in the oven (the crispy skin is dad's favorite part of the bird.  Many many moons ago he worked in an old country inn, where he'd deep fry chicken skins, smother them with salt and not share them with co-workers), potatoes are boiling, stuffing's seasoned just right, and the cranberry sauce is chilling.
     There's rich, moist, cream cheese icing-robed carrot cake, bourbon chocolate pecan pie, snickerdoodles, gingersnaps, still-warm pumpkin pie, piled high with towering swirls of fresh whipped, heavenly sweetened cream. 
     The rolls are just about ready for butter-brushing,  and dad's drooling, near-erotic images of an overflowing gravy boat tilting and twirling through his slumbering brain.

     Damn, mom sure has her work cut out for her.  She's toughed it out for years, reforming this aging foodaholic we know and love, trying to change his ways to keep him around as long as she can. 

     Dad grew up in a large family, the above-mentioned a regular part of all the family gatherings.  Seems everything always revolved around food.  Deep down mom knows she's got an uphill battle, even though dad insists he's over his previous eating habits, habits formed over too many years.

     She's worked so hard to get him to change his ways, and though he's much better with her in control she still worries.
     Today we're going to be having non-GMO roasted turkey breast, fresh green beans, juicy corn on the cob, champagne mimosas throughout the day and- the best part- mom's mouthwatering homemade peanut butter cookies topped with Hershey's kisses.  In moderation, of course (riiight, that explains the two bottles of champagne and half gallon of orange juice in the fridge, right dad?).  
     Mom made the cookies yesterday, filling the apartment with the delightful aroma of her homemade, fresh-ground peanut butter (no salt, no sugar, of course).  She gave dad the unused kisses to bring to work to share, with strict instructions not to eat any (he ate only one, really). 
     As with almost every Thanksgiving since mom and dad met we'll be watching It's a Wonderful Life, catching some of the parade, and just chilling. There's enough stress out there. Mom and dad try to keep things simple. It's one thing we can control.   

     So to everyone, in spite of all the crazy shit in the news these days, in spite of the divisive, sickening, appalling headlines almost daily now, try to have a most awesome and happy Thanksgiving Day.
     

What Book?

     So once again, as with some previous pictures in an earlier post of Miss Cleo plopped atop sheets of paper amidst a vast expanse of carpeted apartment, here she just has to deposit herself on mom's book. 

Umm, hello, pay attention to me, not the book!

You didn't want to read anyway mom, right?

     Yup, queen-sized bed, a bazillion square feet of luxurious quilted bed covers, and she just has to insert herself in mom's field of vision as mom tries to wind down her night with her favorite nighttime entertainment (well, one of them, anyway.  Sorry you have to share the spotlight, dad).  Obviously, mom's okay with this.  If nothing else Cleo's helping out by marking mom's page since it's not unusual for mom to wake during the night or first thing in the morning, upset with herself for losing her place.

Pssst, dad- What's with all the "mom"'s?  This is my blog, you big dingleberry. I get two mentions in this post and mom gets six?  Damn, there's another one!  
     
     

And Some More Not About Me, So I Don't Care

  So being the outdoorsy type mom and dad like to take pictures wherever they go.  Though they miss the real mountains out in western North Carolina they don't seem to have a problem finding places around here to "hike".  I put that term in quotes because I really think sometimes it makes them feel good about getting out and walking around and calling it hiking.  

Whatever you call it, I'm happy as long as they don't try to get me out there with them.  I have heard them more than once saying words like "leash", "harness" and "exercise" with my name in between, and I certainly hope that doesn't mean they plan on trying to get me outside.  I'm purrfectly happy to stay indoors full time.  I get my dose of outdoors when I sit in the window, and that's good enough for me.  Dad doesn't remember where, exactly these photos were taken (pretty sure out Asheville way, you dumbfutz) or how long ago, and he's too damn lazy to go back and see which folder mom had them in.  she's the organized one around here. 

He just goes through the pictures and tosses the words out on the screen and hopes for the best.  Oops- I mean he helps me write these things.

Butt Comb

As with all other areas I'm settling into a routine here with mom and dad.  Every month mom takes care of my preventive flea treatment and, more to my enjoyment, combing.

Not Sure What the Bag Thing Is

     Apparently I leave bits and strands of myself around the apartment, though it's not always evident until mom checks the vacuum filter.  Much like Orbit before me, we're both short-haired, but as I'm sure y'all know we shed no matter.
     Anyway, I love it when mom drags that comb through my fur (except for her Jabba the Hut undercarriage and privates).  Stuff it, dad.  You've still got yourself a bit of a muffin top thing going on there, you know.

Gotta Say, the Old Girl Loves Those Bags

     So again, anyway, the comb feels so good, and I especially like mom doing my back nice and soft and slow.  Makes my behind rise tall as a mountain (dad's over in the corner smirking, a dumb-assed joke brewing. I can see it on his face).
    

And Again With the Bag

So that's it.  I like being combed.  I'm done with this one.  Dad ruined it.  Gotta go beg for breakfast.  Bye.