Before Absurdities & Fires was a blog, it lived on Facebook—where I set the internet ablaze with travel disasters, dog drama, snack reviews, and other questionable life choices. People asked me to give those stories a permanent home, so here they are. These are the classics, the early chaos, the ones that started it all.
The Apocalypse Bowl: Why You Should Never Let Me Near a Can Opener
Back in July, this little family moment lived only on Facebook, but it deserves a permanent home here. My daughter had just shown my husband and me a TikTok of a couple who let ChatGPT turn their random pantry ingredients into a recipe (think Food Network’s Chopped, but with more trauma).
My husband, never one to pass up chaos, challenged me to do the same with what we had on hand. The result? A culinary fever dream so disturbing I laughed until I nearly peed my pants. And now, lucky you, I’m sharing it here.
Apocalypse Bowl: A Culinary Cry for Help
Ingredients
- 1 packet Buldak ramen (aka “fire noodles”)
- 1 can pinto beans, drained
- 1 can Hormel no-bean chili
- 1 packet tuna fish (drained and ignored as long as possible)
- Takis (Fuego preferred)
- 3 sugar cookies (bonus points if stale)
- Peanut Butter M&Ms (as garnish, obviously)
Directions
- Start the Pain: Boil ramen noodles according to package directions. Don’t add the spice sauce yet — save that for later regret.
- The Bean Bomb: In another pot, heat the Hormel chili and pinto beans. This is your protein sludge base.
- Question All Life Choices: Add the drained tuna. Stir while whispering “I’m sorry” to no one in particular.
- Noodle Nightmare: Once noodles are cooked, stir in the fire sauce like you’ve got nothing left to lose. Dump into your chili-tuna-bean apocalypse stew.
- Crunchy Chaos: Crush a handful of Takis over the top for spice, texture, and emotional volatility.
- Dessert Garnish: Crumble a sugar cookie as a sad streusel. Toss on a few Peanut Butter M&Ms to confuse your guests.
- Presentation: Serve in a deep bowl, preferably with a warning label and a spoon that’s seen things.
My Daughter’s Ole Miss Parking Pass
My daughter officially has her Ole Miss parking pass, which means her 2021 Subaru Crosstrek—aka the newest, shiniest, least emotionally damaged vehicle in our entire family—is headed to Oxford this fall.
Some of you may remember that last year she left her 2005 Toyota Corolla at home. A wise decision, considering it sounded like a distressed kazoo and gave off the general vibe of, “I think I can… but I probably shouldn’t.” RIP, sweet girl. You clattered so bravely.
But before anyone gets too excited thinking she’s driving herself to school… Lol. No. No, no. Have you ever driven through Appalachian mountain terrain with semis blowing past you like you’re in reverse? I love her, but I also love not having a panic attack on I-81.
So guess who’s driving the Crosstrek to Mississippi? 🙋♀️ Hi, it’s me. I’m the chauffeur. I’ll be gripping the steering wheel like a woman possessed while she snacks, scrolls, and “accidentally” connects her phone to the Bluetooth for an 8-hour playlist of everything ever played at an Ole Miss fraternity party or Oxford bar that she was totally, 100% of age to be in last year. Obviously.
Meanwhile, my husband will be driving his SUV, because there’s zero chance all of my daughter’s stuff fits in one car. This girl is moving back to school like she’s starring in an HGTV reboot called Fixer Upper: Sorority Edition. I don’t know how many throw pillows are actually necessary for a college apartment, but based on her roommates’ shopping habits, the answer is apparently infinite.
Anyway. We’re thrilled. So excited. Just emotionally and financially drained, that’s all.
Where’s the Tylenol?
How Much Caulk is Too Much Caulk? (Asking for a Wall)
What you’re looking at isn’t just overzealous caulking—it’s a crime scene. We spotted this shelf in a hotel bathroom on the way to Oxford, MS, and it was a chilling reminder of the kitchen renovation that nearly broke me.
Our former contractor (let’s call him Bob the Builder’s evil twin). Caulk enthusiast. Menace. He went through 12 tubes in 6 weeks. The grout lines were crooked. The level was never used. Neither were the spacers. I was one bead of silicone away from performing an exorcism with a Shop-Vac.
We fired him, but the trauma still lingers.
Coming soon to Dateline: “Deadly Drips: The Caulkening.”
Straight Outta Spring Break (and Into Your Bedroom?)
We were driving through Memphis on our way to Oxford when I spotted a store called “Hotels to Home Mattresses.” And now I have questions. Deeply uncomfortable ones.
Like… are we talking brand new hotel-style mattresses? Or are we talking “This one has seen 7,000 spring break guests and a questionable bachelorette party” mattresses? Because unless it comes with a blacklight and a priest, I’m not bringing that into my home.
Seriously, who looked at a hotel mattress and thought, “You know what I need in my personal sanctuary? This exact surface—stained memories and all.”
No thanks. I’d rather sleep on a pile of emotional baggage. At least it’s mine.
The Hunger Games: SEC Edition
Ole Miss 2025 freshman and sophomore student football ticket day, a.k.a. The Hunger Games: SEC Edition.
Freshman sales kicked off at 8 a.m. and were gone in a flash. Sophomore sales started at 1 p.m., but my daughter logged in at 11 a.m.—a full two hours early—just to be in the virtual queue. The system promptly channeled its inner toddler and threw multiple tantrums (a.k.a. crashed).
