The Christmas Tree Catastrophe: Lydia’s Meltdown and Gran’s Grace

Gather around for a holiday tale that’s equal parts heartwarming and jaw-dropping—a classic family Christmas featuring generosity, drama, greed, and a meltdown of epic proportions. The star? Stig’s cousin Lydia, whose bratty antics made her infamous and whose actions at this Christmas gathering earned her a permanent spot in family folklore.

But before we dive in, let me introduce one key ingredient in this recipe for chaos: Barb. Stig’s mother, Barb, was the kind of person who could find the cloud in any silver lining. Known for her greed and knack for rubbing everyone the wrong way, Barb was—how do I put this delicately?—universally disliked. Yet, for reasons no one could fathom, Lydia idolized her. It’s like worshipping a porcupine for being pointy. Lydia saw Barb as a figure to emulate, which perhaps explains why her own behavior had a tendency to make people grit their teeth.

Let’s meet the rest of the cast:
Gran: The ultimate Christmas hostess, whose warmth and generosity could light up even the gloomiest holiday. I loved her.
Stig: My best bud and a natural-born hustler with a knack for turning anything into profit and drama followed him around yeilding memorable stories.
Lydia: Barb’s pint-sized protégé, a princess of entitlement who attempts to make every moment all about her.
Jackie: Stig's Uncle and Lydia’s dad, a sweet and caring man when not overshadowed by his daughter’s theatrics.

The year was either 1983 or 1984 (the exact date lost in time thanks to some misplaced photo albums), and the setting was Gran’s trailer park rec room, transformed into a winter wonderland of lights, food, and presents. Gran had poured her heart into preparing for this Christmas, as she always did. Her holiday spirit was unmatched—she even went out of her way to ensure that everyone, no matter how distant or difficult, had a thoughtful gift to unwrap. And yes, that included Lydia.

Stig, ever the entrepreneurial teen, had been Gran’s trusty sidekick on her pre-Christmas shopping spree. The dynamic duo hit Pensacola’s smaller of the two malls at the time, Cordova Mall, where Gran meticulously checked off her gift list. Jackie had suggested Lydia loves Legos, so Gran headed to KB Toys to find something she’d love. Meanwhile, Stig, true to his enterprising nature, made a beeline for the Sound Shop to scout records for his latest side hustle—bootlegging cassettes using the stereo he acquired and repaired after the hamster invasion of his parents house, and Gran’s Tandy computer and her dot matrix printer to create custom J-cards. (Yes, Stig was ahead of his time in the art of the hustle.)
Gran, not knowing the difference of the different types of Lego's, snagged a couple of Lego sets for Lydia, thinking they’d be perfect, and treated Stig to some Atari games “from Santa.” Their shopping spree continued in Milton with stops at Nixon’s for Aunt Kelly’s outfit, Moores for a Christmas outfit for Gran herself, and K-Mart for wrapping paper and bows. The finishing touch? Groceries from Piggly Wiggly to complete Gran’s famous holiday feast.

The rec room buzzed with laughter and chatter as family and friends gathered for the big Christmas Eve event. Lydia arrived dressed to the nines, looking every bit like a princess who expected the world to bow at her feet. She wasted no time staking her claim to the prime spot by the Christmas tree, ensuring she’d be the center of attention and the first to receive her gifts.

Gran, glowing with holiday joy, began passing out gifts. Before Gran finished passing out everyone's gifts Lydia had already tore into her packages with the enthusiasm of a sugar-fueled child. But then—disaster. All eyes turned to Lydia, who had dramatically toppled the Christmas tree in her tantrum. Standing amid the wreckage with her arms folded and foot tapping, she looked like an 8-year-old “Karen” in the making. Her face twisted in outrage as she shrieked, “DUPLO IS NOT LEGO! I’m almost NINE, NOT THREE!”

The room fell silent. 

Gran, ever the peacemaker, gently assured her, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I kept the receipt. Your daddy can take yoy back to the toy store after Christmas to exchange them.”

