Category: Writing

January 6th, 2026

Journal Writing

January 6th, 2026

Stranger Things Have Happened

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Sunday night, my girlfriend was on the couch, sipping white hot chocolate. It was your average, uneventful Sunday night—until Goldie, Super Schnauzer, decided maybe my girlfriend was a tall building she could leap in a single bound.

Truth be told, my girlfriend is pretty tall, so I think clearing her would require at least a few bounds. Or binds. I mean, her beauty knows no bounds, anyway.

I watched in horror, knowing there was absolutely no way Super Schnauzer was clearing her in a single bound—pluralized or otherwise. My girlfriend flailed her arms as Goldie made contact, and I swear time froze. Suspended midair was a single globule of hot chocolate, hovering like a NASA experiment gone wrong.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when that same globule gently plunked back into her mug—not onto my couch. Not the cushion. Not the throw pillow. Not a single drop anywhere that would’ve required frantic Googling, stain remover, or the emotional acceptance that the couch had lived a good life.

My girlfriend laughed and said it was strange that none of it spilled. I told her I’ve seen stranger things—and I wasn’t talking about the show.

After thinking it over, I realized the only logical explanation is the Upside Down. That glob of hot chocolate didn’t fall back into the mug—it fell up. Which means that if we ever binge-watch Stranger Things, we’ll be doing it without hot cocoa—no matter how chilly Netflix and chill gets. I’m not risking another portal opening on my couch or having to plan a funeral for my furniture. Instead, I’ll be handing Super Schnauzer a squeaky hedgehog—something bright, indestructible, and hopefully the canine equivalent of kryptonite.

And with any luck, she’ll go back to just being a normal dog. I mean, stranger things have happened. Otherwise, I may have to call Rex Luther—assuming I can still find my dog whistle.

January 1st, 2026

Journal Writing

January 1st, 2026

Wringing Out the New Year

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My New Year’s Eve was a real blowout—if you consider snow-blowing the driveway after work a blowout.

Trust me, I would’ve liked to have gotten plowed, just not in the way you’re thinking. I mean an actual plow. One that shows up uninvited and clears your driveway while you pretend you did something to deserve it.

After salting the sidewalk, I did get a little slushed, though—mostly by the snow.

Instead of getting three sheets to the wind, I put the sheets in the dryer after washing them. I was Arm & Hammered, but only because I underestimated how aggressive baking soda can be.

I rang in the New Year by wringing out my shirt after giving my Miniature Schnauzer a bath. Real party animal. Always all four to the floor. At least the hair of the dog is clean now, which is more than I can say for my dignity.

For some, my New Year’s jamboree might seem more jamboring, but I still had quite the ball. The ball my dog kept bringing back to me. And sure, I had a little bubbly—mainly because I gave her a bubble bath.

Best part? I didn’t even need to call an Uber.

Though I do wish there was an Ubrr—you know, where someone shows up at midnight, clears your driveway, and lets you pretend this was all part of the plan.

December 24th, 2025

Journal Writing

December 24th, 2025

ALF on a Shelf

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I’m not entirely sure where I stand on Santa’s naughty or nice list this year. I haven’t been always nice, but I haven’t exactly been naughty either. Unless you count cheating as naughty. You know—cheating on my diet.

I can’t help it. I’m weak. I always tell myself I’ll stop after one more slice of pizza, and the next thing I know that pesky ALF on a Shelf is reporting back to Santa that I didn’t. Do I snitch on him when he eats one too many cats? I think not.

I mean, who decided a sassy, furry alien from the planet Melmac should be Santa’s informant anyway? If this keeps up, I may have to remove every shelf in my house. Between you and me, I don’t think they’re level to begin with. It certainly doesn’t help when you’ve got a slightly overweight extraterrestrial perched on them, just waiting for you to slip up and grab another serving of pie.

So if I don’t land on the naughty list or the nice list, where does that leave me? Does Santa have an “or” list? And what would that mean exactly? Would I get a lump of ore in my stocking? A lump that may or may not contain gold—or iron. Or asbestos, if Santa’s in a mood.

Naturally, I’d prefer gold. But since I already have a Miniature Schnauzer named Goldie, Santa might think I’m covered on that front. Assuming, of course, I even have a stocking left. She has a fondness for chewing socks. Though honestly, it could be worse—if she were a cat, I’d have to worry about ALF chewing on her.

I suppose I could try bribing Santa with milk and cookies to tilt the odds toward gold, but let’s not kid ourselves. We both know exactly where those are going. I may be a little too jolly—especially in the belly region—but at least mine isn’t like ALF’s. I swear a whole solar system has formed around his.

