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

 

 

The Night I Became a Psychic

I was 26, and my sister and I were regulars at Peggy O’Neil’s -a bar in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn where the crowd was a tiny bit rowdy but fun, and the fun never started until after 9 pm. Showing up early was for rookies. We preferred the crowded chaos.

It was a Saturday night, and we’d already had one drink when I told my sister I’d grab the next round. I spotted a sliver of space at the bar, rare as a cab in a snowstorm! I wedged myself in. The bartender was busier than a squirrel at a rave, darting around the opposite end of the bar, while I waited my turn to order drinks.

To my right were five guys, deep in a “what do you do for a living” icebreaker. One guy (let’s call him Joe) wasn’t standing directly next to me, but close enough that I could hear what everyone said, including Joe, proudly declaring, “I’m in the Merchant Marines!”  The bartender finally made it down my way, I ordered our drinks and missed some of their chat - but I did catch what they all ordered after me. That was enough.

I returned to my sister and said, “I’m about to do something funny.” She raised an eyebrow. I explained what I’d overheard and told her to follow me back toward the group. We stealthily inched closer until I could squeeze in next to Joe. I placed my drink on the bar, turned to him, and said, “Hi.”

He greeted me back with a smile (probably assuming I was going to hit on him), and then I asked, “So what are you guys talking about?” He said, “We’re telling each other what we do for work.” I grinned. “Oh cool. I bet I can guess what you do.” He looked intrigued. “I doubt it. What makes you so sure?” I leaned in and said, “Let’s just say... I have a gift.”

Now he was hooked. “Okay, big shot,” he said. “Go ahead. Tell me.” I looked him dead in the eye and said, “You’re a Merchant Marine.”

The look on his face? Pure disbelief. His jaw dropped. The other guys were stunned. One guy laughed nervously, and I turned to him and said, “What are you laughing at? You just got laid off yesterday.” He instantly shut up.

Another guy in the corner piped up, “Read me next!” I said, “You deliver mail.” He gasped. “How did you know?!” I replied, “I already told Joe- I have a gift!” The last guy said, “You will never guess what I am drinking?” I looked at him and smiled with confidence as I replied to him, “I can certainly tell you it’s disgusting -  you are drinking what they call “Smokers Cough” (a drink made with Jägermeister and mayonnaise). He nearly fell off his barstool!

They were convinced I had some kind of powerful gift. As I turned to walk away, Joe called out, “Don’t go! Tell us more! Can you read the future?” I laughed and said, “No, idiot - I overheard you all while I was ordering drinks.”

My sister and I burst out laughing and toasted to my brief career as a bar-side psychic. I never saw Joe again, but that moment set the tone for one of the most entertaining nights we ever had at Peggy O’Neil’s.

Bar-Side Psychic Rating Meter™

How convincing was my impromptu mind-reading act? Let’s break it down.

Category Rating out of 5 Notes Shock Factor 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 Joe’s face said it all - jaw dropped, eyes wide, full-body disbelief. Confidence Delivery 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 “Let’s just say, I have a gift.” Nailed the drama. Accuracy 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 Merchant Marine? Mail carrier? Laid off guy? All correct. Crowd Reaction 🍸🍸🍸🍸 Laughter, gasps, and a request for a future reading. Exit Line 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 “No, idiots - I overheard you.” Mic drop. Sister’s Approval 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 Laughed out loud. Mission accomplished. Repeatability 🍸🍸🍸 Only works if the bar’s loud and the guys are chatty. Final Score: 34 out of 35. Verdict: A legendary psychic cameo. No crystal ball required.

 

 

A steakhouse visit turns into a fun lesson in survival and etiquette. 

Here’s how it all unfolded…

A Steakhouse Survival Story 

Tuesday's Featured Story - 10/21/25

There we were - Roger and I - dining at Mon Ami Gabi, a stunning steakhouse tucked inside the Paris Hotel in Las Vegas. Think white tablecloths, black-suited waiters with napkins draped over their arms, and a vibe so classy it practically whispered: “Don’t embarrass me.”

We ordered drinks, soaked in the romantic ambiance, and prepared for a meal worthy of a food blog photo shoot. I went full carnivore: a bone-in 16 oz ribeye, medium-rare, with whipped garlic potatoes. Roger? Same side dish, but his steak - brace yourself - well done.

