Cooking Failures

Author: britaschrager

  • Boobs Hold Up Shirts!?!?

    You know those memes where the person says things like, “Trying to decide when someone asks me how many siblings I have if I should just lie and give an easy answer?” Well, my family is kind of like that.

    I have a hip little fashionista sister who’s 24 years old. I know, she’s not even half my age yet. Don’t ask – that will be a blog post for another time. She recently bought a house and my cousin Laurie – who is pretty much, more or less the same age as I am – and I decided to help her on her moving day.

    We got tasked with unpacking all of her clothes and putting them in her closet. I pulled the clothes out of the bag, put them on hangers and handed them to my cousin who organized them nicely in the closet. Laurie was much better suited for that job than me. I couldn’t even figure putting the clothes on the hangers most of the time.

    OK – I’m over 50 years old and I wear clothes. I’d like to think that I understand how clothes work. After all, I’ve been wearing clothes for over 50 years. I have a closet full of clothes. I have bought clothes. I wear clothes. I wash clothes. I wouldn’t call myself a clothes expert, but at least I thought I understood clothes.

    But wowey! After this experience, I think I need to go to clothes school so I can understand clothes. Do they have a clothes school? Clothing 101? Clothing for Dummies? There must be a book like that out there somewhere.

     I’m pretty sure I learned the basics in kindergarten or first grade – like, a shirt goes on your body, pants go on your legs, socks go on your feet – that kind of stuff. I thought I knew all that stuff. Isn’t it just like life to be like, “Oh, you thought you knew something as simple as clothes?  Well, here you go! One more thing you know nothing about!”

    The older I get I realize I don’t know much. But I thought I at least had clothes figured out.

    As we started our clothes unpacking task, I was able to pull out some clothes that I could recognize. Here’s a t-shirt… I know what to do with that. I know how to put that on a hanger.

    But, as we got deeper into the bag, I pulled out articles of clothing and I literally had no idea.

    Is this a skirt?
    – me (holding it up to my waist)

    No, it’s a shirt.
    -Laurie

    What?!??? How does it stay up?!!
    -me

    Boobs. Wouldn’t work for you.
    -Laurie

    Can’t you also wear it as a skirt too? 
    -me

    No.
    -Laurie

    The next one, I was turning all sorts of different ways. Then I was very convinced that it was completely missing the front. Laurie calmly informed me that was the back, not the front.

    “So, it’s completely missing the back???” I asked Laurie. She very calmly said, “Yes.” I was baffled. “But… what if your back gets cold?”

    The next one I pulled out was totally missing a whole arm! Manufacturing issue or something? They just forgot to put a whole arm on? Don’t you think my sister would’ve noticed that when she bought it and then bought one WITH an arm?

    When I started going off about how irresponsible that was of the company that made it and that it was probably made in China, Laurie interrupted me and said, “It’s supposed to be that way.” 

    It’s supposed to only have one arm? Why would anyone want an arm on only one side? Are there people who are like, “My right arm is always so much hotter than my left arm. I really want a shirt that only covers one arm? Oh, and is it like, reversible? If your left arm feels like being cold on a Monday, you could wear it that way, and then you could totally flip it on Wednesday when your right arm is cold? 

    It didn’t make any sense to me, and I had a really really hard time trying to figure out how to put it on the hanger because it only had one arm hole. But then Laurie showed me these cool little clear plastic things that are inside and their whole purpose is to hang things on a hanger that don’t hang well!

    What??? How did I never know that? I’ve had dresses with those things and when I put them on, they’re all hanging out and looking all awkward, so I just ripped them off. I never stopped to think about what they are really for. Sounds like something I would’ve Googled, though. I Google everything. I guess I’ve just been busy.

    Then I pulled out a cute little leotard. Oh, does my sister take ballet? I used to have the cutest leotards when I was little. But wait… this leotard barely covers the butt cheeks.  Do you wear underwear under this?  And are those snaps? Like a baby’s onesie? And do those snaps feel cold on your….  area? Are these things machine washable? I ask Laurie all of these questions while looking at my sister’s cute little leotard… completely confused.

    Once she has stopped laughing, Laurie Informs me that these are absolutely not leotards. They are called bodysuits and people wear them so their shirt stays tucked in.  But they are not even wearing a shirt? And who wants their shirt tucked in? Nobody tucks shirts in anymore. We haven’t done that since the 80s when we would tuck them in and bubble them out and have them match our double pairs of socks. Nobody tucks shirts in these days. And that’s not even a shirt!

    She also tells the that you don’t wear underwear underneath them, and, when I ask, “Isn’t it uncomfortable?” she just kind of shrugs. She says you probably can’t feel the snaps and she’s sure they’re machine washable.

    But then I pull out one with chain-link straps and sequins all over and say, “This one’s definitely not machine washable. You’ve got to wear underwear under that one, right???” Laurie just says, “dry cleaning.” I can probably count on one hand the amount of times I have gotten something dry cleaned.

    I pull out another one and, now I think I’m so smart, so I say, ”Oh, I know this one. It’s one of those one sleeve ones.”

    And Laurie says, “No, that is a halter. It has no sleeves.” Then, when she showed me, it made perfect sense and I couldn’t believe I didn’t see it. 

    I would also pull things out of the bag and, although I wasn’t extremely confident what they were, I would play it off like I knew what I was doing, and I would hang them on the hanger and hand them to Laurie.

    She would laugh and proceed to take it off the hanger because it was on upside down or sideways and hang it on the correct way.

    After that, I didn’t even pretend to know what I was doing. I would just pull a shirt out hold it this way, that way or that way, until Laurie nodded once it was right side up.

    How does she know all this stuff??? She must be a genius! Am I supposed to just know this stuff since I am a woman? Is there something wrong with me?

    The next item made NO sense. Three holes in this article of clothing! 3 different size holes. Two very large. I couldn’t figure this one out to save my life. I kept turning it around and putting my arms or head in different holes to see if it would make any sense. I think this one might have even stumped Laurie at first, although she tried to play it off. You know what? It probably didn’t stump her and I’m just pretending it might have stumped her to make myself feel better. 

    How can I be SO confused about today’s clothing? Is this what they are selling in stores these days?!? How do people just know how to wear these things? Oh! It must be on a mannequin! That would make sense. If I saw this clothing on a mannequin, I would maybe probably be able to put them on correctly. Just maybe probably though.