Somehow, though, my daughter fought her way through and scored her season tickets. They sold out in minutes, leaving a whole lot of sophomores—including several of her sorority sisters—empty-handed.
Now every single student ticket is gone. I’ve seen concert ticket sales go smoother… and Taylor Swift tickets are a blood sport.
OB-GYN Express: Now Serving Pap Smear Combos To-Go
We were driving through Tupelo, MS, when I spotted a place called OB-GYN Express.
I’m sorry, but that 100% sounds like a fast-casual restaurant. Like, “Hi, welcome to OB-GYN Express, would you like to try our new seasonal speculum?” Or maybe a place where you could order a Pap Smear Combo #3 and get it to go with a side of prenatal vitamins.
It’s giving Panera Bread for your cervix.
Curing Cancer with Carrots (and Other Things That Definitely Won’t Work)
Ah yes, Curing Cancer with Carrots. The groundbreaking medical text they don’t want you to read. Move over chemo, radiation, and decades of peer-reviewed research… turns out all we needed was a NutriBullet, a juicer, and a beta-carotene dealer.
The cover alone is a fever dream: an anthropomorphic carrot in a lab coat, holding another carrot like it’s about to perform life-saving CPR on its own cousin. Sun’s blazing, fields are lush, Big Vegetable is thriving. Honestly, this is what would happen if VeggieTales and RFK Jr. co-hosted a podcast on “natural cures they’re hiding from you.”
And I’m just saying, if carrot juice actually cured cancer, Whole Foods would have an oncology department by now, and RFK would be on the White House lawn doing keg stands with a juicer attachment.
⚠️Serious note: A verified purchaser on Amazon pointed out that the author did not cure her cancer with carrots alone—she also had chemo and surgery. Even she admitted carrot juice wouldn’t treat someone else’s cancer, despite what the title implies. So while carrots are great for your eyesight, don’t expect them to replace actual medical treatment.
Buc-Ee’s, and Beaver Nuggets
Back from Mississippi, where we moved our daughter into her temporary college Airbnb because… Oxford rental logic. (Pay rent August 1, can’t move in until mid-August. Sure. Makes sense.)
The drive home was a solid 14 hours, but the real endurance test was our stop at Buc-Ee’s. Imagine Disney World crowds, Walmart-on-Black-Friday energy, and a faint whiff of brisket hanging in the air at all times. I swear I saw people mapping their route through the store like it was the Appalachian Trail—and I’m pretty sure one family was building a base camp in front of the beef jerky wall.
My husband drove the mountain passes (smart move), I dodged powdered eggs at the Tru Hotel breakfast, and we made it back without needing roadside counseling. All in all, a successful mission… though I may still need a few days to stop smelling like Beaver Nuggets.
BREAKING: OXFORD APARTMENT ALREADY REACHES PEAK APPLIANCE REDUNDANCY BEFORE MY DAUGHTER EVEN MOVES IN
My daughter hasn’t even officially moved into her apartment yet (she gets her keys Saturday) and already I’ve learned an important detail about her new living situation: the kitchen now boasts two air fryers.
Not one. Not a deluxe, multi-rack model. Two entirely separate machines dedicated to blasting hot air at unsuspecting frozen food. One is your classic upright air fryer, and the other is a combination air fryer/toaster oven—presumably for when you need to air fry something, but you also want to watch it happen in real time, like an oddly specific cooking show just for you.
I’m not sure if this means they’re preparing for a small-scale catering operation or if they just fear a scenario where three roommates will suddenly and urgently require crispy tater tots at the exact same moment. Either way, the commitment to culinary preparedness is admirable.
I can already picture it: both air fryers running at full blast—one cranking out mozzarella sticks, the other crisping chicken tenders—while the microwave quietly questions its life choices and the oven remains purely decorative, serving only as high-end cookie sheet storage.
Honestly, I’m impressed. College is tough, and sometimes you need to air fry… while you air fry.
BREAKING NEWS: Passenger causes mid-air “code brown.” Sources confirm the bathroom will never recover.
This gave me major flashbacks to the time I was nursing my daughter during takeoff and she detonated all over me. Full diaper blowout. A warm, squishy betrayal. I had just been celebrating that I didn’t have to change planes during our layover—and then BAM. Cleanup on aisle 23B.
The flight attendants, bless their trauma-hardened souls, threw an airline blanket over the war zone (I assume it was burned later) and reassigned us like we were in the federal witness protection program. But here’s what they don’t tell you in parenting books: changing clothes in an airplane bathroom is like playing Twister in a coffin. During an earthquake. While holding a screaming, poop-covered infant.
And let me tell you, baby wipes do NOT remove the unmistakable scent of regret and breastmilk poop. I deplaned smelling like a lactation consultant’s dumpster during a heatwave.
So while I didn’t manage to cancel a flight, I absolutely emotionally waterboarded everyone within a two-row radius. You’re welcome, Delta.
Operation “Move-In” (With Heavy Quotation Marks)
My husband and I are currently on our way to Dulles, where we’ll fly to Memphis, rent a car, and drive to Oxford… all for the express purpose of “moving” my daughter into her apartment. I put “moving” in quotation marks because the place is already furnished, she’s already hauled most of her stuff over, and thanks to her roommates getting their keys early, she’s been unofficially living there for weeks. What we’re really doing is relocating her from her Oxford Airbnb into her Oxford apartment—a logistical masterpiece, really.