But Lydia wasn’t placated. “What am I supposed to do until then? The stores won’t open until the day after tomorrow!” she wailed, her voice echoing through the room. Jackie, mortified, quickly apologized to everyone, collected their plates of leftovers Gran had put together for them as well as their gifts, and ushered Lydia out the door.

Gran, visibly hurt but ever gracious, held back tears and carried on with the festivities. The rest of the family rallied around her, their admiration for her unshakable kindness only growing stronger.
When Gran and Stig told me this story years ago, it struck a chord. Why? Because it reminded me of a certain someone in my own family who has always thought of herself as the queen of the clan. Now, don’t get me wrong—I love my family dearly, but much like Stig, I’ll tell you straight: there’s only one queen in this family (unless, of course, there are a few hiding in the closet). And spoiler alert? That queen is me.

As for Lydia? Her meltdown, much like those of her idol Barb, has become the stuff of family legend—a cautionary tale about entitlement, generosity, and the strength of Gran’s unshakable holiday spirit.
If this story resonated with you—maybe you’ve got your own “Lydia,” “Gran,” or “Stig” in your family—I’d love to hear about it in the comments! And if Gran’s warmth and generosity brought a little holiday cheer to your day, don’t let me stop you from sharing a little love of your own. 🎄✨

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A Christmas Tale from Stig's Gran: The Unraveling of Barb's "Famous" Biscuit Recipe

Welcome to a very special Christmas in July edition! While we may be soaking up the summer sun, it's never too early to dive into a heartwarming (and hilariously awkward) holiday story. So, grab your beach towel and a glass of lemonade as we take you back to a memorable Christmas Eve in December that left my best friend Stig's family laughing for years to come.

It all started with a Christmas story from Stig's Gran about his mom—let's call her Barb—and to this day, I can't help but believe my own sister might have had a hand in the whole debacle.

You see, Barb was infamous in Stig's family, but not in a good way. She only bothered to show up to family gatherings when she knew there was something in it for her. Christmas was her prime target—showing up just in time for dinner, often empty-handed, and mysteriously vanishing before the gift exchange. Classic Barb.

One Christmas Eve, she strutted into Gran's trailer park Rec Room, uninvited as usual, with a Tupperware container full of what she proudly dubbed "Barb's Famous Biscuits." Let me tell you, Barb was infamous, and there was nothing famous about her or anything she concocted in the kitchen. As everyone began to fill their plates from the lovingly prepared buffet, Barb's "famous" biscuits started to disappear, revealing a thin piece of waxed paper with a very familiar logo and restaurant name—Kentucky Fried Chicken. Yes, you read that right. Barb's so-called famous biscuits were actually the Colonel's creation.

The room erupted in laughter, and Barb stormed out, not only without enjoying Gran's delicious food but also without her precious Tupperware. Stig's cousin, Julia, seized the opportunity and claimed Barb's freshly made plate as her own, in addition to the one she had already made. Talk about a Christmas miracle! Nothing goes to waste in Stig's family.

Now, we can all guess that someone Barb had been rude to was handed the Tupperware container and tasked with arranging the biscuits to look homemade. They knew exactly how to execute sweet revenge on the Original "Karen" by placing the KFC paper under the biscuits, ensuring her lie unraveled one biscuit at a time.

From that Christmas forward, Stig and his aunts made it a tradition to pick up Barb's Famous Biscuits from KFC for every holiday gathering, hoping she'd show up. But she never did. And even if she had, I'm sure she would've claimed she didn't remember the incident and projected it onto one of her sisters or her niece, Julia, which was just in her nature.

On a side note, my sister Becki worked at KFC on Davis Highway in Pensacola and the location in Milton during the time frame that this occured. This sounds exactly like something Becki would have done to a rude customer because, well, my sister is just awesome that way.

Do you have any hilarious holiday stories or family drama to share? Drop them in the comments below! And as we celebrate Christmas in July, if this story brought a smile to your face or reminded you of your own family antics, feel free to show some love with a little contribution or a gift. After all, who says the spirit of giving is limited to December? 🎄🎁

Stay cool and merry, everyone! 🎅✨

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Stig’s Unconventional Job Related Adventures: Lessons from a Rebel Spirit

We all have that one friend who turns life into an unforgettable tapestry of eccentric experiences. For me, that friend is Stig. From the moment I met him, he’s been this unapologetically unique force of nature who thrives on making his own fun and living without regrets. Much like me, his life has been a series of “you can’t make this up” moments, all capture his strange and loveable spirit, including this story.

