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March 17th, 2026

Journal Writing

March 17th, 2026

Reuben Me Blind

By

It’s that unlucky time of year again — the one they call St. Patrick’s Day. And I expect the bad luck to be Dublin this year. After all, it comes right on the heels of a Friday the 13th. At this point I’m half expecting my smoke alarm to start playing bagpipes.

Now you might be thinking, What about the luck of the Irish?

Well, that only applies if you’re actually Irish — which I am not. Unfortunately, I do know someone who is, and that’s where my misfortune begins.

Obviously, I’m talking about Trick, the leprechaun artist you might remember from a previous anecdote. Whenever he catches even the faintest whiff of corned beef and cabbage wafting from my kitchen, he shows up on my doorstep unannounced.

Usually after first playing ding-dong ditch.

This year I figured I’d throw him off the scent and make Reubens instead. But needless to say, that didn’t stop a visit from the Trickster.

The only bit of good fortune I had was that he didn’t stay long — but not before Reuben me blind — rye bread and all.

He even stole a box of Thin Mints I bought from a Girl Scout. Between you and me, he probably did me a favor. For me they’re less like Thin Mints…
…and more like Fat Mints.

I swear this guy could turn a four-leaf clover into Cloverfield — chaos, destruction, and a very tiny monster running off with my Reuben.

I’ve had my fair share of surprise visits from fictional characters lately — especially after the weekend when a Frozen character showed up disguised as a blizzard.

So if it’s all the same, I think I’ll just sit next St. Patrick’s Day out.

Preferably somewhere without a doorbell.

February 13th, 2026

Journal Writing

February 13th, 2026

The Big Game vs. a Miniature Schnauzer

By

We watched the Super Bowl on Sunday. And I’m not talking about the sporting event — I mean the actual bowl wearing a cape. You know, the one Super Schnauzer eats her super foods out of. It holds kibble by day… and justice by night.

If we did watch the other Super Bowl, it was probably for the commercials. We weren’t rooting for either team. Seahawks pose a legitimate risk to unsuspecting flying terriers, and as for New England — we only eat Claw Chowder in this house. Super Schnauzer insists.

We certainly weren’t tuning in for athletic excellence. We already have a superhero in this household, and she sheds.

As for the halftime show, we don’t understand all the controversy. Would people have preferred a Good Bunny instead? Personally, I would’ve preferred Blue Bunny. I’d gladly fill a Super Bowl with their Super Chunky Cookie Dough and call it a game plan.

They should just rename the whole thing Super Bowl Sundae.

Although Super Schnauzer wouldn’t approve. She’s not allowed to have ice cream. Of course, that didn’t stop her from begging — whether for a bite or for us to switch to the Puppy Bowl. Especially after learning that Cheesecake — one of the stars of Team Fluff — is a Shih Tzu–Miniature Schnauzer mix. Representation matters.

But she isn’t allowed to have cheesecake either. So, she settled for watching quietly, still hopeful, as if dessert might somehow leap from the screen and into her Super Bowl.

February 6th, 2026

Journal Writing

February 6th, 2026

Mush Be Love

By

I’m trying to understand what Galentine’s Day actually is. I mean, I thought Valentine’s Day was already more directed toward the ladies anyway. Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I don’t want all that lovey-dovey, mushy-gushy stuff. And just like in the Iditarod, I say: the more mush, the better.

That’s why I propose Fella-tine’s Day—a Valentine’s Day strictly for the fellas. Although I’m sure my girlfriend would prefer, I was proposing to her. At least now, if I had to pull her goat, I’d have a whole dogsled team behind me. Even then, it would probably only budge an inch. It’s one stubborn goat—and that really budges me.

For Fella-tine’s Day, forget Hallmark. Give your man a baseball or football card instead. Personally, I’d prefer a rookie Balto card. Mint condition, obviously.