If you’ve been following this saga, you know she has her own car in Oxford. You might think that means she’d just swing by Memphis to pick us up. Adorable idea, but no. Apparently recruitment week is a full-contact sport. So instead, we are flying across multiple states, renting a car, and driving ourselves to her.
And once we get there? We’ll probably make her bed, because she’s a sophomore now and clearly incapable of wrangling fitted sheets solo. My husband will also be on standby to sign for her keys and parking pass in case sorority life calls her away at that crucial moment.
Still, I’m genuinely excited to see her apartment for the first time (in person)—and of course, to see my daughter as well—even if, after all this, our big parental contribution is fluffing pillows like we’re auditioning for HGTV and artfully draping a throw blanket at an angle that says, Yes, this is a lived-in space… but only by someone far too busy to pick us up from the airport.
The Ghost of Airport Wine: A Travel Tragedy
Here’s our pre-flight wine at the airport restaurant before boarding our flight from Dulles to Atlanta. Look at it—so full of promise, so confident in things like “on-time departures” and “basic hydration.”
Little did we know our plane would taxi out, get all lined up for takeoff… and then sit there for two solid hours because of weather in Atlanta.
And when I say “sit there,” I mean sit there with no water service, no liquor service, no nothing. Just us, seatbelts fastened, roasting in recycled air while the ghost of that pre-flight wine slowly faded from memory.
To really complete the picture, I had to make a very dignified dash to the airplane bathroom right as we were next in line for takeoff—because nothing says “glamorous travel” quite like begging a flight attendant to let you unbuckle in the middle of a thunderstorm delay.
Fast forward: we finally made it to Atlanta, where our connecting flight to Memphis was also severely delayed (because, of course it was). At this point, I’m convinced the only true essentials for moving your sophomore into her apartment are: wine, bottomless patience, and maybe a priest to perform an exorcism on Delta’s scheduling board.
The Biscoff Bribe: Adventures in Rental Car Purgatory
Update from the Neverending Journey to Oxford:
So here’s how the Memphis rental car game works: Thrifty (our original reservation) just shuts down when the employees get “tired.” No late flights? No problem. No customers? Even better. They just go home.
But not to worry—their sister company, Hertz (same parent, same dysfunction), was right next door! My husband actually managed to get a car from them… only to discover he couldn’t drive it out of the lot because, shocker, those employees had also gone home. It was basically Hotel California: You can check in any time you like, but you can never leave.
In a moment of desperation, I even bribed a kid in a yellow vest (airport authority? baggage handler? vest cosplayer? who knows) with a pack of Biscoff cookies—which I had EARNED on our cursed Atlanta-to-Memphis connection—to call Hertz for help. Spoiler: the cookies didn’t work. Jeremy was actually stopped at the gate by the police like some sort of rental-car fugitive. And worst of all? I never even got my cookies back.
This is, hands down, the most absurd trip to Memphis we’ve ever taken. And that’s saying A LOT, considering my husband and I were once Ole Miss students who regularly made the pilgrimage to Neon Moon and Cowboys—trips that somehow involved fewer police officers and better snacks.
Shout-out to National for finally rescuing us, but as for Hertz/Thrifty? Zero stars. Would not recommend. Unless you enjoy family-owned dysfunction, failed cookie bribery, and police cameos as part of your travel package.
The Mushroom Mafia: An Airbnb Horror Story
Our Oxford Airbnb hosts apparently have an obsession with ceramic mushrooms. Not the kind you toss into pasta, not the kind that make you see God—no, these are the unsettling, decorative kind. A family of four, no less. Except they’re clearly estranged.
Two sit proudly on a bookshelf, tall and self-righteous, lording over the novels like they’re auditioning for Martha Stewart Living. The other two? Exiled to the kitchen bar, loitering by the cocktail shaker like disgraced cousins at a wedding reception. Something went very wrong at the Mushroom Family Reunion.
The scandal, as I’ve pieced it together: one of them got a little too close to the salt shaker. A betrayal. A shame. The bookshelf mushrooms never forgave them, so they were banished to the bar, forced to spend eternity glaring across the room at their polished, superior relatives.
And then there’s the smallest one. The “baby.” Except it’s no ordinary baby. It has that unnerving aura kids in horror movies have—the kind who just sits there silently until one day it whispers something that makes the room go cold.
Of course, the official story is that they’re “just decorations.” Uh-huh. Sure. But I’ve seen the way those little painted spots glint in the light. Cameras. Microphones. Spores transmitting straight back to Mushroom HQ.
And naturally, I can’t help but wonder: if I eat one, do I grow larger? Do I shrink smaller? Or do I just get banned from Airbnb for life with a note on my profile that says: “Tried to consume the décor. Strong Alice in Wonderland energy.”
Anyway, if we disappear before our daughter’s apartment is perfected, don’t waste time with suspects. Start with the Mushroom Mafia. The tall ones will deny everything, the bar mushrooms will smirk knowingly… and the baby? The baby will tilt its tiny cap and whisper, in a voice that sounds like a thousand wet leaves:
“By nightfall the roots will breach the floorboards. By midnight the walls will pulse with spores. And by morning… only the mushrooms will check out.”
Zone 8: The Hunger Games of Air Travel
We said our goodbyes to our daughter this morning and thought we’d have time for one last spin around Oxford—hit “Discount” (Oxford’s weird little cross between HomeGoods, At Home, Kirkland’s, and the ghost of Pier 1) for yet another throw pillow (because apparently there’s no such thing as enough throw pillows) and then rounded it out with a Walmart run.
