We need to talk about something important. Something that speaks to the very core of who we are as a generation raised on VHS tapes, Tang, and the wild belief that wearing a Kangol hat made you cool.
This week’s episode started innocently enough—like most disasters do—with a casual mention of a Kangol hat. And before we knew it, Ryan and I were spiraling down a rabbit hole about early 2000s fashion that neither of us saw coming. (But here’s the thing: we’re workshopping content in real time, people. This is professional podcasting at its finest.)
The Kangol Revelation (Or: Things We Thought We Knew)
Did you know Kangol was founded in 1938?
Yeah, neither did we.
In our defense, Kangol screams 2001-2005. It’s Samuel L. Jackson in every movie. It’s that one friend who thought they were LL Cool J. (It’s me I’m the friend). It’s the accessory that made you feel like you had “made it” even though you were wearing it to a grade nine dance at the YMCA.
But 1938? That’s wild. That’s your grandpa’s generation wild. That’s “we wore these hats while storming beaches” territory, not “I wore this while awkwardly asking someone to slow dance to Usher.”
The best part? The kangaroo logo was only added in 1983 because Americans kept asking where they could buy “the kangaroo hat.” The brand just... went with it. Peak marketing. No notes.
When Your Dog Becomes a Criminal Mastermind
But first—because this is how we operate—I need to tell you about the absolute sitcom-level chaos that unfolded at my house last week.
Picture this: I’m out running errands. My dog Birdie (who is a sociopath, let’s just establish that) is on her lead on the front porch. My father-in-law kindly lets her out because she seemed to be enjoying the sun. Sweet, right?
Wrong.
An Amazon delivery guy FLINGS a package onto my porch—because Birdie is there and he’s nervous—and Birdie, bless her chaotic little heart, thinks it’s a toy. She drags the box onto the lawn (where I can’t see her on the Ring camera) and proceeds to RIP IT APART.
Now, here’s where it gets truly Porter family-level absurd.
A sweet woman from my neighborhood stops by to drop off a Christmas treat (because apparently where I live, people still do this). She finds:
- My front door WIDE OPEN (Birdie can open doors, naturally)
- A COUCH blocking the entire porch (delivered that same day)
- Birdie’s crime scene on the lawn
- Complete silence inside the house
This woman literally walks INTO MY HOUSE calling “Hello? Jacqueline? Are you here?” thinking I’ve been MURDERED.
She then goes outside, starts picking up all the destroyed Amazon items (an electric nail file with bits EVERYWHERE), and—I’m watching all of this on the Ring camera in real-time in abject horror at lunch—SHE STEPS IN DOG POOP.
I watch her wipe her shoe in the grass. Over and over. Then she gets a water bottle. Then she’s sitting on the edge of her car, pouring water on her shoes, STILL in my driveway when we pull up.
“I thought you were murdered,” she tells me.
“Nope,” I say. “I just wish I was.”
The Water Weenie Problem (Or: Why I Can’t Let Things Go)
Here’s something I’m learning about myself at 41: I still haven’t learned to let go of the water weenie.
You remember water weenies, right? Those gel-filled tubes that you could NEVER hold onto? The harder you squeezed, the faster they’d shoot out of your hands?
That’s me with... everything.
Case in point: I planned the PERFECT Christmas scavenger hunt for my work party. Fifty people. Twenty-nine kids. Cute photo challenges like “take a picture with someone who looks like Santa” and “do a pose on an escalator.” I even put MONEY in the envelopes so they could complete tasks like “buy yourself a treat.”
I’m picturing these adorable children having the time of their lives, making memories, being Instagram-ready cute.
We finish dinner. I hand out the envelopes with strict instructions not to open them yet. We all meet at the mall to start together.
I’m the last one to arrive (because I’m talking to the restaurant about the bill, being responsible and adult). I get to the mall and there’s a SECURITY GUY waiting for me.
“Are you in charge of this?”
“...yes?”
“You are not allowed to do that here.”
Fifty people. Staring at me. Waiting for the fun to begin.
Tim the Security Guy (bah humbug, Tim) explains that scavenger hunts “throw off the metrics” of stores. People are supposed to be shopping, not... having fun? Creating memories? I don’t know, Tim. I DON’T KNOW.
I try everything. “What if nobody goes into stores?” No. “What if we’re spending money?” No. “What if I cry?” (I didn’t actually say that one, but I thought about it. Because I definitely was about to start.)
So I pivot. I make up a completely different activity on the spot. Some kids end up just... buying themselves presents with the money, which is fine, whatever, chaos reigns.
But here’s the Porter family part: Three guys from our group decide to do the scavenger hunt ANYWAY. They’re sending pictures to the group chat. They’re singing Jingle Bells in the food court. They’re being DEFIANT.
And when we leave? My son Andrew walks up to the security desk—where Tim is conveniently on break—and tells the woman there: “Tell Tim he’s invited to the scavenger hunt next year. Same time, same place.”