    Oh, that would be a cool game show! Have three women in separate rooms and give them the same article of clothing and see who can figure out how to put it on properly! And time them! And the cameras will be watching the women trying to figure them out. That sounds hilarious. I would totally lose.

    I don’t know. Maybe I need to up my game. If I ever do buy new clothes, it’s mostly just off of Amazon and it’s a t-shirt or a dress which is shown on the model, so I easily know how to wear it. Also, I think I learned that in kindergarten. 

    Maybe I need to go to the mall or whatever kind of store where they sell these clothes and get myself something different. I’ll get myself something fun. I feel like it might change my life. I am always looking for something to change my life. Like when I got a bread maker.

    But if you see me walking around with my clothes on backwards or upside down or something, please just don’t say anything. Let me feel hip and young.

  • Overstimulated Mom vs. the Relaxing Salt Caves

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    Recently, we took a vacation to Asheville. We did the rage room and splatter paint and white-water rafting. On the last day, my son needed a vacation from our vacation, so I was looking for something fun and different for my brother and I to do.

    My brother is more of a “let’s relax” type of guy, so I was looking for something relaxing.

    I was just sitting around the AirBnB Googling things to do in Asheville, and I came across the salt caves. What exactly is a salt cave? I have heard of those pink salt lamps, of course, but can salt really heal you? My interest was piqued so I read on.

    I had a lot of questions after reading the website.

    Thirty tons of pure pink salt! That’s a lot!! Where do they get that from?!?! Do they actually weigh it? 

    The website says sitting in the salt cave lowers stress, boosts mood and improves sleep! Along with helping with respiratory problems. The stress and the sleep part got me.

    And blankets? They provide blankets? I love blankets. They are almost my favorite thing. Salt caves had me at the word blankets.

    It says they provide earplugs, blankets and tissues. What are the earplugs for? Is it really loud in there? Loud salt? What are the tissues for? Is it going to make me cry? I mean, everything makes me cry, so that’s very likely. But I’m still confused about what the tissues are for. Maybe to help with respiratory issues? Will my nose all of a sudden start running?

    Community salt rooms? It says open seating is available. Is that like a first come first serve type of thing? Do you get the best seats if you get there early? And where exactly are the best seats? Is there a map of the room somewhere so I can scope out the best seats before I get there and shove everyone else out of the way to get to them?

    Do you sit in a salt room with a bunch of strangers in a recliner for 45 minutes? Is that awkward? Are you best friends when you leave after having had some bonding salt experience, or do you just ignore other people the whole time? 

    They say you have a choice of a recliner or a Thai mat on the floor with supportive bolsters and pillows for propping. What is a Thai mat? What’s a supportive bolster? I should probably Google this before I go in there, I thought. But of course I didn’t. The recliners seemed like the more comfortable choice anyway.

    No phones allowed due to the corrosive effects of salt. Corrosive effects of salt? In 45 minutes? That must be some powerful salt! Do I need to wear protective gear or something?

    What am I going to do with no phone for 45 minutes?  What if someone needs me? What if my cat throws up? I did get a phone call from Pet Paradise (the place I boarded my cat for this trip) in the middle of the rage room the day before to inform me that my cat had thrown up. Surely someone will need me in those 45 minutes.  Surely there will be some emergency!  But I know inside there won’t be. I am not nearly as important as I pretend to be.

    I’m always reading a book on my phone, reading the news, doing the Wordle, checking emails doing 50 things at once like most women do. It sounds like torture to me to sit in a room without my phone. People like to put their phones down for a moment to relax, to be still, to think. But not me.  I don’t want to do any of those things!

    And no smart watches? Also, due to the salt corrosive effects. Once again, I’m a little nervous about this super powerful salt that corrodes phones and smart watches in 45 minutes.

    But seriously, how am I going to know how much time has gone by? I’ll be all relaxing thinking it’s been 45 minutes and it probably has only been four. Then I’ll be all worried that there’s something suspicious going on and I’ll be locked inside that salt room forever! And then my mind will start panicking, and I’ll be thinking instead of pumping in the salt-infused air they’re pumping in some kind of poison! And then I’ll decide that I should probably stop reading all those thriller novels and try some romance ones or something.

    I am just such a bad judge of time. And I rely on my smart watch.  I’ll be all worried that it must be 5 p.m., and my kid is back at the AirBnB wanting dinner. I can feel myself getting claustrophobic and worried just thinking about it…

    Maybe there’s a clock on the wall? I wish I knew this beforehand because then I would’ve dug my old Swatch watch out of my jewelry box to wear for the salt caves. Swatch watches were the best. Maybe I’ll start wearing one again instead of this stupid smart watch that reminds me constantly during the day that I have not exercised enough, and every morning tells me what poor sleep I got the night before.  My old Swatch from the 80s would never do that.

    Time is funny like that. Sometimes it will feel like an hour has gone by, but it’s only been five minutes. And sometimes the reverse is true. Sometimes life just slips away without you noticing it. 

    Another thing it said on the website is to bring clean socks. Do people bring dirty socks? Do they really need the word clean? I guess if it’s in there maybe someone has done it. Well, darn, I guess I will have to do laundry quickly because I was really planning on bringing some dirty socks to the salt cave.

    But also, why do you even need socks?

    It says you can read books, but here’s the thing. I didn’t bring any actual books. I read my books on my phone. And there’s no phones! Do I have time to run out before and buy myself an actual book or do I just have to sit there alone with my thoughts? I know, sitting there alone with my thoughts will probably be good for me, but I might leave with more anxiety than I had going in after figuring out what’s really going on inside my head.

    So we decided to do it. I figured it could at least make a good blog post if it doesn’t heal all of my ailments. We decided it would be something different and kind of interesting. And secretly I had hopes of it healing me and I had even bigger hopes of being a totally different person after 45 minutes in a salt cave.

    It was actually a pretty magical experience. You only went down one flight of stairs, but you felt like you were going deep down into the center of the Earth. And I understand the socks thing now because the ground is covered with salt and it felt really good walking on all the little salt crystals. It felt like a little foot massage.

    The room itself felt like something from inside a fairytale. The walls were covered 2/3rds of the way up with pretty pink salt crystals. It’s like the ice cave from Frozen… except pink. It’d be kind of cool if the woman who leads the thing would dress up like Elsa. Maybe I will suggest that.