But no. Cabin 82—the little restaurant inside The Graduate (aka Oxford’s overpriced-but-cute hotel we’ll never actually stay in)—had other plans. What was supposed to be a quick breakfast turned into a 90-minute hostage situation with a burrito, a breakfast sandwich, some hash brown triangles, and a side of regret. By the time our food arrived, I felt like I should’ve been awarded frequent diner miles.
So now we’re barreling toward Memphis to catch our flight home to Dulles… with a layover in Detroit. Because when you think “Memphis to Virginia,” the obvious route is through 8 Mile. Maybe Delta’s trying to spice up our travel day with a surprise Eminem cameo? If not, I’m at least expecting an apology rap at the gate… and a complimentary pack of Biscoffs.
The Biscoff Redemption
Just now getting around to posting this because I’ve been wiped out today—between moving my daughter from her Airbnb in Oxford to her apartment over the weekend and our tight Memphis-to-Dulles travel shuffle, I’m basically running on fumes.
Anyway… ladies and gentlemen, we have achieved peak irony. On our connecting flight from Detroit to Dulles, Delta Air Lines handed us not one, not two, but four glorious packs of Biscoffs. A full carb miracle at 30,000 feet.
And yet… I couldn’t eat a single one. Why? Because my husband and I wolfed down Potbelly sandwiches in 30 minutes flat like we were training for the Nathan’s hot dog contest, and my heartburn promptly staged a coup d’état. So instead of savoring the sweet cinnamony goodness, I just stared at them in silence, like Romeo banished from Juliet.
The only silver lining: I’m less bitter now about having given my last Biscoffs to that random kid in the yellow vest at the Memphis airport in a failed bribery attempt. At least Delta proved that sometimes—just sometimes—the cookie crumbles in your favor.
Mission Impossible: The Pizza Heist
Winifred has locked eyes on me for a solid ten minutes, and I swear I can hear the Mission Impossible soundtrack playing in her head. She’s sitting there, curls bouncing, plotting a full-scale pizza heist like some furry Danny Ocean.
Her inner monologue goes something like this: “Step one: stare her down until she feels guilty for even having food. Step two: unleash the patented sad-eye laser beams. Step three: snatch the goods and vanish into the night. No one ever suspects the fluffy one. The tail alone is a distraction device.”
The “goods” in question? A crab pizette from Giorgio’s Family Restaurant. Creamy garlic base, fresh crabcake, mozzarella. Basically a holy relic in pizza form. Not a Costco slice. Not Domino’s two-for-one. We are talking sacred, hand-crafted, angels-singing-in-the-background pizza.
So yes, Winnie, I love you. You can have my seat on the couch, my pillow, and half my personal space for the rest of eternity. But this pizza? Not today, Satan.
Well, I’m Doomed
Welp, guess I’m in trouble. If this is the warning sign, I’m probably overdue for a neurologist visit—because my entire blog is basically one long obituary for good taste. Dark humor is my love language, my coping mechanism, and occasionally the reason my kids look at me like I need professional help. So either I’m doomed… or I’ve been training for this diagnosis my whole life.
Armed and Delicious: The Biscoff Bribery Reloaded
Food Lion haul of the week: airline-size packs of Biscoff cookies AND Biscoff Cookie Butter.
Translation: I’m now fully armed and ready to bribe as many kids in yellow vests as it takes to get a rental car in Memphis. Consider me prepared for our upcoming trip to watch Ole Miss beat LSU.
Last time, my single-pack bribe attempt ended in failure (no car, Jeremy nearly arrested, and worst of all…no cookies returned). This time? I’ve got ten packs plus a jar of cookie butter. If that doesn’t open the rental car gates, I don’t know what will.
And if all else fails, at least I’ll be tailgating in Oxford with a spoon and a jar of cookie butter. Hotty Toddy!!
May the PSL Odds Be Ever in Your Favor
It’s officially pumpkin spice season. I braved the annual Starbucks Hunger Games—aka the PSL line—where souls are lost, friendships are tested, and one woman in yoga pants loudly explained to her phone why oat milk is a conspiracy.
And yet, against all odds, I emerged victorious with my latte in hand in what can only be described as “relatively short order.” (Meaning: only half my lifespan and one podcast episode later.)
Anyway, it’s September, I’ve got my overpriced autumn-in-a-cup, and I’m legally obligated to post about it before my neighbors start decorating their porches with hay bales and inflatable skeletons.
These Boots are Made for Tailgating
Officially ready for the Ole Miss red game (LSU) and navy game (Washington State). 🙌 I may only be making it to two games this season, but let’s be honest: that’s plenty of reason to pack the boots and head to Oxford. Because at Ole Miss, the football is only half the show. The other half? The Grove.
Where else do people tailgate under chandeliers, with floral centerpieces taller than the quarterback, and food spreads that would make Martha Stewart weep into her casserole dish? You can wander from one tent serving shrimp and grits to another carving prime rib, all while trying not to trip over toddlers in smocked outfits or frat boys in bowties. It’s not so much tailgating as it is a Southern Gothic garden party that just happens to orbit around a football field.
Boy, I hope it doesn’t rain—because nothing ruins a chandelier faster than a downpour.
Hotty Toddy, y’all. ❤️💙
Norovirus: The Houseguest from Hell
PSA: Apparently, norovirus may be making the rounds.
Please, for the love of everything holy (and for your rugs, sheets, and dignity), wash your hands, disinfect surfaces, and don’t share food or drinks. This is not a drill.