Back in the day, Stig had this peculiar, self-created pastime—one that was as weird as it was oddly brilliant. You see, he didn’t need a traditional job. Between working for his Gran in her trailer park (sometimes cheekily charging tenants for services he was technically already paid to do), selling random treasures at the flea market and dabbling in the art of the occasional hustle, he had more than enough to get by. But Stig wasn’t about the money—it was about the experience.

In true Stig fashion, he invented a quirky hobby: filling out job applications for random businesses around town, acing the interviews and negotiating wages he had no intention of accepting. Why? Out of sheer curiosity and a desire to see what the job market really looked like in our little corner of the world, Pace and Milton. He wanted to know what Gran's tenants might be earning, and, well, because it was fun to him.

I’ll never forget the day he told me, while we were lounging in one of his Gran's camper trailers, that he’d interviewed at every fast-food joint in town just “for shits and giggles.” When I told him I needed a job to escape my parents’ drama and make my own money, his advice was simple: "You’ll need to look out of town because I’ve been everywhere here already."

And that’s when he shared one of his funniest stories. Apparently, he once applied to McDonald’s in Milton, handed his application to a cashier and got a call back within hours. He suited up, went to the interview and met with a “manager” who couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of high school herself. After the standard questions, she hit him with something absurd: “Would you have a problem cleaning the restroom with a toothbrush if someone asked you to?”

Most people would balk, but not Stig. With a straight face, he replied, “Can I bring my own toothbrush so I don’t inconvenience you?” Oddly enough, she loved his answer. When she offered him the job on the spot, he not only declined but also gave her an impromptu lecture about inappropriate interview questions, poor management practices and the laughable pay.

That’s the thing about Stig—he’s never afraid to call out nonsense when he sees it. He’s always stood up for what’s right, whether it’s challenging a bad boss or helping a teenager negotiate fair pay for their first job. To this day, Stig remains that guy who looks out for others, ensuring they don’t start their working lives underpaid and undervalued.

Stig’s story reminds me that life is what you make of it. Whether you’re navigating job interviews or just trying to keep things interesting, a little humor and a lot of authenticity can go a long way. He’s proof that you don’t need to follow the conventional path to make an impact—sometimes, all it takes is staying true to who you are and lifting others as you go.

What about you? Do you have a friend with an equally wild or inspiring story? Share your thoughts in the comments below—I’d love to hear them! And hey, if Stig’s tale brought a smile to your face or sparked some nostalgia, consider showing us a little love by supporting the blog. Your kindness keeps these stories alive. 💛

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The Quirky Doodle Diaries: My Daddy's Rainy Day Antics

Ever had one of those random family memories that make you laugh every time you think about it? Today is my daddy's birthday, he would have been 82 years old. He passed away in 2010 and my sister and I think of him often. He left so many stories behind, but we never truly knew our parents very well, or at least their lives before we were born.

One of my fondest memories of my daddy involves his unique way of spending rainy days. He was quite the character, though he would never admit it. His creativity often bordered on the crazy, much like me. This particular memory still brings a smile to my face every time I recall it.

Daddy had a habit of doodling on anything he could find—bits of paper, notebooks, envelopes, and even paper towels. Despite having plenty of drink coasters, he'd always tear a paper towel in half, fold one half, and use it as a coaster. These little paper towel halves were scattered all over our house, driving us nuts, a habit he had until he passed away.

One rainy day when I was about six years old, living in our cozy little yellow house at the end of Easter Lane, someone—perhaps one of the lovely ladies in the neighborhood like Mary Williamson, Karen Richardson, Mrs. Moon, our next-door neighbor Edna, or maybe even my Aunt Joan—dropped off a huge stack of magazines for my mom: Family Circle, Ladies Home Journal, Better Homes and Gardens, Southern Living, Good Housekeeping, Redbook, and a few old issues of my favorite at the time, Smithsonian Magazine. Before my mom had a chance to flip through them, Daddy—armed with a blue ink pen from AmSouth Bank—had already commandeered the stack. He sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the pages and clicking away with that pen.

