THE CHRISTMAS TEA

Growing up we always opened our presents on Christmas Eve at midnight. My mother told us it was a tradition, passed down from my grandmother, Kate, who clearly believed children should experience both joy and sleep deprivation at an early age! Earlier in the evening though, our parents made us go to bed “until after Santa came”, but naturally we didn’t sleep for a single second. My sister is seven years older and didn’t believe in Santa when I was five, but she played along for my sake. And when I say played along, I mean she gave Oscar level performances, like she was Bette Davis herself!

We had bunk beds, and I slept on the top bunk like a Koala in a tree. On Christmas Eve, after we were told to “go to bed”, we’d be in our room whispering and giggling - the kind of giggles you try to hold in so hard your stomach hurts, because you’re convinced your parents have super‑sonic parent detection skills and will materialize in the doorway the second you make a loud enough sound.

Every so often my sister would suddenly go quiet and say, “I think I just heard Santa land on the roof.” I’d freeze like a squirrel hearing a twig snap, listening with all my little kid Santa detection skills. Of course, it wasn’t Santa. It was the landlord who lived upstairs just moving about their apartment. But I didn’t know that — I was five and fully committed to “the magic”. Then my sister would bury her face in her pillow (I couldn’t see her from the top bunk) and she would “Ho… Ho… Ho…” all muffled and dramatic. I thought Santa was literally in our living room and I was ready to swear it on a bible in church in front of a priest.

At midnight, my mom would come in and say, “Santa came! Come open your presents!” And I once said,  “I know, Mommy — we heard him!” We would enter the living room to find a large amount of presents under the tree. I’d look over at the plate of cookies and glass of milk we left Santa- to find a few crumbs and half drank glass. Those are some of my warmest memories, the kind that stick to your heart like glitter you can’t wash off. One of the gifts I received was a tea set. I decided I needed to serve “tea” to my family on Christmas Eve. My Mom said we could use water because she “was out of tea”, but said we can pretend its tea!  My sister clearly had questionable judgment that night — took me into the kitchen to help fill the teapot. Now, when my parents had company, the kitchen table transformed into their “bar.”  So what does my sister do? Does she put water in the teapot? Of course not. She grabs the vodka and fills my brand‑new little teapot like she’s training me for a future in speakeasy management.

I walked into the living room all proud, serving my first cup of “tea” to my Uncle Robert. He takes a sip, makes a face like he just licked battery acid, and yells:

“THAT’S VODKA!”

The whole room erupted into laughter. Unbeknownst to me, my first tea party was actually my first cocktail festivity. And honestly? Anyone that knows me, knows that tracks for me!

THE CHRISTMAS CAPER

A couple of years in a row, when I was seven and eight, I apparently graduated from listening for Santa to… well… breaking and entering like thieves in the night. ‘Tis the season didn’t just mean twinkling lights and cookies. No, no — in our house when the parents went out, it meant it was time for a high‑stakes covert operation. My sister acting like a ringleader with zero adult supervision, turned us both into two criminal mastermind safecrackers, creeping around the house like a pair of sugar‑fueled ninjas on a quest … looking for hidden presents!

I recall one year finding the mother-load in my mother’s closet. But this time they were already wrapped, stacked and quietly staring us in the face, tempting us. It was as if they were whispering to us like they were trying to start a scandal. Most kids would’ve walked away. Not us. We peeled the tape back like two surgeons doing a double bypass, opened every single gift, admired our future treasures, then wrapped them back up so neatly we could’ve been hired to work in Macy’s giftwrapping department.

I don’t know if my mother ever knew. If she did, she stayed quiet like a woman choosing peace over chaos. Looking back, those Christmas memories are now hilarious souvenirs, and absolutely unforgettable — the kind of stories that make you laugh decades later because you realize you weren’t just celebrating the holidays… you were building the kind of memory that becomes a family legend.”

The Takeaway:

These stories remind us that the magic of Christmas isn’t just in the gifts — it’s in the mischief, the imagination, and the people who make the season unforgettable … family. Whether you were listening for Santa or secretly unwrapping presents like a tiny holiday detective or serving up vodka in place of water like a bartender, the real joy came from the laughter, the bonding, and the memories that stuck to your heart forever.

Meter Reading:  “Santa, Tea & The Christmas Caper” Category Score Comic Flavor Absurdity 9.5/10 Super‑sonic parent detection skills, a five‑year‑old ready to swear on a Bible, and a teapot full of vodka — this is holiday shenanigans at its finest.   Siblings 10/10 Your sister serving Bette‑Davis‑level performances and training you for a life of crime and cocktails? Peak older‑sister energy.   Kid Logic 9/10 Freezing like a squirrel, believing muffled “Ho, Ho, Ho’s, and thinking wrapped gifts whisper scandals — chef’s kiss.   Visuals 9.2/10 Bunk‑bed giggles, a landlord mistaken for Santa, and two tiny surgeons peeling tape like they’re on Grey’s Anatomy: Holiday Edition.   Timing 9/10 “THAT’S VODKA!” lands like a Christmas cannon blast   Relatability 8.7/10 Everyone’s either been the kid who believed too hard… or the sibling who absolutely encouraged it.   Punchline Rhythm 9.3/10 Every beat has a laugh — from Santa surveillance to the Macy’s‑level rewrapping job of festive mischief. Overall Humor Score 9.5 / 10 A holiday double‑feature of nostalgia, chaos, and questionable supervision — wrapped neatly with a bow and a splash of vodka.