Because last night? Norovirus (or its evil cousin) came for me. And it took my dignity first.
Zofran didn’t save me. Prayer didn’t save me. Not even Miss Winifred, who usually knows everything, could save me. The only thing that survived unscathed was my will to warn you.
Because listen: if this gets into your house, you’ll lose more than your dinner. You’ll lose your pride, your laundry sanity, and possibly the will to make eye contact with your family ever again.
In all seriousness, though:
– If you’ve been sick, stay home 48 hours after symptoms end.
– Keep vulnerable loved ones (kids, grandparents, anyone post-surgery) safe.
– Lysol, bleach, and soap are your friends.
In conclusion: Norovirus doesn’t just knock politely on your door. It kicks it in, raids your fridge, and laughs while you clutch a bottle of Gatorade. Don’t let it happen to you.
Currently taking song requests while I disinfect my entire house. Personally voting for “Highway to Hell.” Also considering framing a roll of Charmin as my Purple Heart.
When Even Soup Betrays You
Dear Campbell’s,
I’m recovering from norovirus. Translation: I had exactly three edible options tonight, and Homestyle Chicken Noodle was the chosen one.
Instead of comfort, I got stubby little noodle nubs floating around like sad pasta confetti. Who asked for this downgrade? Did a focus group of squirrels vote?
I don’t normally eat your soup, but right now I needed you. And let’s just say… this was not the warm hug in a bowl I had in mind.
Yours in gastrointestinal despair,
Elizabeth
Your Menu Options Have Changed… Again
I would like to lodge a formal complaint with the International Phone Menu Consortium (which I’m assuming is real, because clearly there’s a cabal at work here).
Why is it that every time I call INOVA—or any doctor’s office, for that matter—I have to sit through the entire hostage-situation recording about how their options have changed? Really? Every day? Did your radiology department suddenly become the cafeteria? Did “press 2” go rogue overnight?
Spoiler: THE OPTIONS HAVE NOT CHANGED.
Not once. Not ever.
But here I sit, dutifully listening like a trained seal while a woman’s voice gaslights me into believing we live in some alternate universe where menu options are shuffled hourly, like a demented game of telephone musical chairs.
Meanwhile, all I want to do is make an appointment. Or, you know, talk to a human. But nope—first I must pay the toll of The Message That Never Dies.
In conclusion: stop lying to me, INOVA. The only thing that’s changed is my blood pressure.
Time is a Flat Circle (and a Liar)
The Pirate’s Life (That I Missed)
On Talk Like a Pirate Day, and Long John Silver’s gives away free fried fish to anyone willing to cosplay as Captain Crunch’s unstable cousin. Say “Arrr” at the counter? Free fish. Dress like a pirate? Two-piece basket. Post a selfie in your pirate getup? Boom, another coupon. It’s like Halloween meets high-sodium performance art.
And yet… I forgot.
So here I am, eating beef and broccoli in cropped leggings and a t-shirt that says “Harvard Law—Just Kidding.” There’s no eye patch. No bandana. No dramatic parking-lot “ARRR.” Just me and my chopsticks, watching the dream of free fried cod sail off into the golden-battered sunset.
Next year, I’ll be ready. I’ll duct-tape a parrot to my shoulder and threaten innocent drive-thru workers in the name of tartar sauce. This year? I am but the ghost of Pirate Day Past, quietly chewing broccoli and reflecting on what could have been.
WHERE ARE THEY?!
Apparently today is Batman Day. You’d think the internet would be flooded with memes of the Dark Knight interrogating his WiFi router or demanding to know who finished the Oreos. Instead? Crickets. Silence. Gotham-level disappointment.
So here I am, doing my civic duty:
WHERE ARE THEY?!?!
(Side note: if Robin ever becomes a thing, we’re all in real trouble.)
A Goat, a Winery, and an Unholy Baptism
Met up with my good friend Bobby at Effingham Manor Winery for their 8th anniversary today—hadn’t seen him in YEARS. We caught up, laughed, drank some wine… and then he left before he could meet Daphnie the goat.
Which is tragic, because two minutes later, sweet little Daphnie baptized me in goat pee. At a winery. Truly a pairing I did not order.
10/10 still recommend Effingham, but Daphnie gets 1 star on Yelp. Pairs best with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc and a change of pants.
ETA: I’m beginning to think this is poop juice.
A Buttload of History
Gather ye close, fair folk, whilst I recount a tale of most noble nonsense. In ye olden days, a “butt” was no backside, nay, but a vessel most mighty—equal to two hogsheads. Think on it: two entire hogs did surrender their heads in the name of measurement, and lo, thus was born the sacred butt of 126 gallons. Enough to float a friar, pickle a bishop, or at the very least fuel one ye olde Sam’s Club wine tasting.
Whilst gallant knights did clatter about in tin trousers, jousting over land, honor, and whose lance resembled the more impressive charcuterie skewer, the true champions were the tavern buttheads, rolling these monstrous barrels through cellars and ships with all the grace of a drunk squire at a Maypole. Verily, the kingdom’s greatest invention was not the Magna Carta, but Happy Hour, born of buttloads beyond counting.
And thus we are heirs to this most ridiculous of legacies. Drink deep, my friends, for history is but a barrel, and that barrel is a butt.
The more thou knows.
P.S. Quite fitting that it’s the middle of Renn Fest season—and my son and I will be headed there next month to raise a goblet in honor of ye ancient buttheads.