As he read, he added his own artistic touch to the magazines. By the time my mom got to them, she discovered that most of the models and smiling faces had a few or all of their teeth blued or blacked out. It was hilarious! My mom was both pissed and humored. How could you be completely mad at someone after seeing Cheryl Tiegs looking like she had a gummy bear stuck to her teeth or another model looking like she ate a toilet deodorizer?

The magazines were destined for the trash after my mom read them, so it wasn’t a big deal. But after that, she made sure to read every donated magazine before Daddy or the copycats inspired by Daddy's creativity got a hold of them.

Daddy's doodling didn't stop with magazines; the Sears Wishbook and JC Penny catalogs were also filled with his random blue ink dental work. And remember those bits of paper towels I mentioned? Well, not only would Daddy use them as coasters, but sometimes he would doodle on them before folding them up to set his drink on. Occasionally, the ink would bleed, but nothing severe enough to ruin the table or the cup. Now that I'm older, I realize that my quirkiness isn't entirely my fault—it's in my genes.

Thanks for taking a trip down memory lane with me. Do you have any quirky family traditions or funny memories? I'd love to hear about them in the comments! And if you enjoyed this story and want to support my creative endeavors, any contributions would be greatly appreciated. Just know that your support means the world to me. 😊

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Easter Memories: Chocolate Bunnies, Family Chaos and a Dash of Roman History

Growing up, Easter was never just a holiday—it was an adventure. It was like Christmas's laid-back cousin who shows up with candy instead of presents, makes you laugh until your stomach hurts and somehow always turns the family reunion into a memorable saga. My childhood Easters were a mix of egg-dying mishaps, Southern cooking and my wonderful yet delightfully chaotic redneck family. And somewhere in between the jelly beans and the bi-annual family feud, I stumbled upon an unexpected connection to history—a thread that weaves together my granny’s house and the Roman Empire itself.

Easter 1979, living at Granny's house.

Let’s start with my kid-brain understanding of Easter. Sure, we went to church and yes, I heard the story of the resurrection—front and center in the Southern Baptist sermons of my childhood. But for me, Easter was less about sermons and more about sugar highs, brightly colored baskets and that magical creature called the Easter Bunny. Forget spiritual reflection—I had candy to eat and chocolate bunnies to befriend (and eventually eat, eyes first).

Easter 1980 in the little yellow house on Easter Lane

Easter didn’t have the heavy expectations of Christmas. There were no letters to write or wish lists to hint at. No tangled lights to hang a month in advance. Easter was spontaneous, simple and magical. Unless, of course, the magic of "Easter Eve" caught you boiling and dying two dozen eggs while trying not to crack them—or your patience.

Becki and I Easter 1980 in the little yellow house on Easter Lane

Every "Easter Eve" (a term I’ve claimed as gospel), my mom went into egg-prep overdrive. She boiled extra eggs to account for cracks and turned the rejects into her famous potato salad, chock full of onions, bell peppers and yellow mustard, for the next day's festivities. Meanwhile, my sister and I got to work dyeing the survivors. We used anything from Paas dye kits to good ol’ food coloring in vinegar-water-filled coffee cups. Fun? Sure—if you like balancing eggs with a flimsy wire dipper that bends under pressure like my attempts at folding laundry.

And then there was the cake—coconut, because I made the mistake of admitting I liked it once. After a childhood filled with coconut cakes for every Easter and birthday, let’s just say I’ve been mostly coconut-free ever since, there are times when I will buy a coconut cake just to remember my mama.