    There were also two water fountains all covered in crystals making the most relaxing water fountain noises. The ceiling had wooden beams across. In the spaces in between the beams was a net holding hundreds of pink salt crystals. I would like to tell you my first thought was, “What a pretty pink sparkly ceiling,” but my first thought actually was, “What if the net breaks and all those crystals fall on my face! Will there be some magical healing going on like all my wrinkles will magically disappear? Or will I just have a black eye? Hopefully the nets won’t break!” I’m sure they’re pretty sturdy nets. 

    I elbow my way past everyone to get to the best seat in the cave. (There’s not really a best seat… it’s not like you are looking at anything but the walls and the ceiling and you can see that from any seat)…  I try to relax. I try to clear my mind, but my mind is always full of a million thoughts. Also, these recliners are not as comfortable as you would think. I felt like there was a bar sticking into my back.

    So, I look over at those Thai mats on the floor wondering if I was allowed to change my mind and go lay on one of those. Are you allowed to move or is it like a, “you chose it so you are stuck with it kind of thing?”

    Also, I very confused by these Thai mats. I knew I should have Googled them!! I kept trying to figure out which side was for my head and which side was for my feet. It appeared to me you could actually lay either way.  I couldn’t figure out a top and a bottom.

    And they were way too short to fit a human on them. Were they for a little kids? I think it would probably be OK to experiment since it looked like everyone else in the room was in a total state of relaxation. There was a woman with her mouth literally hanging open. Maybe that is what the ear plugs are for! Drowning out the snores coming from other people.

    I was worried there might be a video camera or something and people who work here will be watching me laughing trying to figure out why I’m laying upside down on a Thai mat. Darn it! I knew I should’ve Googled it. Google has always been my best friend.

    So, I very quietly and carefully scoot on over to the Thai mats, crawling part of the way, like that will help people from noticing I am moving… since I might not be allowed to move. I think I figured out that maybe the pillows are where my head goes…. Maybe the bolster thing is supposed to go under my knees? I’m just playing it off like I know what I’m doing. I want to get up and try it the other way around, but I don’t want to bring too much attention to myself, so I just convince myself that this is a correct way to lie on a Thai mat in a salt cave and that no one is secretly laughing at me if I am doing it wrong.

    Isn’t it funny where your mind goes when you have a few minutes to relax? It definitely didn’t go where I wanted it to go. It definitely didn’t relax. It goes to things like, “Is the dishwasher broken?” “Do I need to order more hand soap?” And, “I wonder where my passport is.” I have no upcoming international trips, but still…

    I kept trying to kick thoughts out of my brain, but they just kept coming back in. Maybe relaxing isn’t for me. Maybe I was never meant to relax. Maybe I am just bad at relaxing. 

    But I did like the feel of this all salt under my feet. I did like the sound of the waterfall, and I did like the idea that being in one place can heal you. The idea that something outside of yourself can heal you. Isn’t that what we are all looking for? Something simple that will heal us?

    But before I knew it, the 45 minutes was up. I can’t say I ever got to a point of total relaxation, but I was almost there. I even found myself wanting just a few more minutes.

    After we left, my brother and I were both looking at each other and asking if there other felt any different? I think we were both waiting to hear what the other one would say. Maybe neither one of us really wanted to admit that we didn’t feel any different.

    Because don’t we all just want a quick fix? An hour in a salt cave to heal all our hurts? But we all know there is no quick fix. You have to work at healing, and it takes time. 

    While I was a little disappointed this salt cave didn’t heal all my hurts, I know there’s beauty in the process of healing. And maybe the salt cave isn’t the miracle cure I had hoped.

    But maybe I’ll try acupuncture or something just in case there really is a quick fix and I just haven’t found it yet.

  • Neighborhood Yard Sales

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    Everybody loves a neighborhood yard sale. People pull out all of their once-loved items and display them on the front lawn hoping someone will pay a dollar for them. How could items that once were so loved and needed now be discarded and worth practically nothing? It’s kind of sad if you think about it. I guess it’s a bit like relationships sometimes. People you once loved and needed are now discarded and worth barely anything to you.

    Is there anything more awkward than walking up someone’s driveway and looking at all of their junk? What happens if you decide it’s all just junk to you also?  Do you just turn around and walk away? You almost feel obligated to buy something, so you won’t hurt their feelings. “Oh! Look at these shin guards! Just what I needed! I’m a klutz and I’m always bumping into things and bruising my shins.  Are they kids’ size? Perfect! I have really small shins. How much are they?”

    I come back from yard sales with so much junk just because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. And then I go turn around and sell it at the next neighborhood yard sale and hope those people don’t come to my house.

    And what is the proper protocol when you are walking up someone’s driveway and they’re sitting there in their camping chair staring at you?  Do you smile? Do you make chitchat? Do you talk about the weather? Do you say, “Wow, it all looks lovely!” And then not buy anything? They will know you are lying!

    Also, I always think, “Am I walking funny?” I try to walk all tall like I’m a model on a catwalk or something. “Walk normal,” I tell myself.  I don’t want them to say, “Why is that girl walking funny?” Then I’ll be known as the girl who walks funny and doesn’t buy anything. Is anyone else self-conscious about the way they walk or is it only me?

    It’s also pretty awkward having people walk up and look at your stuff. “What do you mean you don’t want that old used bib? My son spit up on it over 432 times. You know what!? This bib is too good for you! It’s not for sale anymore!”

    And then I hug the bib to my chest and start crying and feeling nostalgic. That will really make people avoid my house.

    But does it make you feel bad about yourself when they walk away and they don’t buy anything? I’m torn between saying “Don’t worry! I won’t be offended if you don’t buy anything!” and, “How dare you not want this wooden train with a missing wheel?!”

    Is what people sell a reflection of them? Can people figure out who I am by looking at all the things I consider junk? Do my discarded items tell a story of my life? And is it one I want everybody to know?

    I have never taken part in the neighborhood yard sale because it seems super daunting and overwhelming. How do I know how much to charge? How can I see something I once loved being sold for 50 cents?  It seems like it must be worth more than that. Is the point of a yard sale to get rid of stuff or to make money?

    Do you have to put a price on every single thing? Do you have to buy those little stickers from the dollar store and write prices on them? Do you group them by items? By price? I don’t want to yard sale wrong! Is there a class for this somewhere I can take? 