 

 Merry Christmas to all my readers! I so much enjoy sharing my fun life experiences and memories with you all. Have Safe, Healthy and Happy New Year!

 

Author vs. KDP

If you’ve ever thought publishing a book was glamorous, let me stop you right there. It’s less celebrating with champagne, and more like a basketball game where the publisher is the referee - calling bad calls in a Boston Celtics game! And me the player (writer) yelling at the referee for that bad call, but it’s falling on deaf ears like fans screaming their TV's!

First quarter: The pages! I wrestled with margins, fonts, images, and spacing, like slippery Knicks fans wrestling for the last of the beer & nachos at the concession stand. Every time I thought I had a slam-dunk, KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) issued a replay review. It was like KDP was a broken shot clock that keeps resetting just as you line up the play.

Second quarter: The publisher’s notes! KDP kept coming back with the same emails: “There is text outside the margins, this doesn’t meet our standards… Standards? I’ve seen less scrutiny at basketball game security. At one point, I half‑expected them to pat me down and ask to see inside my pocketbook!

Third quarter: The book cover. Ah yes, the infamous template they supply! It's a small template, one with a red band around the edges. At first, I thought the red band was like a warning zone. So, I stretched my cover design only to the inside of the red band, because I thought it was an indication of what’s out of bounds.  KDP offers it up like it’s a playbook fallen into the hands of the other team. I trusted it would give me all the plays, but it turned out to be more like a GPS that swears you can drive straight through a lake! What I didn't know was that I had to stretch my cover design beyond that red band, so the design will "bleed", to ensure the cover would wrap around the edges of the book during printing. However, without that knowledge, I thought I scored that ball like Larry Bird with his famous lay-ups. I felt like it would be the highlight of my day, like a great moment in basketball that gets replayed for decades. I thought I had control like Larry Bird always did. Spoiler alert: I didn’t. 

I airballed it so badly, it was as if the crowd went silent. Weeks went by of shooting and missing, like watching overtime after overtime with no one scoring. I just couldn’t seem to score the size they were looking for. All the back and forth with the publisher and their emails saying resize the cover. the emails arrived at ungodly hours —11:27 p.m., 3 a.m.— as if the KDP live reviewers were vampires working the graveyard shift while drinking my blood! Each email said the same thing: “Your cover doesn’t meet bleed requirements.” Bleed? At this point, the only thing bleeding was my patience.

Fourth quarter: The submission. It was like the Celtics have less than 2 minutes left in the game! It’s a close score-an absolute nail-biter! As my husband always says when he’s watching a Celtics game like that- “I can’t breathe!” I was tired, I felt like throwing in the towel but I had to push through. Finally, I said let me go look at something else- I opened the KDP previewer Friday morning to preview my cover after one of their emails said to resize (yet again!) That’s when I had my epiphany. The red band template I had been using all along wasn’t the real play—it was actually a fake play. The actual court I should have been playing on was the previewer itself and it - was bigger- way bigger than that stupid template they originally gave me. My cover wasn’t even close to the right size- like a basketball players Jersey just shrunk 3 sizes in the wash! But after seeing it-  I knew I had them this time! I stretched that background image so far beyond the edges it looked like Jason Tatum stretching before the big final game as if he was warming up for a dunk contest.

The previewer showed full coverage! No replay review needed. Just victory. I threw that basketball from the 3‑point line and just as that ball went into the basket—the buzzer sounded like Larry Bird draining a clutch three at the Boston Garden with the whole crowd on its feet. The roar was deafening, and just like that—my cookbook was published! Hot off the press like a panini! Please pass the champagne!

The Takeaway

Sometimes the real battle of publishing isn’t writing the book — it’s surviving KDP’s mysterious, shape‑shifting rules, error messages, and “helpful” automated decisions. But if you can laugh through it, outsmart it, and still hit “publish,” you’ve already won the war.

Takeaway:

Sometimes the real battle of publishing isn’t writing the book — it’s surviving KDP’s mysterious, shape‑shifting rules, error messages, and “helpful” automated decisions. But if you can laugh through it, outsmart it, and still hit “publish,” you’ve already won the war.

Meter Reading: “Author vs. KDP: The Holiday Cage Match”

Category         Score   Comic Flavor

Absurdity        9.3/10  KDP approving, rejecting, re‑approving, and gaslighting you about your own files like it’s running a psychological experiment.

Tech Chaos     10/10   Buttons disappearing, previews lying, random warnings popping up — it’s like trying to publish a book inside a haunted vending machine.

Relatability     9/10     Every indie author has fought this battle, but you narrated it like a woman who has seen the other side and lived to tell the tale.

Visuals 8.8/10 You vs. the spinning wheel of doom, you vs. the “Your cover is unacceptable” message, you vs. the phantom formatting error — cinematic.

Timing 9.1/10  Each twist hit right when the reader thought the chaos was over. Classic “just when you think you’re safe…” comedy pacing.

Punchline Rhythm     9.4/10  Every paragraph had a laugh beat — especially the parts where KDP acted like it was doing you a favor by breaking things.

Overall Humor Score: 9.1/10

You can purchase my e-cookbook on amazon in eBook format here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G6X2MNKZ

UPDATE as of 12/22/25 - The Hardcover book is coming back soon – Unfortunately, I temporarily pulled the hardcover book off Amazon, because KDP continues to test my patience …. there were pixel issues in printing the cover that they did not catch – but I did! It will return back on amazon shortly. 