Me, Mama's Easter Cake and my sister, Becki

But the eggs, oh, the eggs! My sister and I poured our tiny hearts into perfecting them, convinced the Easter Bunny would reward our efforts with bigger, better baskets. Spoiler alert: he didn’t. By Easter morning, the eggs had been relocated to the fridge and our familiar childhood baskets took their place, brimming with candy that never changed but was always perfect. A large cream/nougat filled chocolate egg, a couple of Russell Stover eggs, small foil covered chocolate eggs, Robin's eggs, Peeps, jelly beans and Easter themed circus peanuts sitting atop Easter grass. Then those hollow Palmer chocolate bunnies were my absolute favorite—though my sister tormented me by insisting they were alive. Let me tell you, it’s hard to enjoy a bunny when you’re convinced you’re committing bunny-cide. I would usually eat all of the other chocolate over a few weeks before apologizing to the bunny, pick out his sugary yet chalky white and blue eyes so he doesn't see that I'm going to break pieces from him to consume.

Easter 1980, the yellow curtains bothered me more than the breaker box in the dining room

If we weren’t hunting eggs in our backyard, we were off to my granny’s house—where the real magic always unfolded. Picture this: my dad and uncles, beers in hand, gleefully hiding eggs in places no sane person would ever consider (cow poop, anyone?), while my cousin Missy scrambled up trees like a squirrel on a mission. The rest of us scoured the yard, determined to claim the "special" egg—a prize tucked inside a Leggs pantyhose container with a few crumpled dollars that felt like winning the lottery.

And then there was the food. Oh, the food! My dad and Uncle Gene manned the backyard grill, turning out perfectly charred, smoky chicken legs that still hold the title of my all-time favorite. Inside, Aunt Joan was a culinary wizard, whipping up fried okra, crispy fried squash, and creamy butter beans, while Granny’s ham reigned supreme in all its juicy, flavorful glory along with her amazing cornbread. Of course, no Easter feast was ever complete without my mom’s southern-style mustard potato salad. She made it just the way she liked it, and to her—it was the undisputed star of every plate.

Easter 1981, I was NOT interested in photo ops

Then, like clockwork, the family entertainment began. My cousin La Shea and Uncle Mike were the usual culprits, finding a reason—any reason—to start an argument. It didn’t matter if the topic was trivial; before long, voices would rise, and my dad and Uncle Gene would play peacemakers. I can't think of a time they managed to calm the storm, but more often than not, it would escalate until someone stormed out, tires screeching down the driveway.

Easter 1981, my cousins and sister, I was not having it

For us kids, the chaos was as much a part of Easter as the egg hunt or ham dinner. It was tradition—just like Missy climbing trees to fetch the eggs my dad always hid especially for her. If La Shea and Uncle Mike didn’t go at it, holidays felt strangely incomplete, like a bunny missing its ears. To this day, I giggle when I think of them and I love them both dearly.

Easter 1981, we almost got it right, my cousin Missy is hiding behind us all

I forgot to mention, only a fraction of the eggs were ever found. The ones that remained hidden had a way of revealing themselves weeks later—usually with a dramatic explosion of their rotten, hard-boiled innards breaking free from their once-bright neon or pastel shells.

My cousin Mikey and I on a swing my dad actually built.

Remember I mentioned a connection to Roman History? Now, here’s the twist: as I’ve gotten older, my understanding of Easter has deepened. Beneath the chocolate and chaos lies a story rooted in history—Roman history, to be exact. The Easter we celebrate today wouldn’t exist without the Roman Empire’s influence. Jesus’s crucifixion, central to the holiday, was carried out under Roman rule by Pontius Pilate. Fast forward a few centuries and it was Roman Emperor Constantine who helped shape Easter as we know it, deciding it would fall on the Sunday after the first full moon of the spring equinox. Talk about long-lasting traditions! And yet, even with all its historical weight, Easter at my granny’s house remained gloriously unpretentious—a blend of old Southern quirks and heartfelt connections.

My dad and Granny in her kitchen circa 1993

Here in 2025, things look a little different. Terry’s working while I'm off at home and we skipped the egg-dyeing ritual. But, of course, the Easter Bunny came and Palmer chocolate bunnies made their appearance because some traditions are non-negotiable. Tomorrow, we’ll most likely hit the stores for post-Easter candy sales, keeping the sugar rush alive for just a little longer.