    Luckily, I have a friend who is really good at yard sales, and she gave me some good advice and made me feel like I can conquer this task of taking part in the neighborhood yard sale.

    We moved to Wilmington 13 years ago. It was a pretty quick move, and I was doing most of packing myself. Also, I had two young kids with me so I just dumped everything in these big bins and figured I would sort them out when we got to Wilmington. 

    I’m sure you can imagine how that went. Twelve years later, there were still bins in the garage that had never even been touched. My mom was always on me about sorting through those bins. But You know how life goes. And you know how listening to your mother goes. I’m kidding, I listen to my mom now. It only took 45 years.

    Well, life doesn’t always turn out as you think it will and with all the twists and turns, and a couple difficult years, I found myself divorced, back in the house, and owning it on my own… with a garage full of bins that had not been opened in 12 years. It seemed like a metaphor for starting over and cleaning out, so I decided to finally go through them. The timing coincided perfectly with the neighborhood yard sale.

    So, I slowly started going through the bins. Cleaning out the bins, cleaning out the garage, and cleaning out my life. I honestly had no idea what was in most of them.

    The first bin I opened had a box of Cheerios in it! That expired 12 years ago. I think it might’ve even been opened. What was I thinking? That they don’t have grocery stores in Wilmington? That I was going to unpack this box right away and probably figured it would be good to have some snacks handy for kids. Don’t worry, I did not sell that box of Cheerios at the yard sale. Although people like strange things. Maybe a vintage 12-year-old box of stale Cheerios could’ve sold. It was embarrassing and too much to explain so that just went in the trash.

    Another bin was full of vases! Ten beautiful vases! I didn’t know I owned vases. Who needs that many vases? Did I have a vase collection? Was I a vase collection person 12 years ago? There were some colorful ones, but they were definitely not something I needed. They went in the yard sale pile and they sold quickly. I guess people liked my vase collection.

    Another bin was full of coffee mugs. But each one of them was wrapped in one of my ex-husband’s favorite t-shirts with a funny saying on it. He loved the funny t-shirts. I guess I didn’t have packing paper, so I wrapped each coffee mug carefully in one of his favorite t-shirts.

    I assumed we would get down here and I would unpack them quickly and he could have all those t-shirts back. I wonder if he misses those t-shirts? I wonder if he even remembers them? I wonder if I should give them back? I ended up just selling them. He’s lived without them for 12 years. But also, why did we have so many coffee mugs? Who needs that many coffee mugs?

    There were bins and bins of children’s books. They have always been my weakness. I chose my favorites like the Knuffle Bunny books and all the Berenstain Bears books and put the others in a bin to sell. Even though it broke my heart. I guess there are things you love that you don’t really need. 

    There were bins of DVDs and bins of video games, but the ones that broke my heart were the bins and bins of children’s toys and games. 

    There was the big Thomas the Tank Engine collection. My older son was obsessed with Thomas, and he would never leave the house without a Thomas train in one hand and a Percy train in the other hand. Not only did I have to keep track of my wild kid when I went out in public, but I also had to keep track of a Thomas train and a Percy train. SO I needed extras.

    We would always come home from the bookstore with a new Thomas train and a new Percy train. My husband would look at me questionably and ask, “Don’t we already have a bunch of Thomas trains and Percy trains?”

    And I said, “yes, but what if we LOSE one?” Which did happen, so I feel justified here.

    There was the Star Wars collection and the Hot Wheels collection and everything I pulled out brought back heartbreaking memories of my kids being little that I could hardly stand it. I saved some things, of course, but I also knew it was time to get rid of all of that.

    My garage had been a messI was excited to clean it out and make it my own. I found a new toilet in the box in my garage. I know that you can sell these things, but I mostly just wanted to get rid of everything, clean it all out and start my life over.

    I grouped things by prices and just had a big blanket that was two dollars, a big blanket that was five dollars and so on. On the morning of the yard sale, I dragged the blankets and the items on the front lawn and waited. 

    People started showing up early. And people LOVED my stuff. I wasn’t such a stickler with the prices though so when they asked if they could give me a lower price I of course said sure because I was super excited that they liked my stuff. And also, the thought of an empty garage filled me with so much possibility.

    When I say my garage was a disaster, I mean my garage was a disaster. I didn’t get to go through it all before the yard sale because time ran out and it’s pretty much an impossible task. 

    I pictured my yard sale day with me lounging in a camping chair, making chitchat while people straggled in to look at my once-loved belongings. I even had a couple books that I planned to read during the day. But that’s not how it went.

    Things were going so quickly, and I just knew I had more stuff and more bins in my garage so I spent the day just kept going through bins and dragging stuff out and placing them on the blanket and they were pretty much sold right away.

    Who knew I could clean out my garage during the yard sale at the same time I was selling my things?

    But the day went on, and I kept dragging out more things and dragging out more things and people kept buying them and buying them and by the end of the day, my garage was empty.

    Buying is a loose term here because towards the end of the day, I was just giving everything away for free. Toys, books, DVDs, kids’ games, kids’ toys, a random new toilet, furniture, paintings, and so on.

    It was all happening so fast I didn’t get a chance to sit and look at each item and decide if I really wanted to give it away or keep it. Everything just went on the blanket. 

    At the end of the day, I had an empty garage, an empty blanket in my driveway and surprisingly an overwhelming feeling of sadness. I guess we all love our junk more than we think. I guess cleaning out and decluttering can be painful.

    As I sat there, looking at my sad, empty garage with his stained floor, I knew that he needed a new beginning, too. Even after that long, grueling day when I was exhausted and covered with sweat, I got in my car and drove myself to Home Depot. I bought the prettiest dark green paint and came home and stayed up all night long painting the floor of my garage a pretty dark green. I found some old light green paint left over from my bedroom wall and painted half of the garage walls. He looked like a brand-new garage. Brand new garage, brand new me, fresh starts for both of us.

    But all through the next year when I needed something, I would keep thinking that I have it somewhere in my garage until I remember that I sold it in my yard sale. So, I’d end up buying a new one. 

    So, when this year’s neighborhood yard sale came around, I sat this one out. I want to keep all the junk I have. I’ve even replaced some of the junk I sold. I didn’t buy a new toilet or a box of Cheerios, but I did buy 10 new Thomas the Tank Engine trains and 10 new Percy ones. You know, just in case we lose one. 