The waiter didn’t say a word, but his eyes screamed “Nooooo!” like a silent soap opera. I felt it. He felt it. The steak felt it.

Then came the moment. The drinks were refreshed, then the steaks arrived. The waiter turned to leave, and Roger - my beloved, my ketchup-loving partner said:

“Oh, can you please bring me ketchup?”

I cringed. I wanted to dive under the table, fake a phone call, or pretend I was just a tourist who wandered in. The waiter’s eyes bulged. His soul left his body. He looked at me with a mix of shock and sympathy, and I did the only thing I could:

“None for me, thank you.”

He smiled. A knowing smile. A “you’re not the problem here” smile. He returned with the ketchup, placed it on the table like a cursed artifact, and walked away without another word.

Back home, I told a friend who happens to be a ketchup fanatic and he didn’t see the issue. I explained the sacred rule: you don’t ask for ketchup at a fine steakhouse. He offered a workaround:

“Just order fries with your steak.”

Cute idea. But let’s be honest - fries with your steak at a fancy steakhouse like Mon Ami Gabi? That’s like wearing flip-flops to a black-tie gala! To me, it’s basically a crime waiting to be tried!

 

Condiment Courtroom Rating Meter™

Verdict Rating     Description Hung Jury 1/5  Confusing flavor choices, no clear condiment       convictions. Mistrial 2/5 Some laughs, but the sauce didn’t stick. Guilty Pleasure 3/5 Entertaining with questionable taste—like ketchup on eggs. Flavor Felony 4/5 Bold, hilarious, and nearly perfect. Condiment Conviction 5/5 Slam-dunk storytelling. Judge Mustard approves.

FEATURE STORY BONUS:

Welcome to the condiment courtroom, where ketchup faces trial

Like most people, I have my quirks too, and when in a classy restaurant I simply follow the unwritten rules. Ketchup on steak? No ... Just NO! This isn’t weird - it’s just me being me! It’s my condiment integrity.

Get to know the Characters in the Condiment Courtroom:

Judge Mustard

Title: Chief Justice of the Condiment Court

The Personality: Stern and colorful, believes in flavor & ketchup boundaries.

Signature line: “Order in the court - and on the steak!”

Fun Fact: Once threw out a case, because the plaintiff confused Dijon with yellow. “Flavor misidentification is a mistrial.” On a side note: Judge Mustard keeps a tiny bottle of horseradish in his robe for emergencies.

Bailiff Ranch

Title: Bailiff of the Condiment Court

Personality: Silent but Salty - quietly judging everyone’s dipping habits. All Ranch-No nonsense.

Signature Line: “Keep it clean - or I’ll confiscate your fry basket.”

Fun Fact: Was removed from a party security detail, after tackling someone -  for double-dipping.

 

Ketchup Bandit

Role: Defendant on trial for culinary overreach - accused of appearing on Steak & other foods where he’s neither invited nor welcome.

Personality: Nervous but defiant. Thinks he’s beloved by all, but cracks under pressure when questioned about steak, eggs, and hot hogs

Signature line: “I go where I’m squeezed, don’t blame me for your poor taste.”

Fun Fact: Once tried to sneak into a Michelin-starred tasting menu disguised as tomato foam. The Executive Chef called security.

 

BBQ Betty Esq. & Associates

Role: Defense attorney for rogue condiments, specializes in defending condiments that go on food in which they don’t belong.

Personality: Sultry and unapologetic, always trying to justify a smokey presence

Signature lines: “If it clings to meat and makes mouths water, I’ll fight for it.”  And “Every rogue drizzle deserves a fair trial.”

Fun Fact: Filed a 12-page appeal when someone used ketchup on steak - and was sentenced to life without parole.

 

Mayo, Associate

Title: Associate with BBQ Betty Esq. & Associates  

Personality: Smooth & always prepared to cover anything.

Signature Line: “I don’t make waves - I emulsify them!”

Fun Fact: Once filed a motion to ban Aioli and redacted an entire transcript when someone said “aioli” instead of “mayonnaise.

To my fan base: Confess your food quirks & defend your condiments - or throw them under the bus in the comments section! This is a safe space for Condiment Criminals, Sauce Sinners, Dip Defendants and Gravy Gremlins. Speak your mind - All condiment confessions & quirks will be entered into the official record - unless they’re too saucy for public consumption!