The Scooter Heist

I had this friend when I was in my mid-teens, we’ll call her Kali. She had three brothers, which meant we had three built-in scapegoats. Kali and I were inseparable: sleepovers every weekend, endless mischief, and what I liked to call “accountability shifting.” Translation? If we messed up, we blamed one of her brothers. It was like having a built-in insurance policy, except they never read the fine print. We also pulled stunts on them that left those poor guys scratching their heads like contestants on Jeopardy who just realized the category is “Women’s Logic.”

Take her brother Phil, for example. He had this gas-run scooter—a glorified bicycle that looked like a cross between a small motorcycle and a mini dirt bike, sort of like a Harley Davidson that got shrunk in the dryer.

One day, no one was home, and Kali and I decided it was time for a joy ride. We marched into the backyard like two Bonnie-and-Clyde wannabes with zero getaway plan. But Phil had chained the scooter to a deck post. Kali said he’d never done that before—he must’ve been trying to be the Fort Knox of Scooters. The deck was about four feet high, with posts resting on cement like it was a DIY prison yard. I noticed the chain might slip off if we could tilt the scooter low enough and lift the post. So Kali, bless her, crouched under the deck and pushed up like a teenage Hulk auditioning for a Marvel reboot. She had leverage, standing like a weightlifter at the Olympics, and somehow managed to lift it just enough for me to slip the chain off. Then we went into the garage, Kali took the wheel off, to get the chain off the metal that held the wheel on. Then we prepared for our ride like two mechanics who learned everything from Looney Tunes. Kali handled the tools like a pro, while I stood there watching like a useless intern holding the flashlight wrong.

Finally, she ran into the house, grabbed the keys, we hopped on, fired it up, and like true armature daredevils, it was a total ‘Watch this—here, hold my beer’ moment! As we tore down the alleyway like two crazy Evel Knievel’s with learner’s permits! At the end of the driveway, she turned—and promptly crashed into a tree like a cartoon character whose brakes gave out. We were fine. The scooter? Not so much. The front end looked like a pretzel from Auntie Anne’s. We dragged it back, rolling it on one wheel, staring at the damage like two CSI agents who knew they were the killers.

But we weren’t done. Oh no. We decided the best course of action was to put it back exactly how we found it and play dumb. Kali unattached the wheel again, put the chain back, reattached the wheel-  lifted the deck again, and walked away like Ocean’s Eleven had just pulled off the heist of the century. Later, Phil asked about it. We swore we had no idea. We even went with him to inspect the scooter, acting like we were auditioning for a movie called Clueless: The Sequel. “How does that happen when it’s chained to a deck post?” I asked, with Oscar-worthy sincerity.

Phil shook his head. “That’s what I was wondering too!”

And then—because we were shameless—we started throwing out theories like two FBI profilers.

Me: “Maybe someone tried to steal it and wrecked the wheel?”

Phil: “But it’s chained to the deck, how did they wreck the wheel?”

Kali: “Maybe they wanted to steal it and couldn’t because it’s chained like it’s a hostage in a bad action movie—got mad and destroyed it?”

Phil: “With what?”

Me: “A sledgehammer?”

We ended it with, “Well, we’ll probably never know.” Phil eventually got the front end fixed, then made room for it in their garage, which was basically their personal junk yard. It looked like a museum exhibit titled ‘Teenage Bad Buys.’ It took him a while, but he managed it.

That’s our story, and we stuck to it like chewing gum on a hot sidewalk. And honestly? If teenage stupidity were an Olympic sport, we’d have taken home the gold, while Phil was stuck polishing the metal on his scooter.

The Takeaway:

Teenagers don’t need alcohol, money, or even common sense to get into trouble. All they need is the confidence in saying “Watch this—here, hold my beer.” The real takeaway? Mischief may dent the scooter, but it polishes the memories.

Scooter Shenanigans Scale™: How Dumb Was the Joyride?

Rating                        Description 9/10 Technically Innocent Looked at the scooter. Thought about riding it. 3/10 Chain Wiggles Got the chain off like a raccoon opening a locked trash can.   5/10 Backyard Mechanics Took the wheel off with confidence & skill . 7/10 Hold-My-Beer Fired it up with no plan. The universe whispered, “brace yourself.”   10/10 Crash & Cover-Up Slammed into the tree, rebuilt the crime scene, and won an Oscar.

 

 

Parents, Froggies, Fake Soup & The Door Unhinged

Dear readers: Apologies for my missing Tuesdays usual blog post—I was busy locked in battle with my publisher over my cookbook. Let’s just say the margins fought back harder than expected, but I came out swinging, and the recipes are safe! So today you get a Wednesday story instead of Tuesday’s with not one, not two, but three short funny stories! Consider it a midweek snack with extra seasoning. Read on ...

 Parents

Reflecting back, I realized my friends and I have done some weird stuff in our days as young chick‑a‑dees. My friend Maria and I frequented a local pub called Lions—which, by the way, had about as much class as a gas station bathroom with a jukebox. It was right on the corner of her block, so naturally I slept over her house just about every weekend. Why? Because it was convenient—no driving involved, no “designated driver”. Just a short stumble home like a couple of penguins waddling back to the igloo.