  • Getting bit by a feral cat inside my mom’s house

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    You would not really think a childhood home – a loving parent’s home – would be the place to get attacked by a feral cat… Unless you know my mom. I’m sure those who know me well are not surprised by the title of this blog.

    I don’t think there’s a person on this earth who loves cats more than my mother. She’s always had a bunch of cats inside and a bunch of feral cat communities outside. She names them, traps them, gets them fixed and releases them back into her yard where they live happily ever after.

    She feeds them multiple times a day. She looks like the Pied Piper, marching down the sidewalk with her tray full of cat food, feral cats just marching behind her. She gets them heated beds for the winter.

    She even had a shed built, not for gardening tools, but for the cats. When it was being built, my sisters and I said, “Oh, great! We can put all our gardening stuff in there!” and she said, “No no. That’s just a house for the cats.” She has sun loungers in there for them. You get the idea. She has the kindest heart, and she’s the biggest animal lover.

    She names all of her outdoor cats. One was named Whiny Pants, and another one was named Fancy Pants. I remember one time poor Whiney Pants was sick. Mom was on the phone with the vet and we were in the other room. She was speaking loudly and clearly, “Whiny Pants! Whiny Pants Schrager.” She was clearly frustrated that whoever was on the other line was not understanding that cat’s name. I think she even spelled it out. W-H-I-N…

    We were all giggling in the next room, feeling bad, of course, because Whiny Pants was sick and that part was not funny.

    So, it’s not unusual for there to be a feral cat or two inside my mom‘s house. A feral cat who my mom cannot quite catch yet. A feral cat who my mom cannot even pet yet. She will even woo the cat for weeks until, eventually, the cat will let her pet him. But only her. If anyone else tries to pet him, he will freak out. After a couple more weeks like that hopefully the cat will let my mom catch him and trap him. It’s a good plan, but it doesn’t always work like that.

    My mom actually has an indoor cat that acts like a feral cat. Charlie loves my mom and my mom can pet her and snuggle with her but everyone else just stays away. Charlie has never attacked any of us, but we also have never given her a chance to. She will growl and so we just stay far away from Charlie. One time Charlie was on the counter with her paw on my sister‘s water bottle. I took a picture and sent it to her and asked her if she was going to come and get her water bottle. She wrote back that she would rather die of thirst than get near Charlie and that water bottle. She said she would just buy a new one.

    I recently went home for Easter and Mom had taken in another feral cat that she named Buddy. She claims that Buddy was getting beat up outside by another cat and, one day, he just wandered inside her house, so she decided to let him stay. She’s waiting until he gets used to her and she will trap him and take him and get him fixed. Buddy has been in her house for about two months, but she still can’t catch him. She says, sometimes he will let her pet him. She uses kindness and love to get these cats to trust her, no matter how long it takes. She did say that, sometimes, Buddy will walk on her bed while she’s sleeping, and then she hides under her covers until he goes away because she is scared of him. So, I really didn’t think too much of Buddy. It’s just another cat to stay away from. Mom says he doesn’t really come out when strangers are around.

    My mom has another cat named Rascal. Poor sweet Rascal has stopped eating and is getting skinnier and skinnier every day. He is the sweetest little thing and mom fears she doesn’t have too much longer with him. She mentioned that she has seen Rascal beat up Buddy, though.

    I wasn’t thinking about Mom’s new indoor feral cat. I wasn’t worried. After all, it’s not the first feral cat in my mom’s house.

    I had a lovely first couple days. Mom and I stayed up late, drinking wine and talking about old memories. I had that safe, happy, cozy feeling you have when you go home.

    On the third day I was there, I walked up the stairs, I turned the corner and all of a sudden I felt intense pain on the back of my leg. I thought I’d been shot or something! I haven’t felt pain like that since childbirth! Did someone shoot a bow and arrow through the window into my leg? Is it one of those ninja star things? Have I been being stalked? And watched? Did they know the exact time my mom went to the grocery store to attack me through the window of her house? Do I have any enemies? Could it be the government?

    I couldn’t figure out what happened, but it took me a few seconds to realize there was a cat clinging to the back of my leg. And he wasn’t letting go. I walked across the room thinking maybe I could get him off, but that didn’t work. I couldn’t even kick my leg because he had it so tightly I couldn’t move it. My mom was at the grocery store and I thought I was just going to be stuck with a cat on my leg until she got home. I screamed. “Stop!” thinking that might scare him off.

    I tried to kick my leg, but the cat was too big and had such a strong hold on it.

    Then I randomly just started, singing, “Rock-a-bye, baby,” hoping maybe my cool, soothing singing voice would make him calm down and fall asleep. When my kids were babies, my singing voice made them cry harder. I don’t know why I thought my singing would help.

    Then I practiced yoga breaths. Even though I don’t really do yoga, I was just trying to think of something to calm me down.

    Then I tried speaking to him like a therapist would. Not that I’m a therapist, but I know therapists. “Geez, Buddy., What’s with all the aggression? Was someone mean to you once? Do you want to talk about it? Do you need a hug?” Although I was hoping he would say no because there was no way on earth I was hugging that cat. But maybe really Buddy just needs a hug. But whoever attempts it should probably wear whatever that outfit is that people wear for fencing.

    I was about to offer him a granola bar and a nap because that usually worked with my kids when I felt him release himself from my leg.

    Very, very slowly I turned around and I saw Rascal smacking Buddy across the face. Did Rascal save my life? Later, while retelling this story, my nephew renamed Rascal, Hero Cat. I think that name will stick. He was definitely my hero that day.

    I ran to the bathroom to check my wounds and Buddy was very slowly stalking me and following me. I closed myself in the bathroom and, although I was wearing thick sweatpants, there was blood just running down both sides of my legs.

    I went to the kitchen to get wet paper towels and soap, and once again Buddy was stalking me. I grabbed whatever spray bottle that was on the kitchen counter and started spraying him until he left me alone. I guess Buddy literally wanted another piece of me. I mopped up all the blood I noticed one part was already starting to bruise.

    My mom came home and helped bandage me up. She also chased Buddy into my old room with a broom and locked him inside. 

    Shortly after, the whole family came over and we all sat around Googling rabies and cat bites. My mother got bitten by one of her feral cats last year, and she did need to get the rabies shots. She was under the impression that it was just scratches and I didn’t need to go to urgent care, but upon further inspection, there were two large teeth marks in the back of my leg so far apart, no one could understand how a cat could open its mouth that wide.