Speaking of mints, what Fella-tine’s Day isn’t complete without some sort of candy? I’m not talking about chocolates or those little hearts with cutesy messages written on them. No. What a guy really wants is eye candy. So, dress in something provocative. You know, like snow pants, a well-worn parka, and maybe a trapper’s hat.

But in the end, Fella-tine’s Day is really about going the extra mile for your partner. Over a thousand miles, to be exact. Across the Yukon, being pulled by a team of huskies… and possibly one very confused goat.

February 4th, 2026

Journal Writing

February 4th, 2026

Smokey Dick: A Whale of a False Alarm

By

I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but my smoke alarm is a little too sensitive. Let’s just keep it between you and me. I’m afraid if it hears me talking about it, it’ll go off again—and when it does, boy can this thing ever wail.

And I don’t mean the Moby-Dick kind of whale. More the Free Willy kind—because I would also love to set this smoke alarm free. It goes off willy-nilly.

The thing is, I don’t even know why it goes off. I’ll just be going about my usual business—you know, cooking a whale-sized portion of fish fingers in the oven. Not for Free Willy, but for my girlfriend. And before thar she blows, no, I’m not comparing her to a whale. She just likes Plenty of Fish. And after that whale joke, I’m honestly not sure if she means the seafood or the dating app. I should probably quit while I’m Ahab.

I’ve often wondered which anatomical part of the fish its “fingers” come from, since fish famously lack hands. But it finally clicked—they’re harvested from the fin-gers. Sorry if that fish shtick didn’t land… or sea, for that matter. I’ll let myself out before this gets any more crappie. Honestly, I just needed a diversion so my girlfriend forgot all about the whale comparison—because I swear to pod, she will krill me for that.

But honestly? That still might not get me first.

The other day I had an actual flame licking up from the burner, and the smoke alarm stayed eerily quiet. But the moment I cook food properly; it sounds like a bullhorn. Or maybe a bull whale.

Just to clarify, my girlfriend is not a whale. And she is definitely not a killer. But judging by the behavior of my smoke alarm, there is a killer whale out there who didn’t appreciate my whale jokes—or the comparison.

I don’t want to point fins, but this feels less like faulty wiring and more like orca-nized crime.

January 30th, 2026

Journal Writing

January 30th, 2026

Man's Zest Friend

By

A day after her surgery, Goldie was already back to being her fabulous self. I must say, I’m relieved she’s better. I admire this little doggo—she’s so full of zest. The most I could ever hope to be is Zest Fully Clean. And let’s be honest, even that is probably aiming a little too high.

You know how they say if life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade? I personally think you should make lemon zest instead. Maybe sprinkle it over a nice lemon pasta or some lemon bars. Just don’t mistake them for actual bars of soap. It’s an honest mistake.

Although now that I think about it, I’m not entirely sure what makes a mistake honest. Maybe it just shrugs and tells you the truth—like how, even if it were soap, you’d still eat it, because technically it’s made from fat. Even the dog wouldn’t touch that—and she eats pretty much anything.

Being a pet parent is hard but also rewarding. And by rewarding, I mean she leaves me little presents around the house. Not exactly the kind you want. Let’s just say her offerings make ugly Christmas sweaters look even attractive. Like they cleaned up real nice—with, you guessed it, lemon bars.

And that brings me back to why, when life gives you lemons, I say make lemon zest. It’s because my dog occasionally makes lemonade all over my floors—and trust me, you do not want that.

As I said at the beginning of this anecdote, I’m relieved my pup is doing better. I just wish she wasn’t always so relieved as well.

January 28th, 2026

Journal Writing

January 28th, 2026

Let's Not Get Curried Away...

By

Last week, I could hardly stand the bitter cold. But I suppose it was better than, say, spicy cold. Talk about confusing sensations. I imagine it would feel like licking a red lentil curry popsicle. I’m sure your tonsils would send a handwritten thank-you note for that.

Speaking of red lentil curry, I do currently have some in my freezer. I might be persuaded to lick it—but only if you triple dog dare me. Then again, the one dog I have is more than enough influence already.