Her parents were like second parents to me, and pretty much treated us equally. Which meant when Maria got yelled at, I got yelled at too. Nothing says “family” like being scolded by someone else’s dad for a blouse too “low-cut” and you didn’t even buy it.

Her father was a bit strict, but now that I’ve raised my own kids, I know he was justified like a traffic cop with a radar gun. I recall him yelling at us to go back upstairs and change our blouses, because we weren’t getting out of the house dressed like backup dancers for a Bee Gees reunion tour. The blouses didn’t even show cleavage! It was like a PG-rated Disney movie getting censored anyway. We did go change, but that didn’t mean we weren’t going to wear what we wanted! We smuggled those shirts out like we were CIA agents sneaking state secrets out of the White House!

Froggies

Then there was a time we went to Staten Island to pick up my boyfriend who was working in a pet store—it was mostly fish though. He took us into the part of the store with all the tanks, I lost count of how many were in there. Honestly, it looked like Times Square for guppies. Well, we came across this one tank that had baby frogs in it. They were about the size of a quarter if you put leg span in the equation—basically the amphibian version of Fun‑Size candy bars. Maria said she wanted some “froggies,” so my boyfriend scooped up a batch in a plastic bag, the same way you’d get goldfish. Except these weren’t goldfish—they were doing laps like they were training for the Boston Marathon. If frogs had Fitbits, these guys would’ve been bragging about their step count.

We drove him home, then Maria and I decided to go back to her house to get dressed nicer for later that night. Unfortunately, we left the frogs in her car—the one with a broken window taped up with plastic. That car looked like it was rocking the world’s saddest Saran Wrap makeover.

It was winter, so you can imagine what happened next. Yep—you guessed it. Those poor little baby “froggies” were frozen solid. We came back to find them in the bag like a frozen dinner entrée: Swanson’s Froggie Surprise. Honestly, they looked less like pets and more like ice cubes for a very questionable cocktail. I said, “Let’s bring them into the house; perhaps they’ll thaw and we’ll come home to find them swimming happily, just like a bunch of Vegas synchronized swimmers.” After all, ponds freeze over in winter and the fish survive, right? Wrong.

We brought them inside to thaw, went out, and when we returned, they were just as dead—like expired coupons at the grocery store.

Fake Soup 

The next morning our first thought was to say our goodbyes to our “Froggies”, then give them a porcelain funeral and flush them. But Maria had a different idea. We poured chicken broth into a pot, heated it up, and added “froggies” like they were dumplings in grandma’s soup pot. We weren’t going to eat them, but we did bring them down to the pub after it opened. Because what else do two girls do with a bag of frozen frogs? It’s not like Martha Stewart has a recipe for Froggie soup – or does she?

While talking to our favorite bartender, we’ll call him Eric, he started coughing and said he thought he was getting a cold. And if you know Eric, then you know this guy treated every sniffle like it was the opening act for the flu. One cough and suddenly he’s auditioning for a NyQuil commercial. Maria jumps up like a game show contestant hitting the buzzer and exclaims, “I have chicken soup! Eric lit up: “OMG, I love you—can I have it?” Naturally she didn’t hesitate and handed him the jar. “Oooo, still hot,” he said. He set it on the bar, finished what he was doing, then went for that “froggie” soup.

As he lifted the jar to his lips, Maria yelled out, “STOP!” He froze, eyes wide. “Why?” he asked. She said, “Look closely at the soup.” He did, and the look in his eyes was like a man realizing his blind date is actually his best friend in drag! He swore he’d get even. To this day, he never did.

A Door Unhinged

It was an adventurous time, just like the time someone in the bar punched a hole thru the girl’s bathroom door because some guy and his girlfriend had an argument and he was mad she locked herself in the ladies’ room like a raccoon hiding in a dumpster during a thunderstorm.  The next day there was a new door, and the old one was leaning against a wall in the pub. Maria asked if we could have it. Of course they gave it away like a garage sale freebie nobody wants.

Late that night, we carried it back to her house, like movers hired from Craigslist who get paid in beer. we propped it against her parents’ bedroom doorway, covering their bedroom door. The next morning, her parents opened their door only to find another door staring back at them with a sign that said “Ladies” and a hole beneath in it!

It was like their bedroom had been upgraded to a pub bathroom overnight. Imagine waking up, stretching, and instead of freedom, you’re greeted by a door that basically says, “Sorry, you need a wristband to enter.” It was like a sitcom gag, written by fate itself. Her mother woke us up yelling, so we blamed her brother and said we saw him put it there last night. We went back to sleep. He got grounded and was madder than a cat shoved into a bathtub.

But to us, it was just another day in the life of Maria and Michele.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes the best stories aren’t about the recipes we perfected, but the ridiculous adventures we survived. Whether it’s frozen frogs, fake soup, or a bathroom door prank, the moral is simple: chaos makes the best memories—and the funniest blogs.

Meter Reading: “Parents, Froggies, Fake Soup & The Door Unhinged”

Category           Score                             Comic Flavor

Absurdity          9/10     Frozen frogs, soup pranks, nightclub bathroom doors—chaos is the main ingredient.

Timing 9/10     The “STOP!” soup reveal and the raccoon bathroom gag land like perfect punchlines.

Relatability      8/10     Strict parents, sneaking clothes, bar antics—everyone’s lived a version of this.