    It was clear, after a little Googling, that I needed to go to urgent care. From our Googling, we decided that I was probably safe from rabies because the cat had been in my mom‘s house for two months, but I would definitely need an antibiotic to prevent possible infection.

    I guess animal bites are pretty serious and need to be reported to animal control. At urgent care they needed the name and address of the owner, but I left that blank because Buddy doesn’t really have an owner. He’s a free spirit. He’s a wanderer. He’s homeless. He’s just been living in my mom‘s house for two months. Freeloader.

    But they insisted, and I felt awful. I was contemplating lying and making up my mom‘s name and my mom‘s address, but I know lying is bad and I know it can’t be that serious. Besides, I was thinking they have my name and address so they could always come after me for lying! I pictured myself sitting in a prison cell for lying to urgent care about a feral cat.

    Later, talking to my mom, she was fully aware of that, and she said animal control would come and talk to her. I should’ve expected this with all of her feral cat experience. I can’t imagine how many times she had animal control come to our house regarding a feral cat.

    The doctor asked a lot of questions, recorded the conversation, and took pictures of my bites. She was not worried about rabies and says rabies is actually rare in cats. It’s more wild animals like raccoons and foxes that would have rabies. She gave me antibiotics and did say if I haven’t had a tetanus shot in the last 10 years I would need to get one within seven days. I called my doctor on the way home and luckily I had one in 2019. It’s like I was preparing for this.

    Driving home from the urgent care, I was thinking that I’ve had this lingering cold for weeks. And I kept contemplating whether I should go and get antibiotics for it. Well, it looks like Buddy decided that I need antibiotics for my cough. He probably had been listening to my cough the last couple days and decided that something needed to be done. Who knew he had a medical degree also? His methods seem unconventional though, and I don’t know of a doctor’s office that would actually hire him. But I hope these antibiotics clear up my cough. Thank you, Buddy.

    That night, my mom and I settled down to watch TV. Rachel Maddow is her favorite. She turns it on and the very first thing Rachel says is,

    “It’s safe to say that it is never a good time to get rabies. But, if you are going to get rabies at some time in your life, do please try not to get it while Donald Trump is President of the United States.” It seems recent budget cuts at the CDC means they’re no longer testing for or tracking rabies like they used to.

    Mom and I froze and looked at each other… and then busted out laughing. 

    I’m sure you did not realize that Trump got rid of rabies testing so I’m sure you’re very thankful that you read my blog. Now you can be extra careful and keep from getting rabies for the next 1012 days at least. 

    Buddy stayed locked up in the back bedroom for the rest of our trip. My mom, of course, felt terrible that I got hurt and she said maybe it was a sign that she couldn’t tame this one and that she should just put him back outside. But I know she won’t. I know after she waved goodbye to us she couldn’t wait to get back inside to let Buddy out out of the back bedroom.

    Because isn’t that just like a mom? Loving you anyway, despite everything. You can hurt her loved ones, you can pee all over her house, you can even attack her, but still, she will keep loving you. She will forgive you in an instant.  She will keep believing in you and she will keep trying. Buddy is lucky to have my mom. We are all lucky to have my mom.

    But my mom is NOT so lucky to have Buddy. I’m hopping on Amazon now and buying my mom an adult fencing outfit. It’s only $500 but she’s worth it.

    ᐧ

  • Orchestra Concert Confusion

    Screenshot

    Can we just talk about orchestra concerts? I just don’t understand them.

    I will start by saying that I don’t have an ear for music. I never did. I did have a very short-lived piano career when I was in second grade. We lived in Newport, Rhode Island, and I had the cutest little old man for a piano teacher, and he would teach me the lessons up in the attic of his beautiful old historic house. I love learning piano, and besides, he praised me a lot. Who doesn’t love praise? That was also the year I went to a real school for the first time and had a real teacher who also praised me all the time.

    Unfortunately, my mother was my kindergarten and first grade teacher. You would think she would praise me more than the others, but I remember her being quite hard on me. I completely expected special treatment. Especially since I think there were only four kids in the class. But I do love reading and writing and I know my colors and shapes pretty well so looking back, I think she did a very good job.

    Anyway, after only one year, we moved to Virginia and I continued my piano classes at a small music store in a strip mall. The teacher was mean and said I was doing everything wrong and tried to teach me everything all over again. And he didn’t praise me… not one time. So I quit. 

    It seems like there might be a theme about me needing praise. I’ll reflect on that and maybe come back to it in a different blog post.

    Speaking of praise, my brother works for an electric company and the other day he came home and he told me that his boss came to inspect his work. His boss looked at it, he turned around, he walked away without saying anything. My brother was thrilled! He said that meant it was good. What??? How does that mean it was good?? He didn’t even say nice work or good job or anything? I guess if you run a business like that, you don’t have to worry about your employees having high expectations. Also, it appears my brother doesn’t need much praise. Not even a word.

    So that was about it for my music career. But somehow, my kid has played violin in school for the past four years. I used the word “play” very loosely here because I think he only chose Orchestra because all his friends were doing it and it was an easy A. He never brings it home, he never practices, and he often just complains about how boring it is. 

    Why do they all wear black during an orchestra concert? It is supposed to look fancy? It looks like they’re all in the mourning. Or it’s Halloween. A couple hours before the first orchestra concert my kid told me he needed black pants and black shirt. And of course, we don’t have any black pants or black shirts, so I ran to every store in town trying to find some. 

    Why can’t you just wear whatever you want? A little pop of color somewhere might wake the audience up. Why is there a dress code for being in the orchestra? Now my kid has one black pair of pants and one black shirt, and that is his orchestra uniform.

    So I get to go to a couple of orchestra concerts a year. At the beginning, I was really excited! But my little kid comes in and sits in the back with his violin and then 70 tall people sit in front of him so I can’t see him at all! How am I supposed to get a video of him playing to show his kids? Why don’t they sit them from shortest to tallest? Wouldn’t that make more sense? Like they do in class pictures. Shortest in front, please. 