The Great Radio Heist: Midnight Mission 

10/14/25

Picture this: A modest two-bedroom apartment with a cozy living room nestled right outside the bedrooms, and a kitchen tucked quietly to the side. Mom’s place - our playground - and the setting for one unforgettable night.

Tommy’s room was a double-bed camp: two single beds with a nightstand sandwiched in between, perfect for late-night conspiracies. Mom was in her master bedroom, her party-hardened presence lingering like perfume and authority.

It was close to 1 a.m.- the witching hour, when quiet schemes come alive. Tommy and I were hanging out when I made the declaration of the night: We need music! But Mom had disciplined Tommy days earlier (for who knows what) and confiscated his beloved radio. “It’s in her room,” he said, nodding toward the wall we shared with Mom.

She was snoring softly—fueled by liquid courage, no doubt—but that didn’t dampen our plans. Tommy, the stealth expert, volunteered for the retrieval mission. “Stay put and be prepared,” he whispered. Prepared for what? I had no clue. But I perched on the edge of the bed like a soldier awaiting orders.

Minutes passed. Silence. Then movement.

I sat still, light off - just in case it was Mom. I listened, heart pounding. I heard her walking through the living room and down the hall to the bathroom. But where the heck was Tommy?

Suddenly - THUD! The unmistakable sound of disaster.

Tommy burst back into the room, slid something under the bed, dove onto the mattress, and hissed, “Quick, play dead!” No questions asked—the mission was clear.

Seconds later, I could feel Mom’s gaze burning into the darkness. After five full minutes of covert stillness, we peeked out. No Mom in sight.

Tommy flicked on the light. I demanded the tale of the near capture.

Turns out, Tommy had tiptoed past every creaky floorboard, ninja-style. He was inches from the radio on the floor by her nightstand when Mom coughed and began to stir. In one swift survival move, he flattened himself against the bedframe and boxspring, spine rigid, heart pounding, as her feet landed inches from his face.

She shuffled off to the bathroom. Once the door clicked shut, Tommy made his move—grabbed the radio and bolted.

But fate had other plans.

The THUD I’d heard was the radio hitting the living room rug. Four D-sized batteries exploded out of the back like popcorn kernels, scattering in every direction. Tommy scooped up the radio, kicked the rogue batteries under the sofa like a soccer pro, and sprinted back to warn me.

Now it all made sense.

With Mom back in her room, we turned to each other, snickering quietly about the night’s chaos.

Then came an odd sound - something between a cow’s moo and a foghorn echoing from the wall beside my bed.

Tommy perched up, pressed his ear to the wall. “It’s Mom,” he whispered. “Snoring like a farm animal.”

We burst into muffled laughter, faces buried in pillows, the tension dissolving into joy.

Finally, Tommy rescued the batteries, powered up the radio, and we lowered the volume to ninja level. Our late-night soundtrack played in the background as we whispered and laughed until dawn.

The Great Radio Heist - forever etched in our family lore.

Midnight Mooing Rating

Stealth Level: 10/10 (Tommy’s ninja crawl deserves a medal)

Battery Chaos: 9/10 (D-sized drama at its finest)

Snore Symphony: 11/10 (Mom’s foghorn moo earns bonus points)

Sibling Solidarity: 10/10 (No one plays dead like we do)

Final Rating: Moo-gnificent! 10.5/10

 

Love Hurts: The Spa Edition

10/7/25

Two Resorts. Two Romantic Getaways. Two Unscheduled Injuries.

Some couples collect wine corks from anniversaries. We collect bruises.

Let me take you on a journey through two romantic escapes—Resort 1 and Resort 2—where the jetted tubs are luxurious, the pools are inviting, and the laws of physics are apparently optional.

Resort 1: The Tub That Fought Back

Last year, we stayed at Resort 1, a cozy hideaway with a jetted tub that looked like it belonged in a movie montage. I was feeling glamorous, ready to rise from the bubbles like a goddess… until my hand slipped on the wet edge, my foot followed suit, and my entire arm dragged across the tiled casing like a human squeegee.

The bruise? A full foot long. From wrist to shoulder. I looked like I’d lost a duel with a marble countertop. Roger, ever the gentleman, offered sympathy and snacks while I iced my arm and plotted revenge against the tub.

