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.

I Flipping Ruined the Pie!

I decided to make pie for Thanksgiving, and… well, where do I even begin? Look, I’m no Martha Stewart, but I’m no stranger to the kitchen either—especially when it comes to pie. But this time? Chaos. Absolute chaos. And I have no idea how it all went sideways.

Maybe it all started when I got off work at 6 PM, fully aware that my evening (and likely my sanity) would be consumed by Thanksgiving prep. What I didn’t anticipate, however, was that making a single pie would require two frantic grocery store trips before midnight.

Picture this: me in my cute apron, ready to conquer pie-making like the domestic goddess I pretend to be. Fast forward a few hours, and I’m standing in the kitchen, disheveled, muttering creatively censored curses at my oven, and spiraling into what can only be described as "crackhead energy."

The first batch? Oh, they looked amazing—golden, puffy perfection. But perfection was a lie, folks, because instead of sugar, I had lovingly seasoned my pies with… salt. Yes, SALT. Why? Because I’d oh-so-helpfully stored a little baggie of salt right on top of my sugar container. Cue the forehead slap.

To remedy this travesty, my hero (a.k.a. my son) saved the day by picking up more supplies while running his own Thanksgiving errands. Success, right? WRONG. Just as I began round two of pie-making, I realized I was out of Carnation milk. At this point, it’s 10:30 PM. Most people would surrender, but not me. I grabbed my keys, marched into the night, and joined a checkout line so long it might as well have been Black Friday.

By the time I got home, I was practically pie-drunk. But I powered through. I made the pies. I cleaned up. I set the table. And at 2 AM, I finally crawled into bed. Did I eat any pie the next day? Absolutely not. I don't even like pie! I did all this for my children! And on a good day I'm not even sure they are worth it! Yeah! I'm feeling saucy right now... But after the salt saga and late-night grocery store adventures, I think I earned that right.

Thanksgiving 1, me 0.

He's Being Mean to Me! - A Dennisism

Dennis and I set out to house hunt today, but before we could even pull out of the driveway, an unexpected saga unfolded. He was reversing at the speed of a snail with nothing to do and no place to be, and I couldn’t help but giggle. He immediately hit the brakes, mid-driveway, and asked, “What’s so funny?”

“I’m just wondering,” I said, barely suppressing laughter, “how long it’s going to take you to actually back out of this driveway?”

Without missing a beat, he fired back, “Hey! Have I ever had a wreck?”

“Oh, come on,” I said, still laughing. “Who wrecks while backing out of a driveway?”

And that’s when he gave me the look.

You know the one... the one that tells you, you are full of shit! The kind of look that instantly teleports you back to that fateful morning just a few months ago—the morning I boldly underestimated both my depth perception and the width of the garage door frame. The side mirror, dangling heroically from my car like a wounded soldier, its guts strewn across the garage floor and driveway. I had fleetingly wondered, maybe he won’t notice. But then Dennis stormed out of the garage door swearing the entire house shook. SO.....he noticed. I drive a VW and that part was just under $2 Grand to replace....

"oh" I said in defeat.

He just raised an eyebrow and said, “Exactly.”

I sat there, quiet NOW... I might add, contemplating how Dennis always seems to glide through life, unscathed, like some kind of real-life Mr. Darcy—all roses and perfection—while I’m over here collecting dents, awkward moments and large repair bills like they’re a personality trait.

Equal Rights? Get it together!

Equal rights? Check.

Equal pay? Working on it.

Equal dedication as employees? Well, that’s where things get... complicated.

Modern motherhood is basically trying to win the "equal rights and equal pay" game while also being the star player in the "mom duties championship." Employers want us to work like we don’t have kids, and kids want us to parent like we don’t have work. Men, meanwhile, are out here setting the standard for bosses by never being the ones called to school for a last-minute field trip or to soothe a feverish forehead at 2 a.m. If multitasking were an Olympic sport, moms would win gold, silver, and bronze—right after packing lunches and making sure everyone gets to soccer practice on time.

Making the Bed is my Muse

Every Saturday morning, without fail, I begin my epic quest—making the bed. And every Saturday morning, as if on cue, my brain becomes a fountain of groundbreaking ideas. We're talking world-changing revelations here. The kind of brilliance that could inspire books, resolve global warming, and finally crack the mystery of where all the missing socks go. Nobel-worthy stuff.

Naturally, I reach for my phone, poised to immortalize these flashes of genius. But the moment my thumb hovers over the record button? Boom. Total mental blackout. It’s as if the mere act of recording has a kill switch directly connected to my brain. One second I’m Einstein mid-equation, and the next, my brain is a empty as the toilet paper shelfs at your local walmart during a pandemic

There I stand, fists full of bedsheets, looking down at my phone like it just ate the last donut. I whisper to it, “Please, just one coherent thought.” Spoiler alert: my phone isn’t listening. The ideas are gone, evaporated, like a dream where you almost found the answer to life but then woke up to your cat walking on your face.

So there I am, mid-bed-making, staring at my phone, waiting for a thought—any... single... coherent thought... Spoiler alert: it doesn’t happen. I sigh and go back to fluffing the pillows, surrendering my creative genius to the void. Curtains close until next Saturday.