    Last week at the orchestra concert I was able to snap one picture of my kid quickly before everyone piled in front of him. We got there early, too, and sat in the front row to have a good seat to see my kid. But then we were stuck sitting in the front row and I couldn’t even see my kid. I had to sit there quietly and pay attention and try to hold in my cough, so I wouldn’t disturb everyone filming their kids around me. I only coughed once but could hear the recording parents around me roll their eyes. At one point four kids got up and came down to the front and played the next piece standing there. They were so close I felt like they were invading my personal space and I had to keep my arms tight against me for fear I might get hit with a bow! That’s what we get for sitting in the front row. I did get up towards the end of the concert and walk all around the room to see if I could sneak a peek at my kid from any angle, but he was completely covered. Was he even there? He could have crawled out the back and walked to McDonald’s and I would not have even known!

    The other week there was a large orchestra concert. The longest orchestra concert ever. I think it was a showcase of all the middle school and high school orchestras in the county. And my kid went very last, of course.

    Most everyone was in the black uniform, but then this group came out with white tops and black pants! Way to switch it up! 

    There was also another group that was very small, but the girls had matching long velvet dresses with ruffle sleeves (i want one), and the boys were wearing full tuxedos! I was, of course, paying more attention to the clothing than the music.

    What was quite interesting was I got to see all the different teachers or conductors leading their orchestras. Is conductor the right word? I always feel like I’m talking about a train conductor when I refer to them that way. 

    But I wonder is there any rhyme or reason to the way these conductors wave their little magic wands? Because they all do it so differently!

    Do the students actually understand what they’re doing? Do they teach them that in orchestra? Is it like a secret music language? I asked my son since he’s been in orchestra for almost four years and he says he doesn’t know. 

    The students in the orchestra who do know what they’re doing seem to respond to these little waves quite magically. At the exact same moment also. What do they mean? Are there facial expressions that go with them? A little raising of the eyebrow that means something? I don’t know! I can only see his back! I’m so curious! I should probably just ask google.

    All the conductors did their conducting so differently. They were all unique and fascinating, but there was one man who was my favorite. He conducted his orchestra with so much passion that at one point, he actually jumped up and down. Both feet came off the ground! Imagine being so in the moment and so moved by the music that you actually fly a little bit? That’s what happened to him. I loved him! He reminded me of a little fairy. Or of being in a mosh pit. Kind of both.

    I had a friend who was sitting next to me at one concert and filmed the whole concert. She said she was filming it for her daughter who was in the orchestra. Her daughter liked to go back and listen to it and find all the mistakes. Mistakes? There are mistakes in this? And people can actually hear them?

    Also, what am I listening to? Is it good? Is it bad? How do I tell? Are these kids even playing? Before the concert by brother gave my son some advice. My brother played cello (why is there not an h in that word?) for years. My brother said if my son doesn’t know what he’s doing he can just “air bow.” He said no one would ever know. What is that? Fake playing? Did he make that up? And of course we would be able to tell. There would be no music! But still I watched them all very carefully during the concert and I could not tell if they were really playing or not? Are they all faking it? And there’s a hidden CD player somewhere? Probably in the back by my kid where no one will ever see it. Like those celebrities that get in trouble for lip singing? Or is it lip synching? Lip singing makes more sense although I think that is not what it is really called.

    At this past spring concert, the teacher said we would notice a tremendous change from the winter concert. I didn’t notice anything! Am I supposed to notice something? Honestly, I don’t even really remember the winter concert? And is there something wrong with me because I don’t notice a tremendous change? Does everyone else sitting in this room notice that tremendous change from the winter concert? I want to notice tremendous changes, too!

    Does the whole world have an ear for music except me? I would say maybe I need to work on it but how do I even work on it? Go to music school? Start to learn an instrument? I don’t have time for that. And I’m too ashamed of my failed piano career to try again. It’s only been about 45 years. I’m still working through it.

    Maybe the problem is I don’t really listen to classical music. I never really have. Music has always been about the lyrics to me. Maybe I should start listening to classical music and then I might just develop an ear for music? I might be able to sit there in an orchestra concert and go, “Ah! That viola over there just made a mistake!” And point to a random viola player on the left looking embarrassed. Poor kid! 

    But I think it’s more of one of those, “you’ve got it, or you don’t,” type of things. And I think I don’t. And I think you can’t really change those kinds of things. You just accept them.

    But don’t worry, I have plenty of other, “I’ve got it,” types of things. I just can’t think of any right now. When I think of them, I will definitely write a blog post about it. And then you can praise me for it.

    Do you know what else I just realized? I am deaf in one ear! I mean, I didn’t just realize that. I’ve known that for 20 years, but I just realized that is probably why I don’t have an ear for music. Because I only have one ear. Maybe the other ear was my ear for music, but I lost it over 20 years ago. Yes! We will blame it on that. Mystery of my orchestra confusion solved.

    It’s quite sad that I will never have a musical ear because I’m deaf in one ear, but it’s quite a relief to know the reason why. Now there’s an explanation for all my confusion during orchestra concerts. There’s nothing wrong with me. Except that I’m partially deaf. I mean, there might be a few other things wrong with me, but all we’re talking about here is my ear for music. We will save those things for another blog post. (this will definitely keep you coming back for more)

    So, moving forward, I’m just going to fake it. I’m going to go to all the orchestra concerts, sit in the front row, hope to catch a glance of my short kid all the way in the back, pretend I can hear improvement, and pretend I can hear mistakes. Isn’t most of life really just about faking it?

    So, if you see me at those orchestra concerts, just play along. Let me pretend I know what I’m doing. Let me have my moment. And maybe give me a little praise. for how well I fake it.

  • Bearded Dragon CPR

    I have one of those Google TVs and all of my pictures just slide across the TV. They always make me so nostalgic. How can pictures make your heart break? 

    The other day one splashed across the screen that had my son with a tiny bearded dragon on his chest. Suddenly, I felt regret and loss… and love. I’d almost forgotten about that bearded dragon. Isn’t it funny how time goes by and you forget about things that broke your heart? I guess maybe time does heal all things.

    In my refusal to get my family a dog, I agreed to every other pet under the sun, thinking it would be easier. I never realized a dog would’ve just been easier. But in addition to the fish and the cat and the hamster, we got a bearded dragon. I heard they were relatively easy to take care of but I think they’re a silly pet because you can’t cuddle them. That’s how I feel about fish also.

    Of course, everybody said they would help take care of him when we first got him. There was so much excitement at the beginning. The kids loved going to buy crickets for him and watching him eat crickets. We bought him a little outfits and we even bought a little bearded dragon leash. It was so hard getting it under his little front paws and getting him on the leash that we rarely used it.