SEC Football, Southern Hospitality… or Dateline: Oxford Edition?
For the Ole Miss–LSU weekend, we somehow booked an Airbnb where the owners themselves will also be staying. Yes, with us. In the same house. Separate bedrooms, obviously, but we’ll be sharing the kitchen, the living room, and all the awkward silences in between.
The reviews are glowing, which I take as proof that previous guests survived long enough to leave them. Bonus points for staying alive. Supposedly these hosts enjoy conversing with their guests, but also respect their privacy. Sounds great in theory, but if I hear the opening chords of “Hip to Be Square” and see someone unrolling a plastic tarp, I’m out the nearest window faster than you can say Patrick Bateman.
This weekend could go either way: HGTV’s Southern Hospitality or Dateline: Oxford Edition. Stay tuned. If I don’t make it back, tell everyone I went down in the line of SEC duty.
Update: Turns out it was neither. Our hosts were amazing—warm, kind, generous, and not even remotely serial killer–adjacent. I left with all my limbs, my luggage, and even a few new stories that don’t involve plastic tarps. 10/10, would stay again.
The Rapture, My Crocs, and a Prepaid Amazon Box
So, the Rapture was supposed to have happened today. Technically it’s still today, so I guess there’s still time for a last-minute pickup—like when UPS says your package will arrive “by 9 p.m.” But given that I’m still sitting here in my Hoover Dam t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and my Crocs (house Crocs, thank you very much—I haven’t completely given up), I’m going to assume the Lord is not rushing me to the VIP section of heaven. Which means: I hath been smited.
Honestly, if I really thought today was The Day, would I have gotten my hair done? Run to the library to pick up a book? Dropped stuff at the dry cleaners? Stopped by the UPS Store to ship back Amazon returns? Rolled up my sleeve for the flu shot and this season’s COVID vaccine? Nothing says “eternity awaits” quite like two fresh jabs and a prepaid Amazon box.
But hey, maybe I was subconsciously preparing—I mean, good hair and up-to-date vaccines for the Rapture can’t hurt. I just didn’t realize heaven was going to check my errand list, too.
So if you all suddenly vanish before 9 and I don’t, just know I tried. Tell St. Peter I recycle. And that my Crocs never leave the house.
The Scenic Route to Memphis
Currently reporting live from Dulles Airport, where we are about to embark on the scenic route to Memphis. Scenic, as in: first to Ft. Myers, Florida, then to Houston, and finally to Memphis, allegedly at 9:46 tonight. Because nothing says efficiency like flying an extra thousand miles in the wrong direction before eventually landing in Tennessee. At that point, we will bravely attempt to retrieve our rental car—this time from National, where we do have a reservation. Of course, last time we also did have a reservation at Hertz, and still somehow ended up in the “car? what car?” Olympics, so I’ll just say my expectations are tempered.
Why, you may ask, are we doing this instead of flying direct? Because the direct flight from Dulles to Memphis was $500 more for the two of us, and since we are already paying extra to stay in Oxford in a house where the actual homeowners will also be present when we roll in around 11 p.m., we decided to save money by spending more time in airports. Smart financial strategy: avoid splurging on time, spend lavishly on inconvenience.
So far, I’ve fueled myself with the bagel I made this morning before our hour-long trek to Dulles and a pack of Skittles that cost $8 at the Amazon airport store, which is at least $3 more than they would have cost at the grocery store but obviously so much more exciting to purchase here, where a $20 neck pillow feels like a bargain. Later I’ll add a plastic cup of United wine to this balanced diet, and since this isn’t Delta, there will be no Biscoff cookies to keep me company. Just me, my overpriced Skittles, and the faint hope that I won’t have to bribe another kid in a yellow vest with whatever free snack United decides to toss at us in order to leave the airport with our car keys.
If you don’t hear from me by midnight, assume I’m living in a Houston airport Chili’s now.
Layovers, Life Stories, and Loyalty Programs
Well, on the first leg of our flight (Dulles to Ft. Myers—because apparently “direct” is for people with disposable income), I had grand plans to sink into the book I brought. Instead, I spent two hours craning my neck toward Mr. Overshare, seated on the other side of Jeremy. He spoke to us both and was perfectly nice (an early retiree), but by the end of the flight I knew his entire life story: 75 homes viewed in Port Charlotte, Norwegian girlfriend from eHarmony, retired at 58, UConn alum, doesn’t get along with his son… Honestly, if he’s CIA, his cover story is airtight. The only real redeeming feature of that flight? A female pilot at the controls—automatic respect points.
Leg Two (Ft. Myers to Houston): different cast, new chaos. United is trying to tempt me into loyalty with caramel Stroopwafels. Better than Biscoff? Maybe. Worth two layovers, three screaming infants, and one tray-table-related showdown? Absolutely not.
Speaking of tray tables: the man in front of me immediately reclined his seat the entire two inches it allows and has spent the whole flight trying to push it back even further, as if sheer determination might bend the plane. Bonus points for arguing with the flight attendants about putting his tray table up. Meanwhile, the baby three rows back has been auditioning for the role of “Airplane Siren.”
Then came turbulence so bad I thought this was it. I told the woman next to me that if I suddenly started reciting my life story, that was her cue. Meanwhile, my husband was in the bathroom mid-bounce, and all I could think was, “Dear God, please let him be sitting down.”
