I Almost DIED!

Dennis and I were in the kitchen—a seemingly innocent scene that quickly turned into a tragic comedy starring yours truly. I was putting the groceries away while Dennis had taken it upon himself to wash the stove grills. Lovely, right? Except, of course, I needed the grills to cook because, you can’t just plop a pan directly on the burners.

Dennis, being the helpful soul he is, was busy reassembling the stove when I turned to stow more food away. What he forgot to mention (or realize) was that he’d left the dishwasher door wide open, like some low-lying booby trap stationed directly behind me. Arms full of groceries, I pivoted—and immediately tumbled over the unseen culprit.

Now, pause for a moment. Can we talk about how falling suddenly happens in slow motion once you hit a certain age? There I was, toppling forward, brain firing off two thoughts simultaneously:

1. Is this how it ends?
2. Dear God, please don’t let me impale myself on anything sharp sticking out of the dishwasher.

Before I even fully grasped what had happened, I found myself mid-contortion over the dishwasher door, grappling for balance like some off-balance ballerina. Somehow—miraculously—I didn’t completely hit the floor, but my shins and arms weren’t as lucky. My shin took the brunt of the battle, while my knee staged its own protest, and my poor pecs and underarms have been loudly complaining for days. I’m pretty sure I’ve unlocked some elite level of pain where even bruises feel betrayed by my choices.

Now, here’s the clincher. I turned around to confront Dennis, expecting, I don’t know, maybe an ounce of concern? Instead, he looked at the scene of the crime and casually remarked, “Well, there goes the dishwasher.” Then, as if realizing this probably wasn’t the right opening line, he quickly tacked on, “Are you okay, honey?”

You learn a lot about your place in the world during a crisis. Turns out, I’m somewhere below the dishwasher. My ego? It's still recovering.

Bah Humbug

It’s December 3rd, and I’ve officially put up five Christmas trees. That’s right—five. Do I enjoy it? Absolutely not. Picture Scrooge tangled in tinsel, muttering under his breath about “holiday spirit.” That’s me.

Now, technically, I didn’t need to put up three trees in my own home. But one of them is tiny and takes about 30 minutes to put up, so it doesn’t really count… right? Honestly, I should just keep that one and banish the others. But no, I’ve got two 9-foot and two 10-foot behemoths demanding my attention, because apparently, I hate free time.

And it's not as if they stay up all year or even 2 months! Nope, a few short weeks of twinkly glory, and then the looming responsibility of packing them back up until next year. It’s like having an overly demanding houseguest who leaves glitter in every corner.

Anyway, if I’m going to suffer through this, my trees are going to be packed with stuff. No delicate hanging ornaments here—oh no. I stuff them to the brim, like they’re auditioning to be the world’s most over-the-top parade float.

Five trees, too much stuffing, and questionable life choices. Merry Christmas, I guess! 🎄

Real Friends Bring You Chocolate

 Listen, I get it—friendship is all about give and take. But let's be real here… I want chocolate. Non-negotiable. If you’re going to hang with me, this is just the cost of doing business. I even told one of my friends I needed a bathtub filled with chocolate so I could swim in it—bask in it, and drown in it if necessary, you know, really commit to the sugar high— (what a way to go, right?). Her response? She got creative and gave it her own spin. And no, it wasn’t a Jacuzzi filled with molten fudge, but hey, I’ll give her points for effort. I felt like Willy Wonka minus the questionable child labor practices.

Here’s the thing—I have some seriously cool friends. Some bring me charcuterie boards (bless them), others show up with donuts, homemade goodies, or the holy grail, coffee. One time, someone even gifted me an actual garden of Crunch bars. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it? Except for one tragic flaw—they didn’t grow back. I mean, what’s the point of a Crunch bar garden that doesn’t replenish itself? Ugh. Life is tough.

All I’m saying is, surround yourself with people who not only get your obsession with chocolate but are willing to support your habit. These are the people who will make life sweeter—literally and figuratively. Cheers to them, the heroes of my sweet tooth and my soul!

Job Hunting

A rite of passage, a test of patience, and apparently, a battlefield for entitlement these days. Listen, I don’t mean to sound like the grumpy neighbor yelling at kids to get off their lawn, but here’s the deal—you can’t waltz into the professional world with a mindset that screams, “I’m owed something just for showing up.”

Sure, your parents may have indulged your whims and told you that you were destined for greatness simply for existing. And hey, that’s sweet. But unfortunately, they’re not the ones cutting you a paycheck. Business owners? Employers? They’re not here for the “I-deserve-this” song and dance. They’re here for employees who bring value, show up on time, and—brace yourself—put in the effort.

If you're reading this from your parents' basement, hazily scrolling between a Netflix binge and a socially acceptable time to snack again, consider this your wake-up call. The good news? There’s a world of opportunity out there for those willing to step up, own their hustle, and shift gears out of entitlement mode.

We’re not saying you can’t dream big or want better—absolutely, go for it! Just don’t forget that, at some point, you’re going to have to work for it.

These Potholes need a Truck Load of Gravel.... Not just Faith

I grew up with Sundays and Wednesdays reserved for church, my family faithfully in tow. Religion wasn't just a backdrop—it was woven into the fabric of my life. I have relatives who are pastors, missionaries, even a nephew who started his own church. One sister can teach the Bible like it’s her side hustle, and the other has enough zeal to reinstate commandments if needed. But, if I’m honest, every time I hear someone proclaim “It’s the end of times,” I roll my eyes like a kid hearing their mom warn, “Do that one more time…” It’s the spiritual equivalent of the boy who cried wolf, and, frankly, I’m over it.

Here’s the thing—wasn’t God supposed to show up like a thief in the night? No dramatic countdowns, no fanfare, just...bam, He’s here. That’s the script, right? Throwing apocalyptic predictions during a world crisis feels like bad improv. And honestly, so many interpretations exist that it feels less like faith and more like a choose-your-own-adventure book.

Now don’t get me started on the literal stories. Noah’s Ark? A floating zoo? The Garden of Eden? Forbidden snacks? Tell me, where do dinosaurs fit into that picture? We've got their fossil receipts, so what’s their timeline? And cavemen—why are they ghosting the Bible’s narrative? Oh, and Cain and Abel’s wives...where exactly did they come from? The Land of Nod? Sure, but where’s that on Google Maps? Are we all just one big ancestral rerun? And most importantly—out of the 4,198 religions in the world, who’s holding the definitive cosmic manual? Catholics? Protestants? Or the guy down the street who says we’re all living in a simulation?

It’s not that I’m anti-religion, but my brain likes things that tie up nicely with evidence, less loose ends and plot holes. Faith is a beautiful thing for those who find it in these stories, but for me? I’m still stuck wondering if a dinosaur was supposed to eat hay on the Ark.