My favorite, Biggy Ears by Palmer

Easter is still a time for reflection—whether on childhood memories, the historical roots of the holiday, or the simple joys of togetherness. And while I don’t crave coconut cake anymore, I treasure the traditions I grew up with—and the hilariously messy, love-filled family that made them unforgettable. What About You? So, how do you celebrate Easter? What are your favorite traditions—or your funniest family mishaps? When you dye eggs, do us use Pass Kits or Food Coloring? Let me know in the comments below—I’d love to hear your stories! And hey, if you enjoyed this walk down memory lane, feel free to share it, pass it along, or drop a small token of appreciation. Even a chocolate bunny will do. 😉

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The Great Rocking Chair Caper: A Donald Chronicles Story

Family. It's a bond thicker than blood, right? Well, sometimes, in families like mine, it's a bond thicker than… well, let's just say it's complicated. The stories that have been passed down through the generations, whispered in hushed tones and roared with laughter, are the real treasures. And this one, a tale of audacious shenanigans and suburban surprise, is a perfect example. I've heard it from so many relatives and the key players have confirmed its truth. It's a story so good, some have even suggested I include it in my book. While I'm not sure it fits there, it definitely deserves a place here, in the annals of "The Donald Chronicles."

Back in the 70s and 80s, my daddy's side of the family, particularly those descended from my great-Aunt Velma, were known for their… let's call it "spirited" nature. My Granny, bless her heart, used to warn everyone whenever Velma and her crew were coming over: "Watch them like hawks! They'll rob you blind!" I have a mountain of stories about their escapades, but this one, the inaugural tale of "The Donald Chronicles," is a true gem.

My Aunt Beverly, a vision of elegance and grace, was a hairdresser with a keen eye for beauty, both personal and domestic. She kept herself impeccably put together, and her homes were always a reflection of her refined taste. After a stint in a trailer behind my Granny's house on East Drive, she, my Uncle Gene, and their sons, Brian and Darin, finally settled into a lovely, quiet neighborhood in Mobile, Alabama. They were just getting settled into their new home when, wouldn't you know it, word reached the ears of Velma's daughter, Sissy.

One fateful day, Beverly answered her doorbell to find Sissy, a grown woman, standing on her porch, ready to make a deal. Sissy, with a tale of hard times and a proposition too good to refuse, offered Beverly a "perfect" set beautiful rocking chairs. The chairs would look amazing on her new front porch, Sissy insisted, and the price was unbelievably low. Beverly, charmed by the offer and perhaps a touch of familial loyalty, agreed. Sissy and I think my cousins Micha, Aimee, and Tyre (pronounced Ty-Ree) – promptly unloaded the furniture from their beat-up pickup truck and arranged it in Beverly's yard. Beverly, delighted with her new acquisition, couldn't have been happier.

A week later, a knock at the door brought a different kind of surprise. It was a neighbor, looking rather… perplexed. They explained that their rocking chairs had mysteriously vanished the previous week, and, well, the furniture on Beverly's porch looked suspiciously familiar. As Beverly recounted her recent purchase from her "family," the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. The realization dawned on Beverly: she had been unwittingly enjoying her neighbor's rocking chairs, courtesy of a brazen daylight heist orchestrated by our own relatives. Beverly, being the honest and kind hearted person that she is gave back the chairs, deeply apologizing for the embarrassing situation that was not fault of her own.

The story, as it's been told and retold, always ends with a hearty laugh. It's a testament to the colorful characters in my family and the unexpected twists and turns life can take. It also makes you think about the things we value, the stories we tell, and the connections that bind us, even when those connections are a little… unconventional.

What are your favorite family stories? Have you ever experienced anything quite like this? Share your thoughts in the comments below! I'd love to hear from you. And if you enjoy these tales from "The Donald Chronicles" and want to see more, consider supporting the project. Your engagement, in whatever form it takes, is what keeps these stories alive.

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Locked Out and Let Down: A Summer Tale of Soup, Chaos, and Consequences

Summer days as a kid were usually straightforward—simple lunches, afternoons of play, and the occasional mishap. But one particular summer day left me with a memory I’d love to erase. It’s a tale of soup, swimming, and sheer embarrassment, with a sprinkle of chaos for good measure. If you’ve ever been locked out of your house at the worst possible moment, trust me, you’re not alone. Here’s how it all went hilariously—and horribly—wrong.

