Author Archives: Elizabeth

I try to believe in snacks. I really do. They’ve carried me through road trips, cancer treatment, and many questionable life decisions. But this week, snacks betrayed me not once, but twice.

I didn’t even go into Dollar Tree for candy. I went in because they sell Hallmark cards for fifty cents, and I’m cheap. Why would anyone in their right mind pay $5.00 for a grocery store card when you can get the exact same sentiment for spare change?

Naturally, once you’re in Dollar Tree, the junk food starts winking at you. I didn’t get a basket because I went in for one card—just one—but somehow I ended up doing a full-body balancing act by the register. On the way there, I spotted “name-brand” Halloween candy that was somehow six dollars a bag in the $1.25 store. I grabbed as much as my arms could hold, and while waiting to check out, I noticed a shiny pack of gummy cherries and some gummy ribbon candy that also promised to be edible. Into the pile they went.

Now, here’s where the story takes a turn. I only have one dental crown, and every time I buy gummy candy, it becomes an inner war: salvage the crown or risk it all for chewy glory? I always pick risk.

The gummy ribbon candy? Fine. Not great, but not offensive. The gummy cherries, however? An absolute olfactory crime scene. They smelled like Yankee Candle’s entire holiday collection staged a coup. One bite, and it was as if a Glade Plug-In had decided to pursue a culinary career.

I tried a second piece, hoping it might improve. It did not. It was “Grandma’s Bathroom During Thanksgiving” in chewy form. Two bites was all I could do before tossing the rest of the bag. Yes, I—the person who has not only eaten Stroopwafels and Biscoffs on planes but actively sought them out afterward—threw away candy I’d already paid for. That’s how bad it was.

Just when I thought my snack karma had bottomed out, I remembered the Little Debbie Peanut Butter Creme Pies we bought in Mississippi.

They looked innocent enough—oatmeal cookies hugging a thick layer of peanut butter filling. Practically a protein bar, if you squint.

Here’s the thing: one cookie is 420 calories. I didn’t know that at the time. The label said “130 calories,” which sounded perfectly reasonable… until I noticed that was for one-third of a cookie.

One-third. Who eats one-third of a cookie? Nobody. Nobody eats a third of a cookie.

So I ate the whole thing. And it was delicious—chewy, peanut-buttery perfection. Worth it, yes, but I still felt personally attacked when I realized I’d basically consumed the caloric equivalent of a cheeseburger, fries, and maybe a milkshake. From one cookie.

And no, I didn’t eat the whole box. I may have poor snack judgment, but I’m not completely unhinged.

So there you have it. One snack I couldn’t choke down, and one I probably shouldn’t have finished. Both equally disastrous in their own way. Moral of the story: the snack aisle is a dangerous place, and I’m not to be trusted in it. But I already know I’ll be back next week, crown intact, pretending like I’ve learned something.

Thank God I’m still belching up the curry chicken I had for dinner—it’s the only thing covering up the aftertaste of those gummy cherries.

Went to get blood drawn today—because that’s what you do on a Wednesday when you’re a cancer survivor and apparently a “frequent flyer” at the lab. I’m on a first-name basis with most of the phlebotomists now. I even joked that they’re working on a punch card just for me: ten sticks and the next one’s free.

Anyway, on my way home, I was stuck behind some guy who kept flicking something out his car window. For a mile I was praying it wasn’t boogers. I mean, no one wants windshield boogers. And then I thought of my dad—who could turn picking into an Olympic event. He’d roll boogers into perfect little pellets and flick them onto the carpet, and he used his car keys not just to scratch, but to mine for earwax like he was digging for gold. (Pro tip: don’t do this. You won’t die of earwax—my dad died of cancer, not from striking wax—but you will gross out your children forever.)

Speaking of noses, he also taught us how to hang spoons from ours. Sadly, neither my nose nor my brother’s were built for spoon-hanging, but my sister nailed it—so much so that she decided to show off at a fancy dinner with the governor. My mother nearly fainted with embarrassment and, naturally, blamed my dad.