Resort 2: The Ladder of Doom

Fast forward to this year’s anniversary at Resort 2. We had a private pool in our room—not Olympic-sized, but perfect for two lovebirds. I was descending the ladder with grace (or so I thought), when my right foot slipped off the rung. My left foot, still perched on the top step, bent backward so far it practically high-fived my own backside.

I saw stars. Not the romantic kind. The “I might need a brace and a prayer” kind.

I limped through the rest of the trip like a wounded warrior, but we still managed a beautiful dinner, a sun-soaked pool day, and a brief encounter with a karaoke DJ who mistook three people for a crowd. (“Everyone here has already sung, so you’re next!” he said. I leaned into Roger and whispered, “Everyone? There’s three people here and one’s the bartender.” We turned and walked out like divas.)

Resort Survival Guide: For the Accident-Prone Romantic

1. Wet surfaces are not your friend. Treat every tub edge like it’s plotting against you. Dry hands, slow movements, and maybe a helmet.

2. Ladders are sneaky. Always assume the next rung is a trap. Descend like you’re defusing a bomb.

3. Bring your own brace. Knee, wrist, emotional—whatever you’ve got. You’ll probably need it.

4. Don’t trust a DJ with a microphone and no audience. If the crowd is smaller than your dinner party, karaoke is optional.

5. Laugh anyway. Because love hurts, but laughter heals. And if you can’t walk away from a resort injury with a good story, at least walk away with a blog post.

We may be bruised, bandaged, and limping into our next surgeries, but we’re doing it together—with humor, heart, and a growing list of spa-related battle scars.

Stay tuned for next Tuesday’s tale! Until then, stay safe and watch your step!

Resort Injury Index Meter™

Rated on a scale from “Mildly Clumsy” to “Call the Concierge and a Chiropractor”

Rating Level Description 🧼 Slippery Snafu A minor slip with dramatic flair. Bruises, but no bruised ego. 🛁 Tub Trauma Tango Involves a jetted tub, a wet hand, and a physics-defying arm scrape. 🪜 Ladder Limbo Foot-to-butt contortion worthy of a Cirque du Soleil callback. 🎤 Karaoke Ambush Emotional injury from being drafted into a three-person concert. 🧊 Brace Yourself Deluxe Requires ice packs, Bio-freeze, and a cane. Comes with a complimentary limp. 🏥 Anniversary ER Package For couples who celebrate love with matching surgeries and spa-related bruises.

 

 

The Snack Bandit Strikes Again

10/1/25

One man. Two digestive systems (possibly 3), and Endless party snacks.

Every party has that one guest. Ours is a quiet guy we’ll call Merle—though around here, he’s better known as “The Snack Bandit”.

Merle doesn’t say much. He blends into the background like a decorative throw pillow. However - when the snacks come out? He transforms. If I had to use a comparison; I’d say he’s comparable to a racoon … raiding a midnight garbage can buffet with the stealth of a ninja and the appetite of a vacuum cleaner! I’ve seen him singlehandedly eat five foot-long hot dogs at a BBQ once. I observed him taking down a loaf of Italian bread like it owed him rent! His appetite is legendary. We’re convinced he has two digestive systems and a third one on standby!

With snacks, Merle never uses a paper plate at parties. He scoops chips, pretzels, peanuts or anything small like it - right into his hand and eats them one by one, hand clutched to his mid torso, like he’s guarding the last ration in a post-apocalyptic pantry. It’s not just a snack to him - it’s a mission.

My observant husband once joked, “If you put a bowl of dry cat food near him, I bet he’d eat it!” I reluctantly vetoed the experimental idea, but the theory carries on in my mind like a TV jingle from 1994 - uninvited, catchy, and permanently lodged in my brain. Every time Merle reaches for a handful of peanuts, my husband whispers, “Is this the day?”

Merle never notices. But we do. And we’re watching. Because when the snacks come out, so does The Bandit.

Snack Bandit Rating Scale™: How Bold Was the Grab?

Rating Description 🥄 1 Scoop Took chips. No plate. Possibly a bandit- like a racoon. ✋ 3 Palms Used hand-as-bowl. Guarded snacks like treasure. 🛒 5 Scoops & Side Stash Circled the snack table like a hawk.  🐾 7 Sneaky Paws Approached the snack table silently. Took food mid-conversation. Mistook the centerpiece for edible flowers. 🐉 10 Dragon Hoard Cleared the table. Left no survivors. Guests whisper his name. The cat food bowl was nearly breached.