When I think back to childhood summers, I remember the predictability of lunch at 12:30. My mom always had something ready: a ham or turkey sandwich with store-brand BBQ or Sour Cream and Onion chips, or a can of soup paired with crackers. Between sandwiches and soup, soup almost always won. Our pantry was stocked with Chicken with Stars, Chicken Noodle, Vegetable Beef, and Alphabet Soup. These weren’t the fancy Campbell’s varieties, either—they were store-brand, salty and indistinguishable from one another, but I didn’t care.

Dinner, on the other hand, was less predictable. My mom would occasionally fry chicken—seasoned well but often burned on one side, with the meat near the bone still questionably undercooked. It wasn’t a gourmet meal, but it got the job done. Or so I thought.

On this particular day, I’d had soup for lunch and was invited to swim at the McKenzies’ house next door. They had a pool, and we didn’t, so I rarely said no when Kim McKenzie extended an invite—although her mom wasn’t my biggest fan. She thought I was weird, which, to be fair, might’ve been true. Her son had quirks of his own, but that’s a story for another day. Before I went over, mama told me DO NOT GET IN THE POOL.

So Kim and I were splashing around in the pool when I felt a hot rumble in my stomach—the kind that tells you you’ve got less than two minutes before disaster strikes. I told Kim I needed to use the bathroom, but her response was swift: “You’ll have to go home.” Apparently, the McKenzies’ bathroom was off-limits to me. Ironically, I’d already peed in the pool. Twice. But this was a situation that couldn’t be handled discreetly.

I bolted for home, only to find every door locked. My mom had a habit of locking us out during the day to encourage “outdoor playtime” and keep us out of her hair. I pounded on the doors, rang the doorbell—nothing. The laundry room door? Locked. The back door? Also locked. Panic was setting in, along with increasingly urgent churning in my stomach. I remembered that my sister sometimes left her bedroom window unlocked, so I ran barefoot through the pine-bark-covered ground behind the front yard bushes to check. Locked. My own bedroom window? Locked. By this point, my stomach was in full rebellion, my feet were on fire from the sharp bark, and my shorts were bone dry—thanks to the blazing summer heat.

And then it happened. Standing in those bushes, in sheer desperation, I lost the battle. Let’s just say the alphabet soup I’d had for lunch made an unceremonious reappearance, and I might’ve also peed myself for good measure. The slightly undercooked chicken from the night before had come back to haunt me in the worst possible way.

Thinking quickly, I turned on the water hose to clean myself up. As the cool water hit my skin, I started to feel slightly more human—until I realized I’d have to face my mom. I ran back to the McKenzies’, hoping Kim would still be outside, but she had already gone in. So there I was, dripping wet—not from pool water, but from the hose—and reluctantly headed home.

As I rounded the corner, I saw my mom standing at the front door, her expression a mix of confusion and suspicion. The screen door flew open, and she glared at me. “I heard the water hose come on,” she said. Seriously? The water hose was what got her attention? Not the frantic doorbell ringing, the pounding, or my desperate pleas to be let in?

Our old house on Pace Lane...though it looked NOTHING like this when we lived there.

She assumed I was trying to rinse off the chlorine smell, since I wasn’t supposed to be in the pool that day. What followed was the grand finale: an ass whoopin’ in wet shorts. If you’ve never experienced a belt on wet fabric, let me tell you—it’s an experience that stays with you.

Looking back, it’s the kind of story that makes me laugh now, though it definitely didn’t feel funny at the time. Childhood is full of these moments—embarrassing, chaotic, and sometimes downright ridiculous. If this story brought a smile to your face or reminded you of your own summer misadventures, I’d love to hear about it in the comments. And if you feel like supporting this blog and helping me keep the memories alive, I’d deeply appreciate your kindness. Thanks for taking the time to read, and here’s to all the wonderfully messy moments that make life memorable.