At least I’m full of Stroopwafels and can maybe attempt my book again… assuming this flight doesn’t reveal yet another complete stranger’s autobiography. Still haven’t landed in Houston, but here’s hoping the next leg (Houston to Memphis) is less eventful. I’d really like to make it to Oxford tonight without fearing death, adopting a new family tree, or starting a Stroopwafel-based loyalty program.
Ah, the friendly skies. Where the Stroopwafel is the redeeming quality.
Hotty Toddy, Stroopwafels, and the Emerald Club Life
We have landed in Memphis, y’all, and I am pleased to report that I have already embarrassed myself on a national level. How, you ask? By commandeering the plane’s intercom to lead a Hotty Toddy chant. (The flight attendants encouraged it, so technically this was FAA-approved chaos.) I even got a few high fives on my way back to my seat—at least until they remembered I wasn’t handing out Stroopwafels. Yes, I scored a THIRD Stroopwafel, so we’re clearly living in the golden age of air travel.
At baggage claim, our luggage came out right away (unprecedented), while my husband sprinted to National Rental Car like it was the 100-meter dash. Turns out we are now members of something called the “Emerald Club,” which sounds like a Vegas speakeasy but is apparently just their loyalty program. Everyone please say “ooooooh” and “aaaaaah.”
The car? A Nissan Sentra. My husband insists it’s “midsize,” I insist it’s “compact,” and somewhere in the middle the Sentra is just glad to be here with temporary tags and only 1,300 miles. A baby car! Practically still in diapers.
On the drive through Memphis, we passed The Pony Club, which is—spoiler alert—not the kind where little girls learn to braid manes. Unless, I suppose, you count extensions. And no, it is not the glitter-drenched Pink Pony Club Chappell Roan is singing about, unless she’s made a career pivot I’m unaware of.
Next stop: Oxford, where we’ll collect our Airbnb key from its ancient hiding place under a rock (okay fine, not really, but close enough). Wish us luck.
More to come…
The Mile-High Hotty Toddy
Apparently I’ve peaked. Forget my book, forget parenting, forget surviving chemo—my true legacy is now being TikTok famous for hijacking (with permission!) the intercom on our Houston to Memphis flight to lead a full-volume Hotty Toddy.
Shoutout to the flight attendants who encouraged this nonsense, and to the many Texans who proved they either went to Ole Miss, love Ole Miss, or just really enjoy yelling things loudly in public.
Also, in case anyone missed it: Ole Miss beat LSU yesterday. So yes, the timing was immaculate. 😏
This may even beat the Stroopwafel I got on this leg of our trip. And thanks, United, for being such great sports about it!
Watch out world—today a plane, tomorrow the Jumbotron.
#HottyToddy #UnitedAirlines #SorryNotSorry
Hotty Toddy, TikTok, and Too Much Fireball
Well, Oxford didn’t disappoint this weekend. Within the first quarter of the Ole Miss–LSU game (which, in case you missed it, OLE MISS WON), EMTs were called to the women’s bathroom because a girl had locked herself in and passed out. By the time anyone got the door open, she was splayed on the floor in such a way that you didn’t need a medical degree to diagnose “too much Fireball + Mississippi heat.”
Meanwhile, I somehow went viral on TikTok for leading the Hotty Toddy chant over the intercom on our flight into Memphis. I felt like I should’ve given a safety briefing afterward—“In the event of a touchdown, your seat cushion can be used as a celebratory shaker.”
There was also a B2 bomber flyover before kickoff, which was only slightly less impressive than me not tripping in my too-long dress. (I managed to avoid the port-a-potties, praise be.) I even twinned with several other Grove girls—including one wearing my exact dress, but since she was very pregnant and very tired, I spared her the selfie moment.
Our Airbnb hosts? Sweetest people alive, didn’t kill us (bonus), remind me of my grandparents—warm, welcoming, and with a very “cozy” approach to thermostat settings. They don’t really drink (although she says she likes rosé), and they are charming in every way. As for their cars, let’s just say their driveway could double as a very niche dealership.
Meanwhile, at the Grove, two of our tent hosts were my sorority sisters (which explains why karaoke broke out there). Their spread included muffuletta among other things, and bourbon was flowing. We also stopped by another tent hosted by one of my daughter’s sorority sister’s moms—who, despite being an LSU grad, had hospitality that was absolutely unmatched.
Food highlights: the Noodle Bowl (best Chinese I’ve had in years, probably because it’s Mississippi) and Funky’s—a college bar where I sampled a stranger’s frozen espresso martini before he did. When I asked if he minded, he said, “I’ve done enough shit this weekend.” Same, buddy. Also met a random kid who poured out his entire life story over a compliment on his polo shirt, an elderly man who bought a Funky’s hat and declared himself a college student again, and two bar dogs who looked like they were wishing their water bowls were frozen daiquiris. Hotty Toddy, indeed.
Next up: whatever bourbon Jeremy hasn’t finished yet, and dinner at El Charro before we roll back home, hopefully without EMT involvement or TikTok cameos.
Crowns Before Coffee: The Memphis-to-Chicago Chronicles
Caught our 7:30 a.m. flight out of Memphis this morning, which meant walking past Memphis Made Brewing Company at 6:30 a.m., where people were already drinking while Amy Winehouse’s Rehab blasted from the bar speakers. Honestly? Appropriate. Also appropriate: today is National Coffee Day. Less appropriate: Starbucks has apparently rebranded itself as Tenbucks, because one grande PSL, one grande pecan crunch oat milk latte, and one small bottle of Evian (because nothing says “Starbucks” like the French Alps) set us back just over $21. (Worth it, but I did briefly consider selling a kidney at the register.)