Less embarrassing for her: the time my dad licked his dinner plate clean. More embarrassing for me: he did it in front of my date. My mom laughed. My date never came back. (Can’t blame him. We were chaos before it was cool.)

Families are a little cray-cray, right?

This week marks 33 years since my dad died—October 4, 1992. He was 50. Two years younger than my husband is now. He had breast cancer, and any time I see someone hang a spoon from their nose, I think of him.

Check your boobies, guys and gals. It could save your life.

I had a pepperoni Hot Pocket as an early dinner today. Tragically, it was not followed by a Stroopwafel, but by mellowcreme “autumn mix.” Which is fine, but let’s be honest—it’s no Stroopwafel.

Now, apparently Stroopwafels are only available on Amazon for the low, low price of about $26 for a package of 24. Imported, sure, but still. I refuse to pay more than $1 a pop for a Stroopwafel (though, come to think of it, that’s still cheaper than booking a flight on United just to get one).

Gratefully, the peanut butter Little Debbie oatmeal cream pies and Nutty Buddy cakes survived our flights from Memphis to Chicago and then Chicago to Dulles. I finally tried a Nutty Buddy cake last night and OMG, y’all. DELICIOUS. Five out of five stars, would recommend. I’ll definitely be scoping them out at Dollar Tree (per a friend’s hot tip).

But circling back to my original thought—because, “squirrel”—the Hot Pocket and autumn mix had nothing on muffulettas in the Ole Miss Grove or the Yaki Udon with shrimp at Oxford’s Noodle Bowl.

Also joining me for dinner was my goldendoodle, Miss Winifred (“Winnie”), who now weighs 75 pounds because she apparently ate a BLT the other day when my son wasn’t looking. She needed a bathroom break mid-dinner, which is fine, but wrangling 75 pounds of chaos into her harness is becoming Olympic-level cardio.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why not just let her run free in the yard? We do actually have an invisible fence. It worked beautifully… right up until Winnie stepped on a wasp (we think) whose nest is apparently lurking somewhere in the grass. Cue Benadryl, steroids, and antibiotics—starting the day before we left for the Ole Miss–LSU game. Because, of course. Pets (and kids, honestly) always time their illnesses right before major events.

Thanks to the steroids, Winnie’s appetite now rivals a frat boy’s at a tailgate—BLTs included. She’s also constantly thirsty, which means she’s constantly peeing. I’ve never seen a dog drain that much water in my life. On the plus side, the Benadryl knocks her out for a few hours at a time, which cuts down the pee trips. On the downside, she inevitably refills the tank at dinner.

Here’s to hoping Winnie doesn’t step on another wasp before our next Oxford trip in two weeks—for Parents Weekend and to watch Ole Miss take down Washington State. And here’s to hoping we either fly United so I can score a Stroopwafel, or Delta so I can get my Biscoff fix—or that my husband looks the other way when I add both to the Amazon cart.

Well, look at you, stumbling onto my shiny new blog. I’ve been setting Facebook ablaze for years with stories about dogs, travel sagas, airline snacks, cancer, multiple sclerosis, and whatever other absurdities decide to set themselves on fire in front of me.

Now I’m giving those disasters a permanent home. There will be chaos. There will be dark humor. There will definitely be Biscoff cookies and Stroopwafels.

Buckle up.

🔥Elizabeth

Well, here we are. After years of setting the internet ablaze with Facebook posts about dogs, travel sagas, cancer, multiple sclerosis, airline snack reviews, and whatever absurdities happen to cross my path, I’ve decided to give all of it a slightly more permanent home.

This isn’t going to be polished, influencer-style blogging with matching linen table runners and SEO-friendly recipes. This is me — observing life’s little dumpster fires, usually with snark, occasionally with wisdom, and almost always with a story I probably should have kept to myself.

If you’ve laughed with me (or at me) on Facebook, you’ll feel right at home. If you’re new here, buckle up. There will be chaos. There will be dark humor. And there will definitely be references to Biscoff cookies and Stroopwafels.

Thanks for showing up. I promise it won’t be boring.

🔥Elizabeth