Visuals               9/10     Penguins waddling home, raccoons in dumpsters, nightclub bathrooms—sharp mental pictures.

Punchline Rhythm      9/10     Every section now has a laugh beat, no flat spots left behind.

Overall Humor Score: 8.8/10

Compilation Story: Some of my brother Tommy’s Antics

This is a compilation of a few various things my brother Tommy did growing up. I may or may not have been involved at times, encouraging him like a encouraging him like encouraging him like a sidekick in a cartoon who always hands over the dynamite!  My brother loved to tease the cat and my mother, so he would do various things that would annoy them both like a smoke alarm with low batteries at 3 a.m.

For instance, my brother would walk into a room where my mother was sitting, he’d go directly over to the closed horizontal slatted blinds, part them in the middle and open them as wide as he could, and calmly say, “Hey Ma, is it raining yet?” Her reply was almost always the same, as she would exclaim out loud, “THOMAS!!!” It was like watching a sitcom rerun where you already know the punchline, but it still lands every time—like Lucy pulling the football away from Charlie Brown.

Our poor cat “Muffin” took a lot of crap from my brother, like a piñata on Cinco de Mayo. All I know is if I was that cat, there are many times I would have clawed my brother like a shopper on Black Friday grabbing the last TV! He used to toss her high in the air over Mom’s bed. Before she got a chance to run away when she landed like a sack of potatoes, he’d grab her and do it again and again!

Another time, he took Muffin into the bathroom and held the cat’s head close over the toilet and would flush. She was petrified like a tourist on a roller coaster, and she dug her claws into the padded toilet seat as if hanging on for life like a spider in a wind tunnel. My Mother came home from work and saw the holes when she went in there and without hesitation, yep, you guessed it— “THOMAS!!!” But this time it was followed by “What did you do?”

Tommy was famous for what he called “playing the cat.” What is this, you ask? Well, he would pick Muffin up, hold her close to his ribs and he’d take the tip of her tail and put it in his mouth. Then he would lightly pat her exposed side like a traveler, patting pockets to check for their key card. The cat would growl while he did it, as he pat her side to the beat of a song he knew, and the growls would go to the beat, so he called it “playing the cat”! Honestly, it sounded and looked less like music and more like a one‑man band auditioning for the circus!

One time he was smoking a cigarette while talking to Mom and me in the living room. He was standing and we were seated. He got so involved in whatever he was telling us he didn’t realize the ash on his cigarette fell off! Mom yelled “THOMAS!” as she pointed to the ash on the rug. Tommy just calmly rubbed it into the rug with his foot like a janitor sweeping crumbs under the table. Again, Mom exclaimed loudly, “THOMAS!!!” He just looked at her and said, “It’s ok Mom, it’s good for the rug!”, as if ashes were some types of miracle carpet deodorizer!

Another time he was headed out to be with his friends and my mother told him that his fish in the fishtank were floating like parade balloons after the party’s over. He wanted to go out, so he told her he would take care of it later. Mom said, “No, the fish are dead, and they will start to smell.” My brother promptly went into the kitchen, under the sink and grabbed a bottle of Ammonia. He poured a little in and said this will keep them from smelling like gym socks in July! It was like watching a mad scientist fix a biology experiment with household cleaner—Dr. Frankenstein meets Mr. Clean! She yelled out her infamous “THOMAS!!!” but he was already on his way out the apartment door, as quick as a kid hearing the ice cream truck. When he returned, the fish were swimming and fine! He said the Ammonia must have straightened out a problem with the water’s pH or something. Would you believe those fish lived another year or so, like retirees on a vacation! To extend the fish tank story, when my brother was a little younger, he had a toy boat. One day he decided to put it in the fish tank and put his hamster inside the boat, like the little tidy-bowl man in the old commercial- floating in a boat in a toilet tank! Of course you can guess what came next: “THOMAS!!!” LOL

When my brother was 16, maybe 17, sometimes he and his friends would drink beer on the weekends like frat boys at spring break. Naturally Mom smelled it on him and he got grounded. He came to me one day to ask, “When you were my age, you had drinks with your friends, right?” I said “yeah” and then he asked, “Did you ever get caught by Mommy?” I said “No!” He looked at me in disbelief like a magician whose trick just failed, “I don’t see how you didn’t get caught, she has a nose like a bloodhound at a perfume convention!” I replied, “You need to smarten up to outwit her, like a fox sneaking into a henhouse! You need to learn to hide it better, like a ninja in the night.” He asked what I meant. So I said, “At some point before you leave the house, when Mom isn’t in the kitchen, grab a small piece of tin foil and quickly put a bit of garlic powder in it. Right before you get home, lick the garlic as if you were Dracula at an Italian buffet, and if Mommy asks why you reek of garlic, tell her you had pizza with your friends on the way home!” His eyes lit up like a kid spotting free samples at a candy factory. Sometimes you just have to help a brother out, ya know?

Then there was the time my mother and Tommy were walking outside, and I don’t know what they were talking about, because I wasn’t there. But I never forgot the story as it was told to me. My mother was notorious for wearing pink lipstick. And whatever they were discussing, he turned to her (as a joke) and told her, “Shut your pink lips!” Mom could take a decent joke, and it did make her laugh like a hyena at open mic night when she repeated this story to me. Another time we were in the living room and Mom was standing in the kitchen doorway facing us. Whatever Tommy did—Mom was giving him a piece of her mind like a lawyer delivering closing arguments. When she was done, he calmly looked at her and quoted a song by singing, “Hey ma, take a walk on the wild side.” I thought to myself, “He must be certifiable, like a guy trying to juggle chainsaws at a family picnic!” But—it got her to laugh! I guess he knew what he was doing after all.