Maybe the “mac” in Melmac is short for mac and cheese. You know what? That actually sounds pretty good on top of my pizza right now.

And if I let ALF have some too, maybe—just maybe—he won’t tell Santa this once. I’d really hate to miss out on that lump of ore this year. It sure beats what I got last year: a Fitbit. And no—Santa doesn’t need to know I cheated on that too by strapping it to Goldie whenever she gets the zoomies.

December 9th, 2025

Journal Writing

December 9th, 2025

One Foot in the Gravy

By

The closest I’ll ever come to owning a boat is a gravy boat. Honestly, “groovy” is pretty gravy when you think about it. And when you’re the kind of person who likes a river of gravy flowing down the slopes of a mashed-potato mountain, a gravy boat isn’t a luxury item — it’s survival equipment.

At least I’ll never need a life preserver while I’m eating them. A Life Alert, though… that’s another matter entirely. I’ve basically got one foot in the gravy already from the unhealthy amount of starches I put into my body, especially on Thanksgiving. I’m practically pre-dialing the Life Alert number myself by dessert. Never mind that my “turkey” is actually Tofurkey.

After the second helping, I’m basically at the table whispering, “Help me… please.” Between you and me, I find it hard to trust a holiday where the tradition is to overstuff yourself on food invented by people who wore black all the time and called themselves pilgrims. Sounds suspiciously like someone else who wears all black and also has grim right in the name. On second thought, maybe I should wear a life preserver when I’m diving into a boatload of mashed potatoes.

And seriously — what was up with the pilgrims wearing belts on their hats? After one too many Thanksgiving feasts, did their actual belts stop fulfilling their original purpose? All I know is they didn’t sail over here in a gravy boat. No, they took the Mayflower — which, in my mind, made a killer roux for a gravy even the Grim Reaper was dying to try.

Sometimes I wonder: what’s the aristocrat version of a gravy boat? A gravy yacht? I bet that’s nice. I doubt I’ll ever afford one unless I manage to hop aboard the gravy train. But honestly, with all the gravy I’ve guzzled, at this point I’d be lucky to fit my caboose into a pair of stretchy pants.

Maybe what I really need… is a gravy treadmill.

July 3rd, 2025

Journal Writing

July 3rd, 2025

Creole Intentions

By

On Sunday, I made Shrimp Creole for my girlfriend. Let me begin by stating—it wasn’t just the same creole, same creole. Although, I did season the shrimp with Old Bay, because nothing says “trust me, I know what I’m doing” like a spice blend named after a large body of water.

For my own dish, I swapped the shrimp for a hearty helping of hearts of palm. Why? Because I’m not a pescatarian—I’m a Sagittarian. And according to palmistry, I’ve got a really great heartline… although I haven’t been on too many Datelines. Probably for the best—because if the headline in my palm had been any indication, or the one that might’ve scrolled across a nationally syndicated news program, it would’ve read:

BREAKING: Man Took Mermaid on a Date to Long John Silver’s; Learned There Weren’t Actually Plenty of Fish in the Sea

Not only am I an inexperienced dater, but this was also my first experience with hearts of palm. I was instantly a cheerleader with palm-palms for this wonderfully creamy, tart little vegetable. I’ve already imagined it battered, deep-fried, and slathered in tartar sauce as a fish substitute. I bait it’ll be good. I’m going to have to tackle box that next.

Cajun food felt like a fitting end to June—or Cajune, if you will. Not to question Popeye, who is as able-bodied a sailor man as they come, but Louisiana cuisine wasn’t nearly as fast as cartoons had led me to believe. That Shrimp Creole took over two hours to make—though to be fair, that was still faster than the time I attempted Cajun Lasagna. That one took Andouille long.

I served the Shrimp Creole over a glorious mess of dirty rice—though mine was slightly less of a pigsty since I omitted the pork. For the side, I whipped up Red Lobster Cheddar Bay Biscuits from a mix. Because nothing says “homemade with love” like adding water and pretending I churned the butter by hand.

Honestly, I would’ve given our seafood dinner an A+, but my girlfriend said she thought it’d be spicier. To be fair, she didn’t even break a sweat during our last experiment: Ghost Pepper Chicken Noodle Soup with a side of Ghost Pepper Grilled Cheese. Meanwhile, it tasted so hot to me that I swear my soul briefly left my body and experienced what it was like to be a ghost pepper. So much for my promising heartline. Guess my lifeline got sautéed.

I probably should’ve checked my foodscope beforehand.

♐ Sagittarius Foodscope: You’re bold, briny, and have a tendency to over season both meals and metaphors. Today’s culinary adventures may trigger spontaneous astral projection and mild romantic flashbacks. Love is spicy, so bring milk.