That’s my boy. Mean streak and all.
The Certified Sweetie Man Scale (A Scientific Classification System)
I need to introduce you to something I invented: The Certified Sweetie Man Scale.
A Certified Sweetie Man is a man—usually older—who has NO GUILE. No malice. No hard edges. Just pure, soft, sweet energy. Dad is peak Certified Sweetie Man. He’s the standard by which all others are measured.
My family now asks me after meeting someone: “Is he certified?”
And I’m the only one who can make that judgment because I invented the scale.
Justin, my husband, desperately wants certification. He will never get it. Andrew, my wonderfully mean son who tells security guards they’re invited to next year’s rebellion? Will never be certified. Ryan? Sorry, brother. No certification for you.
But here’s the thing: The Porter family Christmas NEEDS Certified Sweetie Man energy to balance out our chaos. It’s why Mrs. Gerlitz—our childhood crossing guard who somehow became family—was so important. It’s why dad wearing our too-tight tank top and laughing so hard his belly shook like “a can of cranberries” (Ryan’s words) is a core memory.
Speaking of memories that randomly surface...
The **ASPEN** Cologne Incident (And Other Dreyer Drive Classics
You know what just unlocked our brains during this episode? ASPEN COLOGNE. Despite calling it “Alpine” multiple times in this episode.
The green bottle. The copper top. The fact that every Christmas, multiple Porter boys received this cologne and proceeded to empty it within weeks because we were teenagers who thought 53 sprays was the appropriate amount before leaving the house.
Then they’d sneak into dad’s room and steal HIS Aspen.
Why is this information stored in my brain? Why can I smell it RIGHT NOW, 20+ years later?
This is what happens when you grow up in a house where:
- Police showed up multiple times (the marble incident, anyone?)
- Someone threw a VHS tape at your face hard enough to leave blood on the corner
- Your valedictorian speech was recorded over by your brother’s valedictorian speech
- Dad dyed his hair green with Kool-Aid for St. Patrick’s Day and it stayed that way FOR MONTHS because gray hair + Kool-Aid = permanent decision
(Mom and Dad, I know you’re reading this. That last one happened. We all remember.)
Will It Porter? The Hallmark Christmas Movie Game
Okay, here’s where things get fun. Because I watch A LOT of Hallmark Christmas movies. The trashier, the better. Give me a woman falling in love with a ghost rum-runner. Give me someone accidentally handcuffed to a stranger for the holidays. Give me Hot Frosty (a snowman who comes to life, plays men’s hockey, and falls for a café owner—it’s filmed in Brockville, Ontario, and yes, it’s VERY Canadian).
So I invented a game: Will It Porter?
The premise: I describe the plot of various Hallmark Christmas movies that involve siblings, and Ryan decides if the Porter family would find themselves in a similar situation.
Round 1: Three Wise Men and a Baby
The Plot: Three estranged brothers are forced to care for a baby left at one brother’s fire station. They fumble through diapers while learning about responsibility, eventually deciding to decorate their mom’s house for a Christmas lights contest with a “Three Wise Men” theme.
Ryan’s Verdict: “One thousand percent Will It Porter.”
The baby part? Dallin and Jonathan would have NO IDEA what to do. Jonathan wearing oven mitts to change a diaper with kitchen tongs is absolutely something that would happen.
But the Christmas lights contest? THAT’S where it really Porters. Ryan and I would have STRONG OPINIONS about decorating strategy. We’d debate. We’d compete. We’d make it unnecessarily complicated.
Meanwhile, Jonathan would complain while executing everything perfectly, and Dan would show up when it’s all done asking why nobody told him we were decorating.
Round 2: Five Star Christmas
The Plot: A family runs a B&B and thinks a famous travel critic is staying there. They all pretend to be lavish guests and staff to get a good review, leading to chaos and romantic deceptions.
Ryan’s Verdict: “This is any time a guest comes over for dinner at the Porter household.”
THIS ONE HITS DIFFERENT.
Because we DID this. Every single time someone visited Dreyer Drive, it was SHOWTIME. We weren’t asked to be on our best behavior—we were asked to give the BEST PERFORMANCE.
We had our highlight reel of stories ready: The “just punch him in the face” mom moment. The police showing up for marble-related crimes. Someone breaking a bone doing something ridiculous. All carefully deployed at strategic moments during dinner.
We’d even stage cute little fights—nothing real, just enough to give them “the big family experience.”
And here’s the thing: We KNEW we were performing. We were so aware of it. The dining room was literally the SET. As soon as guests left? Someone probably punched someone for real.
But in the moment? Flawless execution. Give us our Oscars.
The Sausage Roll Situation
Can we talk about Christmas Eve food for a second? Because Ryan and I both agree: Christmas Eve was THE event. More important than Christmas Day. And it was mostly about the food.