We’ve been up since 4 a.m. to leave Oxford by 4:30—it’s about an hour to the Memphis airport—and I was the one schlepping both our 35-pound suitcases, a backpack, and my enormous purse into the rental return and terminal, since Jeremy is still under lifting restrictions. (Nothing says “vacation glow” like breaking a sweat before sunrise.)
Flight prep entertainment included a woman beside me smacking gum like she was auditioning for a percussion section, but at least she wasn’t narrating her entire autobiography this time. Mid-flight, my (thankfully empty) Starbucks cup escaped the netting and went rogue, landing under her seat just as the flight attendants were coming by for trash pickup. Cue me and my husband playing musical trays—shuffling his drinks and mine from my tray to his so I could bend down—while I tried to kick the cup forward to his feet so he could eventually grab it. Nothing like accidental footsie before breakfast. And bonus: only one layover on this trip, in Chicago, before we get to Dulles. Not bonus: my husband and I are both in middle seats for the next leg, seven rows apart. Translation: he has the backpack with all the snacks, I have no access to it, and I’ll be getting a prime whiff of the airplane bathroom for the entire flight. Truly, marriage goals.
On the plus side, we impulse-bought Little Debbie peanut butter oatmeal cream pies and peanut butter Nutty Buddy cakes at the Oxford Walmart, which my husband tucked into his checked bag. Fingers crossed they survive the baggage carousel unscathed because apparently Virginia is too fancy for them.
This morning’s drama included twenty minutes of nervously sitting on the tarmac in Memphis, watching the minutes tick toward missing our connection in Chicago. We eventually took off, disaster averted, and I spotted a man on the plane wearing a brown felt crown. If that’s a symbol of Pastafarianism, then sign me up—Catholicism is fine, but have you tried being a monarch before takeoff?
Meanwhile, the guy in front of my husband reclined his seat practically into my husband’s lap. It’s his turn this time instead of mine. 😂
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m awaiting my “light snack” of a Stroopwafel, which is the only reason I continue to fly United—although being officially welcomed to Chicago by a flight attendant on the intercom with, “Welcome to Chicago, home of deep dish pizza and inhumanely long taxi times,” might just be another.
From Stroopwafels to Standstill: The Final Leg
From Chicago to Dulles, the saga continues. First stop: the airline bathroom, where I discovered the plastic “wall” that goes over the toilet paper holder didn’t actually latch. So there I was, balancing like a Cirque du Soleil understudy, holding it closed with my knee while also trying not to fall into the sink and toilet. Five stars, would recommend.
My seatmate, meanwhile, was thrilled to see me shuffle past her for my middle seat (read: not thrilled at all). And what did I get for all this effort? Only part of episode five of Severance season one before the Wi-Fi betrayed me. If that’s not cruel and unusual punishment, I don’t know what is.
At least I was spared an oversharer this time. The girl in the window seat had her earbuds in for the entire flight—safety briefing, turbulence, snack announcements, the whole thing. Pretty sure if we’d gone down she would’ve found out about it on Netflix. (Kidding, of course. Do they ever actually change those safety spiels?)
Naturally, even though we landed six minutes early, we sat on the tarmac long enough to gift those minutes right back while waiting for another plane to leave our gate. Time is a flat circle, except flatter when you’re stuck staring at the back of a seat.
And then came the pièce de résistance: our very tired purser welcomed us warmly to… Tampa. Which was comforting, considering we were supposed to be in Dulles. Thankfully we did not actually arrive in Tampa, because that would have meant either another layover (the stuff of nightmares) or a twelve-hour drive home, neither of which I signed up for. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past my husband to have scheduled a surprise Florida detour just to keep things spicy.
Because my husband and I weren’t sitting together, I also got the honor of grabbing his backpack as I deplaned. He still has lifting restrictions, as you all know, and that backpack has God knows what in it. A laptop? A brick? Something TSA-approved but still suspiciously heavy enough to double as a kettlebell? Your guess is as good as mine. 😒
Once off the plane, I hit the airport bathroom only to find (as always at Dulles) an unmanned cleaning cart parked like it owned the place. Why?? Then, just outside baggage claim, PenFed Credit Union was assaulting us with its jingle on loop—“PenFed’s got great rates for everyone”—which was almost as bad as 1-877-Kars-4-Kids. Almost.
The good news: our luggage was already waiting for us. The bad news: once outside, so were the spotted lanternflies. A welcoming committee of corpses and wing-flapping survivors greeted us as we stepped out. Classy.
Also witnessed a woman sprinting with her baggage through the terminal like she was auditioning for the Olympic trials. Pretty sure she missed her flight, but hey, cardio is cardio.
As for my husband: it’s after 3 p.m., we’ve finally escaped the airport, and he’s still planning to go into the office after dropping me off at home. Because clearly nothing says “welcome back” like squeezing in a workday after a weekend of layovers. Overachiever.
At least we still have the Little Debbie peanut butter oatmeal cream pies and Nutty Buddy cakes—if they survived our connecting flight home. If not, that’ll be the real tragedy of this trip.
And as we drive in traffic on the way home, we may or may not be stopping for food, because nothing says “welcome back to Virginia” like needing a snack immediately after a trip powered entirely by Stroopwafels and Tenbucks coffee.
Absurdities and Fires 