Especially since the cold has given us both a bad case of cabin fever. You know—the illness that mainly afflicts cabins. I’m not entirely sure how I caught it, seeing as I’ve been socially distancing myself from cabins lately. Now cottage fever? That I could understand. I mean, I just had cottage cheese and cottage bread the other day. Obviously not combined into some kind of cottage sandwich. Even I’m not that adventurous with food.

Although… come to think of it, cottage cheese might actually be the perfect companion to a red lentil curry popsicle.

What person in their right mind—or even their left—would eat a popsicle in below-freezing weather? Even if it were spicy Indian food–flavored?

I would. Which means either the cottage fever has finally gone to my head, or those curry popsicles are that spicy.

One good thing about being stuck indoors because of the cold is I’ve finally had time to binge-watch shows like Curd Your Enthusiasm and Welcome Back, Cottar. My dog watched me from the couch the whole time, occasionally glancing at the freezer—where the curry lives—as if to one-dog dare me… or because the cottage fever had finally gotten to her too.

January 24th, 2026

Journal Writing

January 24th, 2026

Lost & Hound

By

The other day, our dog, Goldie, had a routine operation. The vet asked me if I wanted them to give her a microchip. I thought she just had a bunch of those when she ate the chip crumbs from the Cheddar Broccoli dip I made last weekend—and that didn’t cost me ninety-five dollars.

And yes, I’m mentioning the dip again in this anecdote because… it was that good.

But if I’m being completely honest, I doubt there’s any real need for Goldie to be microchipped. I’m the one more likely to get lost. I just moved into a new house, in a new town, and I’m still trying to get my bearings. Which makes it sound like I’m half man, half machine or something. I think we’ve already established I’m half a man—but part machine too? That would make me a Ryborg.

Prepare to be assimilated. Resistance is futile.

Of course, if I were a Ryborg, I’d probably perform mundane domestic tasks like cooking, cleaning, and walking the dog.
Oh.
Wait.
I already do all of those things.

I know what you’re probably thinking: why does this guy always wander off on tangents? And that’s exactly my point. I get lost because I wander off—mentally, geographically, conversationally. Maybe I should’ve asked the vet if I could get microchipped instead. Although, if I really am a Ryborg, I’m pretty sure I already have plenty of those.

The thing you don’t realize is that I’ve already thought this through, which is why my Nintendo Switch Online handle is, in fact, Ryborg. I bet some of you also wish you could Switch me off at times. Heck, even I wish I could Switch myself off at times—especially when performing mundane domestic chores. But if I switch off, my Nook Miles in Animal Crossing would be lost. And I seriously doubt my vet offers microchipping services for those animals.

By the time evening rolled around and we were back from the vet, Goldie was recovering beautifully, and I was standing in the kitchen scraping the last of the Cheddar Broccoli dip from the container. She kept a watchful eye on me, as if to say, Don’t worry. I know where you are. Which is more than I can say for myself.

January 20th, 2026

Journal Writing

January 20th, 2026

Letting the Lays Go Dry

By

Over the weekend, I made a cheddar broccoli chip dip that seriously broccked. Now I can’t stop picturing vegetables strumming tiny little guitars, tearing it up on a stage in some Hidden Valley. Refrigerator lightbulbs spelling out their name: The Stalking Heads. You know they have hits like “Burning Down the Greenhouse” and “This Must Be the Plate.”

This is absolutely the kind of dip you’d want to take and pass around at a Stalking Heads concert—provided it actually makes it to the concert in the first place. It’s easy to make and even easier to devour entirely in your driveway before you ever leave for the show. And no, I’m not speaking from experience or anything. Mostly because I ran out of Ruffles—and also because my mouth is currently full of the aforementioned dip. Even if I were speaking, I’d probably just be Speaking in Tongs.