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Confessions of a Tabloid Enthusiast: Crafting Fantastical Stories

I've always loved fantasy stories and things that are too good to be true. My life reads a lot like that, but it's totally true. So, it should come as no surprise that I love tabloids. Not the celeb news though—I’m not a Perez Hilton, National Enquirer, or Star fan. I couldn't care less if Britney’s snatch is blue, Lady Gaga fired her crew, or they found Michael Jackson’s nose in Bubble’s poo. I don’t know those people, and I’m not interested in their drama. I don’t read much in terms of newspapers or watch the news unless something important is going on in the world that I need to be informed about, and even then, I somehow know what’s going on. Tabloids are just so much more fun to read anyway.

Give me Bat Boy or stories of a 500-pound infant and his mom who’s a mere 97 pounds. I don’t mind GLOBE or National Examiner—they feature stories of real people along with a little bit of celeb fluff. My favorite was Weekly World News, but the only thing that remained in print similar to WWN is the SUN and it's no longer printed wither. WWN is online now, but it’s just not the same as when I was a kid. When I was younger, I’d secretly ride my bike down to the Jr. Food Store, where other kids spent their money on candy, sodas, Slush Puppies, and bags of potato chips, while I spent mine on the Weekly World News and a cheap Faygo Root Beer. It would take me a week to read the stories in the paper completely and then a day or so to reskim it and enjoy the advertisements.

Did I care if the stories were made up? Nope. I loved that part of them. There was something magical about headlines like "Woman’s Breast Implants Explode Thanks to Low Flying 747." Did I believe it? At the time, yes. And even now, I’m sure there was some truth to some of the stories. The point of a tabloid is to go into them knowing there is a requirement to suspend your disbelief. You can’t deny the entertainment value in stories with headlines like "Grossed Out Surgeon Vomits in Patient" or "North Korean Sub Probing US Lake: Is Kim Jong Il Poised to Attack?"

Silly purchases? Definitely. Waste of money? ABSOLUTELY NOT!

During a period in my life, I even became a content provider for a tabloid paper. It was an incredible experience to let my imagination run wild and create the most random, outlandish stories. There was something so satisfying about concocting tales that were just on the edge of believability, playing with the fine line between reality and fantasy. I loved the process of making up these stories, knowing they would entertain and astonish readers, just as the Weekly World News had done for me as a kid. It was a dream come true to contribute to the world of tabloid journalism, even if it was just for a while.

What about you? Do you have any favorite tabloid stories or memories of reading them? Have you ever worked on something similarly creative and whimsical? I’d love to hear your thoughts and stories in the comments below!

Boyfriend Material by Alexis Hall - Hilarious LGBTQIA+ Romcom Book Review

I can't believe it's taken me this long to review "Boyfriend Material" by Alexis Hall, but I have to say, it's a hilarious and heartwarming read! Terry gifted me this book for Christmas 2022, along with the sequel "Husband Material," and I absolutely fell in love with the characters. 🌈

This LGBTQIA+ romantic comedy centers around Luc O’Donnell, who’s reluctantly famous thanks to his rock star dad. When Luc ends up in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons, he needs some serious damage control to save his reputation. That’s where Oliver Blackwood comes in. Oliver is everything Luc is not—handsome, successful, and scandal-free. He’s an ethical vegetarian and totally put together. Basically, he’s perfect boyfriend material.

To fix his public image, Luc comes up with a plan: fake dating Oliver. But as their fake relationship starts to feel a lot more real, both Luc and Oliver have to decide if they’re ready to fight for their new romance, despite the scandals and consequences that might come their way.

The chemistry between Luc and Oliver is off the charts, and their journey from fake dating to real feelings is full of laughs, misunderstandings, and heartfelt moments. Alexis Hall does a fantastic job of blending humor with genuine emotion, making this book an absolute delight to read.

I actually read this back in April 2023 and just got around to writing my review, but the story has stayed with me ever since. If you’re into romantic comedies with a twist and loveable characters, "Boyfriend Material" is definitely a must-read. Huge thanks to Terry for this amazing Christmas gift—I flew through both this and its sequel, "Husband Material," pretty fast and can't wait to see what Alexis Hall has in store for Luc and Oliver in the future!