June 26th, 2025

Journal Writing

June 26th, 2025

Peanut Butter & Jellyfish

By

This week, I tried Shirataki noodles for lunch—those translucent, gelatinous Japanese noodles that look like they were fished straight from a lava lamp. Normally, I’m pretty adventurous when it comes to food, but I was unshirataki about this one.

The texture alone made me feel like I was chewing on jellyfish tentacles. And judging by the taste? Let’s just say it didn’t exactly sting my appetite in a good way. I bailed after two bites and reached for a sleeve of Ritz Peanut Butter Sandwich Crackers instead. Fitting, really—since a group of jellyfish is called a smuck, which sounds suspiciously like Smucker’s, and once you’ve got jelly on the brain, peanut butter isn’t far behind. It just seemed less Ritzky.

But the weirdest part? I didn’t get the noodles from a grocery store or a Japanese restaurant—I found them at Ross Dress for Less. You know, the discount clothing store where you can buy yoga pants, a waffle iron, and a bottle of expired coconut water all in one trip. I don’t know what compelled me to trust jelly-noodles from a place where the clearance bin doubles as a jungle gym. Next time, I’ll stick to buying a shirt over Shirataki. Maybe a nice Hawaiian one—to mourn the noodles I left behind at sea.

Look, I know some people treat jellyfish as a delicacy. For those brave souls, Shirataki would make a perfect appetizer. But like a jellyfish, I apparently lack a backbone. I’ve tried calamari before, but if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick with cauliflower. Between Shirataki and Squid Game, I’d rather binge-watch than binge-eat.

June 24th, 2025

Journal Writing

June 24th, 2025

Bug Appétit

By

During the recent heatwave, I didn’t wave back. It was too hot to be polite. My window air conditioner groaned to life like it had just woken up from a bad nap—with a serious case of bed head. It refused to cool the room unless I gave it an air shampoo first. I was half a degree away from booking it an appointment with an air stylist.

No matter how many times I sealed the window and serenaded it with “Kiss from a Rose,” a breeze still snuck in—along with the occasional uninvited guest.

One night, a ladybug dropped in unexpectedly. I hadn’t prepared for such elegant company. I was in the middle of making cheese quesadillas with a side of Sombrero Salad (mostly pasta wearing a hat), and I worried it wouldn’t meet her standards. But I needn’t have worried—the air conditioner immediately commandeered the sombrero garnish and wore it sideways like a rebellious teenager. Its new “airdo” looked more like an aird’oh.

With no ingredients on hand for something more refined—like Miteloaf or Aphid Alfredo with Basil Pesto—the ladybug gave me a long, judgmental stare and buzzed off without even touching the salad. But not before leaving a scathing Yelp review.

Not that it’s my first. One grub complained that I wasn’t on Grubhub and gave me one star for “inconvenience.” And a moth said the overhead lighting was too distracting and claimed he ordered Macaroni and Tweed but got spaghetti and mothballs instead.

I try not to let lousy feedback bug me—but I had higher hopes for the ladybug.
It’s fine. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t a real lady anyway—more like a boy bug in shin guards pretending to be a midfielder.

Next time, I’m only taking reservations from gentlemantises. Preferably ones who call ahead, bring their own utensils, and don’t judge me for dressing my pasta.

June 13th, 2025

Journal Writing

June 13th, 2025

Monkey See, Monkey Chew

By

There’s a lot of talk these days about body image. It refers to how we think and feel about our own physical appearance. Personally, my body image is like a Rorschach test—every time I look in the mirror, I have to squint and tilt my head just to make sense of it. Some days, I swear it looks like two gorillas fighting over a banana split sundae.

Ideally, I’d like a physique of a different primate—maybe a monkey like Curious George. But let’s be honest: I’d probably trade the banana split for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and end up looking more like Curious Gorge. At that point, The Man with the Yellow Hat would have to rebrand as The Man with the Yellow Plastic Grocery Bag Over His Head—not because he’s embarrassed to be seen with me, but because he forgot to buy more ice cream.

My girlfriend gets me, though. She’s sweet enough to bring me my favorite frozen treat: Good Humor Strawberry Shortcake bars. I just wish they were short on the strawberries—not the cake. Not that I’m complaining—especially since last summer’s shorts still technically fit. I think I’m just getting taller. Probably in the waist.

What I like best is that the bars come in a six-pack—which is more than I can say for my abs. At this point, with all the frozen treats I’ve packed away, my stomach’s starting to resemble The Abdominal Snowman—a mysterious, ape-like creature spotted mostly in the wilds of the freezer aisle, known for its soft serve core and elusive six-pack.