I can go on and on about the things Tommy did. There are many stories and many more antics to come forth in this blog. Honestly, growing up with him was like living inside a sitcom where the laugh track was just Mom yelling “THOMAS!!!” on repeat. 

Takeaway

Growing up with Tommy was like living inside a sitcom where the laugh track was Mom yelling “THOMAS!!!” on repeat. The chaos was constant, but the comedy was gold—proof that even the wildest antics become family legends worth retelling.

⭐Forks & Fiascos™ Meter Table: Tommy’s Antics Edition

Category           Rating / Notes

Chaos Quotient            9/10 – From airborne cats to ammonia‑revived fish, Tommy’s antics were pure sitcom chaos.

Laugh Factor  9.5/10 – Mom’s repeated “THOMAS!!!” catchphrase is the perfect laugh‑track; punchlines land throughout.

Shock Value    8.5/10 – Tossing Muffin, flushing toilets, and resurrecting fish? Equal parts jaw‑drop and giggle.

Sibling Shenanigans 10/10 – Classic brother‑sister dynamic: you as the sidekick with dynamite, him as the chaos conductor.

Classic Michele Moment™     9/10 – Garlic disguise trick and chainsaw‑juggling thought prove your trademark wit.

Overall Dispatch Rating          ⭐⭐⭐⭐✨ (9.2/10) – A compilation that reads like a sitcom marathon, with Mom as the laugh‑track.

 

Forks & Fiascos Featured Story: Another "Two for Tuesday" Bonus!

 The Great Hop Backwards

I recently had Achilles Tendon Surgery. Afterwards I have to be non‑weight bearing with my left foot for 4 - 6 weeks! Yesterday was my first post‑op doctor’s appointment. It went well, and when we returned, everything was supposed to go exactly as it did the day I returned from the hospital after surgery. We had a plan in place, which is exactly why chaos RSVP’d! 

Roger wheeled me up the ramp in my wheelchair like a tugboat guiding a ship safely into harbor. Then came the tricky part: pulling that tugboat into the dock! There are two steps leading into the house from the top of the front deck. Our plan worked fine. I got out of the wheelchair near the front door, next to those steps. Roger had a walker ready to steady myself, so I could hop backwards up each step. Roger stands guard like Fort Knox protecting its gold bars, to keep the walker from tipping forward. Voilà! I’m inside!

 I was just inside the doorway, standing there on one foot like a flamingo auditioning for America’s Got Talent (only I’m not that graceful). I realized Roger couldn’t get the wheelchair in with me standing right there like a human doorstop. So, in my warped brain, the next plan was simple: take two hops backwards because I didn't want to risk turning in the narrow vestibule as it would require way more hops than hopping back only 3 times, and that's enough room for him to bring in the chair. Then I can sit down like a queen returning to her throne proudly, like she just won a war!

Well… reality had other plans.

After the third hop backwards, I lost my balance (how one does this while holding onto a walker with both hands is beyond me, but it’s also SO me — And down I went!

To add insult to injury, as I went down, I hit the back of my right shoulder, elbow, and upper arm on the wall at the end of the vestibule, like a linebacker slamming into a goalpost! Then I landed flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling stunned. I said to myself, “Well, this is familiar!” Why is it familiar? Because this wasn’t my first rodeo.

Right before the fall, and just after I stopped hopping backwards, I put the bad foot down (a big- no no) but it was only for a nano - second. Luckily, it’s wrapped so well - even King Tut would be jealous! However, it saved me from any damage to the surgical foot.

Now came the puzzle: how do you get a 200‑lb. woman off the floor when she can only use one leg. Roger couldn’t lift me because I was sandwiched between two hallway walls like a sofa stuck in a stairwell - so we improvised. I rolled onto my tummy, tucked my good leg up under me, and Roger supported me under the armpits like a load‑bearing wall with doubts in its blueprint. I pushed up with my good leg (picture a clumsy yoga move crossed with a circus act), but hey, it worked!

The rest of the day I seemed fine… until after dinner. I wheeled into the living room, to get into my rented hospital bed, and suddenly the foot started zinging - like a string of Christmas lights with a mischievous short, that blinks at a failed audition for Vegas! Then came the ache on the top of the bad foot. Then the arm joined in. It was like my body was orchestrating a flash mob without rehearsal turning into a chaotic, dance routine) gone awry.

I debated Tylenol versus the “big guns” pain med they gave me for home selfcare. I hadn’t touched them in 8 days, but the aches were winning, so I opted for the pain med. Thankfully, it calmed the flash mob down.

Today? Just sore with no serious damage. Basically, I'm left with a bruised ego and this story that proves once again that in my world - even just getting through the front door can turn into a fiasco (pun intended).

The Takeaway: Sometimes life hands you a fiasco, and you just have to laugh it off and keep hopping forward! Roger and I may not win medals for grace, but we sure win for teamwork!

Story Two: The Flip Flop Fiasco

Flashback about three years ago. I was getting ready to leave for my part‑time receptionist job at a local hair salon that my friend owns. We will call her Ellie. I had 40 minutes to spare, but those minutes flew by like a pizza slice at a teenage sleepover! Suddenly, I had five minutes to get there, but it takes 10!