Anyway, the recipe starts with a tub of sour cream. Yes, a tub. You can never have enough sour cream. Sour cream is so good, you might actually want to take a dip in it instead of making a dip. From there, you stir in a little mayo, a packet of cheddar broccoli soup mix, some chopped broccoli, and a generous amount of shredded cheddar cheese. Bake it at 350 for 20–30 minutes, until it’s bubbly—or until it starts softly singing “Take Me to the Steamer.”

Just don’t be like me and ruffle your girlfriend’s feathers by eating all the Ruffles. Next thing you know, your “Girlfriend Is Cheddar.” And while I’m sure she’s very supportive, it would look pretty weird showing up to a Stalking Heads concert with a wedge of cheese.

January 17th, 2026

Journal Writing

January 17th, 2026

Wheel of Misfortune

By

I think it’s pretty clever that hidden inside the “Old MacDonald” nursery rhyme is a spelling lesson. The very first line says, “Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O!” Thanks to this little lyric, I never forget which letters are vowels—especially during game night, when we play Wheel of Fortune and suddenly my elementary school education is put to the test. Nobody mentioned there would be tests on game night. I didn’t study. Who can study with people making animal sounds all night and day?

Speaking of Wheel of Fortune, I’m starting to think mine might be flat. And since I doubt I can call Ryan Seacrest and ask to borrow Vanna White—because despite the name she isn’t a van—I may need to call Old MacDonald himself to come tow me out with his tractor. At that point, the song probably changes from “E-I-E-I-O” to “E-I-E-I-O-U,” because now I owe him.

Because every time it seems like I’m doing really well in the game—and in life (not The Game of Life)—I land on Bankrupt. Which doesn’t help when the puzzle is a person and reads O_d M__Do___d, and I’m somehow still guessing wrong. Naturally, that’s also when the grand prize turns out to be a brand-new car.

At this point, I usually end up walking away without enough money to buy even a Happy Meal at the other kind of MacDonald entirely—McDonald’s. Between you and me, I could really use a little cheering up—and maybe a strawberry shake. I can also jump right in the ball pit without landing on a Free Play.

So, if it’s all the same this week during game night, I might just ask my girlfriend if we can play something else. Maybe Monopoly instead. I have a feeling I might come out of it with at least a free small fry—if I can fit a tractor in the drive-thru.

January 15th, 2026

Journal Writing

January 15th, 2026

A Rowdown with Ducks

By

I’ve been trying to get into food prepping, which requires a level of organization I do not currently possess. People are always telling me I should get all my ducks in a row. Which raises an important question: what does that even mean? And which ducks, at that?

For starters, ducks have no need for a rowboat. And the last time I checked ducks, they could tread water just fine. Also—evidently—they can play chess, because how else would I have checked the ducks? Putting them into checkmate is an entirely different matter though.

But maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe the saying refers to the British definition of row, meaning “a noisy quarrel.” If that’s the case, then perhaps I’m supposed to put all my ducks into some kind of combat arena. You know—like chicken fights, but more family-friendly.

If I wanted to see feathers fly, I’d just invite them over for a sleepover and hand out pillows.

There are a few ducks I’d like to get in a row with myself—specifically the ones from a previous anecdote involving the @QuackCash Venmo account. Those foul fowls are still extorting me for bread. Honestly, they’re more organized than I am. They call it organized crime for a reason.

I briefly considered leaving a breadcrumb trail leading to a boxing ring—which, at this point, would still count as meal prep—but with my luck one of them would turn out to be Quack Dempsey or something. I already barely survived a match with Billy the Goat. The last thing I need is to go toe-to-toe with a pugilist pintail. Besides, I couldn’t go toe-to-toe anyway. They have webbed feet.

So maybe instead of putting my ducks in a row, I should just put them all in a circle and play a nice, safe game of duck, duck, goose.

Not because I’m chicken or anything.

But because I’ve heard geese lay golden eggs. And maybe those quackateers can go pluck someone else for their bread.

At this point, I’m no longer trying to organize my ducks. I’m just hoping they stop billing me.