If I really want to improve my body image, maybe I should stop aiming for abs and just aim for survival—like our early ancestors. Neanderthals weren’t counting carbs. They were just trying not to get eaten by saber-toothed tigers.

Somewhere along the evolutionary timeline, the missing link must’ve wandered into a fast food chain—and stayed there.

Have we really evolved from kings of the jungle just to sit in the Dairy Queen drive-thru? I’m ordering an Oreo Blizzard—because it looks like a Rorschach test, and if I stare at it long enough, maybe I’ll see Tarzan instead of two gorillas fighting over a banana split.

May 30th, 2025

Journal Writing

May 30th, 2025

Pasta la Vista, Middle Class Meals

By

Last weekend, I made Million Dollar Spaghetti. It had all the usual suspects—layers of spaghetti, meat sauce, and enough cheese to qualify for a dairy subsidy. Rich? Sure. But it didn’t make me feel like I needed to open an offshore account.

As I took that first bite, I couldn’t help but wonder: what if it were better? Not just millionaire-level indulgent… I’m talking Billion Dollar Spaghetti. A dish so rich, it comes with a financial advisor and a confidentiality agreement.

To truly feel like I’m swimming in money, I’d like to fill an Olympic-sized pool with it. Foam pool noodles required, of course—you don’t want to drown in your assets. I picture diving in headfirst, lifeguard on duty in a cummerbund, warning me not to do backstrokes through the bolognese. The pool rules? No running, no cannonballs, and absolutely no splashing marinara outside your tax bracket.

Step one: we ditch the Food Club pasta. That’s peasant-tier. We want Country Club spaghetti—enriched, imported, and flown in from Italy on its own private jet (preferably first class, because coach just won’t cut it for carbs of this caliber).

Next: marinara. But not just any marinara—we’re going with Billionaire Marinara™, simmered with 1775 Massandra Sherry de la Frontera and the tears of a sommelier who couldn’t afford it.

Mushrooms? Please. We’re upgrading to black truffles, naturally sniffed out by piggy banks trained on Brasher Doubloons. If it doesn’t oink in gold, we don’t want it.

And the meatballs? Diamond-dusted. Because nothing says “comfort food” like risking a cracked molar on a 24-carat chunk. “Mama Mia… that’s one pricey meatball.”

To top it all off, we garnish with edible gold leaf flakes—because every twirl of your fork should whisper “net worth.”

[Pause here to sell a kidney, because we haven’t even gotten to the breadsticks.]
Consider serving with Well-breadsticks and a Caesar salad where the lettuce is made from hundred-dollar bills. (The croutons? Artisan brioche, cut into the shape of dollar signs.)

Obviously, this isn’t a meal you eat in your sweatpants. The dress code is strictly enforced: spaghetti straps for the ladies, bow tie pasta for the gents.

Billion Dollar Spaghetti: where dinner requires a Diner’s Club card—with no spending limit.

May 21st, 2025

Journal Writing

May 21st, 2025

Rolling in the Dough

By

Since my funny business plans aren’t exactly panning out, I figured I’d try a different kind of pan—the bread kind. Seemed like a decent way to make a little extra dough in the meantime.

That’s when another one of my half-baked ideas started to rise: I’d combine my cooking and musical skills into one lucrative loaf and start a crumby, gluten-free tribute band called The Rolling Scones.

We’d be strictly covers—no grains, no gains.

Sure, we might crumble under pressure (we are gluten-free), but we’d play with heart—and surely get butter with time.

With any luck, my days of panhandling would be over—I’d make a living from leavening. We’d book gigs at all the hottest bakeries in town, playing to standing-room-only crowds who couldn’t resist our jam sessions. We’d rise quickly on the charts, serving up hits from The Rolling Scones: Greatest Slices.

Breakout tracks like:

  • “(I Can’t Get No) Oven Action”
  • “You Can’t Always Galette What You Want”
  • “Yeast of Burden”
  • “Let It Knead”
  • “Sympathy for the Devil’s Food Cake”

I can practically hear the crowd singing along:
“I see a bread drawer and I want it painted black—
No cupboards anymore, I put them on the rack…”

And for the encore? We’d bust out deep cuts from classic albums like Out of Our Breads, Between the Crutons, Bakers Banquet, and It’s Only Rock n’ Rolls.

If the audience really loafs us, maybe we’ll even get invited to perform at Breadstick ’25. And if that happens? Well, I’ll never have to worry about someone putting bread in my tip jar again. I’ll be rolling in the dough—baking in the glory.