I rushed, flip flops on, keys in hand and my pocketbook sitting on the dining room table like a cat pretending it pays rent. As I darted from the kitchen to the dining room, my flip flop caught the corner of the garbage can. Next thing I knew, the floor was coming at my face!

In that nano‑second, as I was falling, my brain screamed: “Twist your body, bitch!” And I did — landing hard on my left shoulder instead of my face. It hurt like hell, but I got up, grabbed my bag and left.

At work, I said nothing to Ellie about it. I just quietly tested the arm from behind the reception area. It didn’t lift far and hurt more when i tried, and I knew I most likely dislocated it (another familiar territory). But the dedicated working girl in me said to herself: the left shoulder doesn’t hurt when it’s still, and I’m a righty, so get to work and deal with it later. 

I did my 2 - 3 hours of business as usual. As I was leaving, Ellie asked what I was doing with the rest of the day. I said: “Heading to the doctor, because I’m fairly certain I dislocated my shoulder this morning!”

She whipped her head around mid-haircut and said: “And you came into work today?” I replied: “Of course I did, because staying home would just give gravity another chance!” 😂 And then I left. 

The Takeaway: Sometimes life hands you not one fiasco, but two — and you just have to laugh, improvise, and keep moving. Whether it’s hopping backwards into a wall or twisting mid‑fall to save your face, the real win is turning the chaos into a story worth telling.

Forks & Fiascos Meter Table (Double Trouble Edition)

Category Hop Backwards Flip Flop Rating Score Gracefulness Flamingo / one foot (minus the grace) Olympic gymnast who forgot the routine ⭐⭐☆☆☆ (2/5) Impact Points Shoulder, elbow, arm, dignity Shoulder, pride, flip flop ⭐⭐⭐☆☆ (3/5) Recovery Method Circus‑yoga hybrid with Roger assist Twist‑and‑carry‑on ⭐⭐⭐⭐☆ (4/5) Humor Factor Neon lights + flash mob Pizza slice + gravity gag ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (5/5) Lesson Learned Even doorways can betray you Flip flops are silent assassins ⭐⭐⭐⭐☆ (4/5)

 

 

Mice, Mitts & Muffin: A Three-Tale Mouse-capade

Union Beach, NJ: The Bite That Bit Back

Back in Union Beach, NJ, our cats were outdoor adventurers - furry little assassins who proudly left “gifts” in the yard. If you’ve ever had cats, you know these gifts aren’t wrapped in bows - they’re usually dead mice or birds, lovingly mauled and ceremoniously deposited like trophies.

One day, Roger spotted a field mouse left by one of our feline benefactors. He grabbed a plastic bag to scoop and toss it - standard procedure. Except… surprise! The mouse was not dead. It was very much alive and apparently not thrilled about being bagged. It bit Roger through the plastic!

Cue my frantic Googling: “Do field mice carry rabies?” “Is this a hospital thing or a Band-Aid thing?” The internet said they’re generally harmless, but if you’re squeamish, go see a doctor. Roger was squeamish. Off to urgent care we went, where they disinfected the bite, gave him a tetanus shot, and sent us home with a story that still makes me laugh.

Pennsylvania: The Great Oven Mitt Mouse Chase

Fast forward to Pennsylvania, where we now live in a wooded area - translation: winter mice seeking warmth. Normally, our cats Buddy and Momma handled the occasional intruder with feline efficiency. But one winter, it was like Mouse-palooza in our walls. Roger set humane traps and caught four in 24 hours. Clearly, we had a rodent rave happening somewhere inside.

That night, while we were watching TV, I saw Buddy chasing something. Another mouse! Roger and I leapt into action. Buddy was doing the classic cat thing - catch, release, repeat -like he was auditioning for Mouse Gladiator. Roger, having learned his lesson, sprinted to the kitchen and returned wearing oven mitts. Yes, oven mitts. Our plan: when Buddy released the mouse, Roger would scoop it up, and I’d open the door for the grand outdoor eviction.

Mid-chase, I burst out laughing. Roger looked at me, confused. “Look at us!” I said, “You in oven mitts, me fluttering about, the cat doing laps - we’re like a live-action cartoon!” Roger started laughing too, and Buddy kept chasing like it was his personal Olympics.

Eventually, the mouse ducked under the China cabinet. Roger baited a trap with peanut butter, and Buddy crouched like a furry sniper. Minutes later - trap closed! Roger released the mouse onto the deck like a tiny parolee. The next day, the exterminator came. No mice since. Three years mouse-free. Victory.

Bonus Tale: The Fire Escape Project

The previous mouse-capade jogged a memory from my childhood. My brother and I were still living at home, and our cat Muffin caught a mouse. It was dead, intact, and apparently perfect for my brother’s latest science experiment: he wanted its skeleton!

So, he placed the mouse on the fire escape to decompose. Problem solved, right? Wrong. For weeks, my mom couldn’t figure out why the house smelled like botanical death every time she opened the living room windows. She blamed the neighbor’s plants.

Eventually, she discovered the truth: the stench was coming from my brother’s DIY skeleton project. Her reaction? Horror. His? “Oh yeah… I forgot I did that.” Classic.

Forks & Fiascos™ Meter: 9.5/10

Chaos Quotient: Oven mitts, airborne mice, and decomposing science experiments

Laugh Factor: High. Like, “I snorted my coffee” high.