The pierogies with bacon bits and sour cream. The ramaki (chicken wrapped in bacon with water chestnuts—very 1970s cocaine party vibes). The sausage rolls from M&M Meats that you’d eat seventeen of until you wanted to throw up.
And here’s something beautiful about the Porter Christmas: Things were only ADDED, never removed. Every year, someone would request a new item, and mom would just... add it. No substitutions. Only additions.
By the end, Christmas Eve was this glorious chaos of:
* Meatballs with grape jelly and chili sauce (the “secret family recipe”)
* Porcupine meatballs
* Christmas wreath (broccoli, chicken, cheese in Pillsbury croissant dough)
* Cherry cheese tarts on a tray stolen from a church kitchen
* Auntie Gayle’s raisinless butter tarts (that she made specifically because she overheard me complaining about raisins ONCE)
And mom would check with each of us beforehand: “Ryan, do you want the Christmas wreath this year?”
The answer was always yes. For me, 40 sausage rolls. All of them.
The Asthma Situation (Or: How Ryan Became Certified… Not as a Sweetie Man, But as an Individual With Asthma)
Quick sidebar about life insurance and accidental self-sabotage:
Ryan’s going through the process of getting life insurance in Japan (for the house situation). He needs a health check. He goes to my regular doctor.
The doctor asks how he’s feeling after being sick recently. He casually mentions, “Oh yeah, I went to another clinic and got an inhaler because you guys were closed.”
The doctor writes something down.
He finishes the interview, gets in the car. Seiko opens the letter.
“You have asthma?”
“I do NOT have asthma.”
“It says right here, documented by a doctor, that you have asthma.”
So now he’s officially an asthma man. Once you’re certified as an asthma man, you’re certified forever. The certification never expires.
(Meanwhile, as a child, I was SO JEALOUS of kids with inhalers. Finally got my wish at 40-something. Be careful what you wish for.)
The Main Character Energy We All Deserve
Here’s what I love about growing up the way we did: We had MAIN CHARACTER ENERGY before that was even a thing.
Remember being convinced someone was following you on the walk to the Gilbey’s house—ONE BLOCK AWAY—so you’d walk up to a random neighbor’s door and pretend it was your house? Just in case?
Or the way we’d form these ragtag groups walking to school, picking up more kids along the way like we were collecting Pokémon?
Ryan experiences this now with Noa in Okinawa. She walks home with NINE KIDS, and he’s become the accidental Pied Piper. Other parents have noticed. “Who’s that tall white guy with nine kids?”
Every single one of those kids maps to a Dreyer Drive kid. There’s a Tommy who wants to walk separately and tell Ryan animal facts. There’s the kid who uses words they shouldn’t and looks at Ryan to see if he’ll correct them (he won’t—”guys, I’m not your dad”).
Last week, two kids got in a fight and Noah tried to get Ryan to solve it. His response? “One of these nine kids is mine. That’s you. I will only step in if there’s physical violence.”
This is PEAK Dreyer Drive parenting philosophy.
The Storage Room Theory
Ryan had this thought during the episode that made me laugh and also feel incredibly seen:
He imagines a future where we all come together to sort through mom and dad’s storage room. Going through decades of accumulated stuff. The BB gun Dan used to shoot our cat. The incomplete hockey card collection (because Dan SOLD THEM). VHS tapes with blood still on the corners.
And as we go through everything, all these buried emotions and memories surface. We fight over things. We remember things. We laugh. Someone probably cries.
It’s basically “The Joyful Mrs. Miracle” (a Hallmark movie about siblings dealing with their grandmother’s estate) but instead of a castle in Scotland, it’s a basement in Ajax, Ontario.
And instead of Mrs. Miracle appearing to help, it’s just us, increasingly unhinged, holding a decades-old Santa collection and asking “WHY DID WE KEEP THIS?”
The Big Family Performance Art
Looking back at all of this—the chaos, the performance, the way we’d turn on “big family energy” for guests—I realize we were creating something special.
Not perfect. Not always healthy. Definitely not suitable for a Hallmark movie (unless it’s the chaotic one).
But it was OURS.
And the beauty of podcasting with Ryan is that we get to preserve these moments. The random memories that surface. The way saying “Alpine cologne” can unlock an entire sensory experience. The fact that we can debate whether the Porter family would end up in various absurd situations and the answer is almost always “yes, but make it weirder.”
Because here’s the thing about nostalgia: It’s not about remembering things perfectly. It’s about remembering them truly. The good, the bad, the stepping-in-dog-poop moments, and the Christmas Eve food that somehow holds an entire childhood.
What We’re Taking Into 2026
As we wrap up this last episode of 2025 (and yes, we’re taking a holiday break because even we need to recharge), I’m thinking about what made this year special.
We stuck with this podcast. Ryan and I have tried ventures before—they usually don’t make it past a couple months. But we’re here. We’re still going. Our four listeners (me, Ryan, and two other brave souls) are still with us.
