A Thanksgiving Without Strippers and Rockstars…

A Thanksgiving without strippers and rockstars is hardly a Thanksgiving at all, but I guess it will do.

Two years ago on Thanksgiving, my sister and I were battling hypothermia while dressed like tawdry street tarts. Bret Michaels and his band were the only ones who could save us…or that’s what should have happened.

Whoot! Sweet Home Alabama

Whoot! Sweet Home Alabama

Last year on Thanksgiving, my sister’s mother-in-law thought that tickets to a “male revue” would be the best birthday present ever for my sister. So we found ourselves in Conference Room B of a Southern Ohio hotel, sadly under dressed due to our lack of Carhartts and camouflage, watching oily men dance and lip synch badly. I never knew that stripping required so much lip synching.

Each dancer had his own special skit that he got to be banana hammock lead on. For example, there was a Top Gun skit where they all came out in dress-whites. Except that they were tear-away dress- whites, that did not fit any of them, and one guy had, what I hope, was marinara sauce stains on the crotch of his outfit. They’d perform most of a song on stage before just giving up and moving in to the audience to gyrate in people’s faces  for like ten minutes. Rinse, repeat. So bored.

Carmine: he sorta knew the routine and just smiled a lot.

Carmine: he sorta knew the routine and just smiled a lot.

I thought I would do an extended post about this last year, but it just became too sad to even write about.

So this year, we had to settle for mundane mis-adventures.

*The birthday cake cracked and my mom forgot to buy ice cream to go with it. I’m not  a super fan of ice cream AND cake in combination so I was fine with my slivers of pumpkin pie and some pecan pie that may or may not have given us salmonella poisoning.

Crack cake

Crack cake

**Olivia Wigglebothum essentially had kitty tonsillitis and was on too many meds for the cat sitter to contend with, and she was only supposed to eat soft food. The cat sitter does not deal with soft food. I brought Olivia to her grammie’s with me and slept in the spare room with her because she was terrified. She only came out from under the bed when I was in the room and that took some coaxing. Sounds she heard outside the room like my nephew shrieking or my sister simply talking, made her shiver and try to shoot back under the bed. She snuggled up against me when I came to bed which was wonderful until 3 o’clock in the morning when we both woke up to pee. I went back to bed, but Olivia brought mousie back to bed and thought that we should play fetch. At 5 o’clock in the morning, she pooped for the first time in 3 days. I got a very minimal amount of sleep for two nights.

Adorable until 3 a.m.

Adorable until 3 a.m.

***My mom’s vintage avocado green hand mixer “broke.” My sister and nephew were working on the mashed potatoes when the mixer stopped. They thought it had given up on life and lumpy potatoes. I questioned whether anyone had checked to see if we flipped a breaker, but no one enjoys the voice of reason.

Mom mumbled something about the mixer being a wedding present (for a marriage that ended some time when I was in the 4th grade) and threw the whole thing in the trash. My sister and I promptly started giving her shit:

“Aren’t you going to take it apart and fix it.”

“Make yard art!”

“Shouldn’t you use the pieces to make  a mobile or something?”

“Christmas present! Shopping done!” (Kohl’s had the same color for $49.99)

Caving to bullying and continuing to mumble to herself,  mom pulled the contraption out of the trash and angrily wiped it off. We called the lumpy potatoes “au naturale.”

C'mon, the mixer's only 30 years old.

C’mon, the mixer’s only 30 years old.

(It did turn out that the little breaker thingy on the plug had tripped and there was nothing wrong with the mixer. I was right.)

****My mom talked me out of the best Black Friday  bargain ever: a $15 possum pelt.

My sister has an irrational yet vaguely entertaining response to possums. She screams a lot and throws things. I envisioned buying her a nice rug, a sweater, maybe a set of towels, then rolling the pelt up inside of the Christmas gift. Christmas morning there would be ear piercing screams, probably some urination, and a projectile possum pelt. Plus $15 seemed like  a steal on possum pelts. Mom seemed to think that this would be the kind of thing that would make my sister stop speaking to me forever.

I maintain that this is a gift that would have kept on giving.

I maintain that this is a gift that would have kept on giving.

Bret Michaels would have brought ice cream, fixed the mixer, de-lumped the potatoes, un-cracked the cake, and healed my cat’s tonsils all while wearing a possum pelt bandana.

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One thought on “A Thanksgiving Without Strippers and Rockstars…

  1. Pingback: #Possum-bilities | possumscatsthingsgnawingatme

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