Moral of the Story: Always check if the mouse is alive. And maybe don’t rot one on a fire escape.

 

 Two for Tuesday: Wedding Wipeouts & Catastrophes

Today we offer my blog fans a bonus - “Two for Tuesday” because this is actually two tales on the same subject: Weddings. All true. All SO me - so buckle up and I’ll take you for the ride!

The Wedding Split

I was about 18 years old, dating a guy whose family had a wedding coming up. I borrowed a cream-colored dress from a friend - very classy, very “I’m here to behave,” which was a lie -because I never behave! I waited until the night before to shop for shoes. Because back then, I was unofficially known as “Last-Minute Tilly,” patron saint of procrastination and panic purchases.

I’m window-shopping near home when I spot the pair: 3” heels, strappy, sexy, and a sultry brownish red that screamed “I’m not related to the bride.” I go to open the door - locked. Inside, employees are preparing to close up. I knock. They shout, “Sorry, we’re closed!” I shout back, “Please! I know what I want, I need a size 7, and I have a wedding tomorrow!” They look at each other like I just asked for a kidney. I press my hands together like I’m praying to the Shoe Gods. They cave.

I point to the heels. They insist I try them on. I do. They fit like Cinderella’s glass slipper - if Cinderella had a flair for drama and a tendency to trip over her own feet. I buy them and strut out victorious.

Next day, I get dressed, get picked up, and off we go. At the wedding, I have a few drinks (obviously) and decide to hit the dance floor. That’s when the shoes - those traitorous stilettos - decide to audition for Cirque du So-Lame. One leg goes east, the other west, and I do a full-on split. Not a cute little dip. A full, Olympic-level, floor-hugging SPLIT.

But I think fast. I spring up like a caffeinated jack-in-the-box. People nearby start clapping. They think I meant to do it. I smile like it was planned! I Threw in a few extra steps for flair and exit the dance floor like a bat out of hell. I didn’t dance again that night unless it was a slow one - with my boyfriend as my human safety rail.

The Wedding Date Fiasco

Another time, another wedding. This one was for my best friend - we’ll call him “Jim.” I was married to my first husband (we’ll call him “Scott”), and we had an 18-month-old baby. When the invite came, Scott said, “Take your brother Tommy. I’ll stay home with the baby.” Great plan!

I prepped for over a month. I was older now, mid-twenties, and slightly more mature than the wedding prior. I had the card, the cash, the dress, the shoes, the matching purse. I even added non-skid pads to the bottom of my shoes to ensure I didn’t take off like a greased pig at a county fair.

Tommy borrowed a suit and shoes from my mom’s friend - same size, same “please don’t make me wear this” face. We looked fantastic. We walked to the venue, pulled the door handle… locked! What is it with all these locked doors?

 We peeked through the window. Inside: black and white balloons, pretty table decor, white tablecloths. But no people. No music. No bride. No groom.

I pull out the invitation. We’re on time. I call Jim.

“Hey, we’re at your wedding venue but no one’s here - what happened?”

He says, “Michele… the wedding was yesterday.”

Mic drop.

I apologize profusely. He laughs (of course he does) - he’s known me long enough to expect a full Michele moment. After the call, Tommy looks at me and says, “Well, I guess we’re all dressed up with no place to go.”

I turn to him and say, “Then we’ll find a place to go.” He raises an eyebrow. I say, “C’mon - I have an idea.” He replied, “Your ideas are often scary - but I’m in!”

We walk several blocks, and I surprise him with Beefsteak Charlies, the local steakhouse known for all-you-can-eat shrimp and all-you-can-drink beer, wine, or sangria. We order big steaks with all the trimmings, eat shrimp like we’re a couple of hungry whales who just crashed a crustacean convention, and drink pitchers of wine and beer like we were Viking pirates celebrating a raid. 🍻

We left there like two bloated parade floats trying to beat the wind. Before we got back to my house, I asked Tommy to make a pact: never speak of my wedding date mix-up again. He laughed and agreed. We never even told my first husband. He thinks we enjoyed the wedding.

Moral of the Story?

Always check the date. Always test the shoes. And always have a backup plan involving good food.

 

Forks & Fiascos™ Meter Rating: Wedding Edition

Category The Wedding Split The Wedding Date Fiasco Fiasco Factor 8.5/10 – Surprise split in heels mid-dance? That’s a certified fiasco recovered with flair. 9/10 – Showing up a day late to a wedding you prepped for a month? Legendary mix-up. Forks of Fate 7/10 – The shoes betrayed you, but the crowd thought you were a dance prodigy. 8/10 – Tommy suited up, the venue was dressed, and Beefsteak Charlies became the unexpected hero. Humor Quotient 8/10 – Slippery stilettos and accidental applause? Comedy gold. 9.5/10 – From “greased pig” heels to shrimp-devouring Vikings, this one’s a laugh riot. Emotional Whiplash 6/10 – From panic to pride in 3 second’s flat. 7/10 – Embarrassment turned into a bonding feast with your brother. Classic Michele Moment™ 10/10 – Last-minute shopping, dramatic recovery, and a smile that sells it. 10/10 – Calendar chaos, improvised steakhouse redemption, and a pact of silence. Peak Michele. Overall Dispatch Rating: 9.2/10 – A Double Dose of Delightful Disaster