    But as things usually go, I’m the only one left taking care of things. And he was relatively easy. If I could remember to feed him. I’m still pretty sure I killed my son’s first hamster because I forgot to feed him. The bearded dragon had one of those mats, so it was relatively easy to clean his cage, but of course I did not do it as often as I should have.

    He was still a lot of work for me and pretty stress inducing since I could never remember to feed him. Who has time in the midst of raising two little boys, working full-time and taking care of a house to remember to go buy crickets for the bearded dragon?

    I would often wake up in the middle of the night and think to myself, “When is the last time anyone fed that bearded dragon?” Meaning me. I was asking myself. No one else would feed the bearded dragon.

    I’d run downstairs at four in the morning to see what kind of fruits or vegetables I could find in the fridge. While he ate them, I promised that little bearded dragon over and over again that, the next day, I would go get him some crickets, if only he would live through the night. And what do you know? Did I keep my promise and remember to get crickets the next day? I’d like to think yes, but I’m not really so sure. 

    Why didn’t I make a list? Or write it on a Post-it note and stick it on the front door? Look at all these brilliant ideas I have after the fact! Yes yes… I realize many people make lists, and the idea is not a new one, but just humor me here. Now that I’m old and forgetful, I realize how much I love lists. You can call me a slow learner. These days I sometimes find myself getting out of bed at 3am to make a list.  

    The whole cricket thing was extremely heartbreaking. Look at these cute little guys leaping for joy all over the place. Not knowing they’re about to be hunted and killed by my bearded dragon. It depressed me every time, but I still did it. I tried making my bearded dragon a strict vegetarian, but after much Googling, I decided he really needed some crickets. The circle of life and all that stuff, but it still felt like murder to me.

    Did it get easier overtime? I think it did. Is it sort of like we become desensitized to all the evil in the world because we are so used to it? 

    And life went on like that. For years. He just became a habit and a routine in my busy life and something to stress about. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the little guy, but I barely had time to wash my hair much less time to bond with the bearded dragon.

    And then he got sick.

    He was lethargic, stopped eating, and I would often find him flipped over on his back at random times during the day. After much Googling again, I learned that it’s really dangerous when that happens. They have no diaphragm and therefore cannot breathe on their backs and it can lead to fatal suffocation. I needed to flip him back over on his belly right away when that happened. At first it happened once or twice a day but then it was happening constantly.

    I would sit vigil all night long by his cage to be there when he flipped on his back so I could flip him back over. I’d sometimes fall asleep with my cheek pressed against a glass of his cage, drool probably dripping down the glass before waking up suddenly and realizing where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. 

    He was so still I was worried he wasn’t breathing. I’d spend hours watching him carefully looking for some sign of breathing. I would poke him a few times just to make sure he was still alive. 

    I found myself researching bearded dragon CPR and believe it or not, there are videos and articles about it. Is that a real thing? Were these joke videos that I was taking seriously? Either way, it gave me great hope that I could save this little guy‘s life if he stopped breathing. I was prepared to do tiny little chest compressions and I practiced them on the hamster. The rescue breaths were the things I was nervous about. Would he bite me? I would have nightmares of doing rescue breaths too strongly and causing his whole little body to explode and his bearded dragon guts flying all over the wall as my kids came down the stairs for school.

    Also, what was my end game going to be with the bearded dragon CPR? Don’t you do it until the EMS arrive and take over? No one would be arriving to take over. Was my plan to just keep performing the CPR for the rest of my life?!? Maybe my brother would switch off with me. 

    This went on for over a week. Forget the housework, the kids, the laundry – my only priority was making sure the bearded dragon was still alive. I was so worried about him. I was so sad that I didn’t love him better. Why does it take tragedies like this for us to love right? Can’t we just get it right from the beginning?

    One day, I could barely tell if he was breathing at all and so I decided I needed to take him somewhere. I called all around, but there are very few vets that take bearded dragons. I found one exotic animal vet out near Carolina Beach. I put the little guy in a shoebox and he sat in the front seat next to me and I played songs that I thought he would like such as Puff the Magic Dragon. I spoke to him the whole way to the vet. Very encouraging things. You can do it! Hang in there! That type of thing. 

    Do bearded dragons understand English? Did he just want me to shut up so he could listen to the music? I thought maybe my voice would soothe him like a little baby inside the womb, but to be honest, he probably didn’t recognize my voice because I did not talk to him enough over the years. But there was a bond there or I wouldn’t have been so distraught. 

    By this point, I was just crying hysterically. And I didn’t stop for over a day… I was so full of sadness,, loss and regret. 

    At the vet, they took him back to do an exam and when they brought him back, they told me that he had caught a virus and it had gone to his heart and his body was just shutting down. There was nothing they could do. They said he was still alive and still breathing and asked me if I would like a few moments with him. I said yes, please. I put that little bearded dragon on my lap, and I cried and cried and cried. I hugged him against my chest (which I had never done before) and told him what a wonderful bearded dragon he was, and I apologized for all the times I forgot to feed him, and I apologized that nobody paid any attention to him most of the time. 

    The nurse kept poking her head in asking if I needed more time and I kept saying yes, and yes, and yes. Why was I all of a sudden so attached to this little guy that I walked by every day and didn’t even give a second glance too? Why don’t we just do a better job when we can? 

    The nurse eventually had to put her foot down and say it was time. One nurse pried the bearded dragon from my hands while the other one held me and I cried and snotted on her shirt. What a weirdly intimate moment at the vet.

    They offered to just dispose of him themselves for $300 or I could take him home with me.  I really did not want to bring a dead bearded dragon back home but I didn’t have an extra $300. What would I even do with it? Bury it in my yard? Let the cat finally eat it? 

    In the end they decided to just take care of it for free for me. At the moment I thought it was the kindest and sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me. Now I think they just wanted to get me out of there ASAP or they were afraid of what I would do with his poor dead body. I wasn’t REALLY going to feed it to my cat. But I was relieved not to have to take the dead body home. 

    I was such a mess they said they would bring my bill into the exam room and show me out the back way so I would not have to walk through the waiting room. 

    Have you ever heard of that? Was that for my benefit? Or for the people in the waiting room’s benefit? Did they think I would be embarrassed? Would I embarrass them? Do people in vet waiting rooms not expect people to be crying hysterically?  

    I paid the bill from the room and they led me out the back. It wasn’t just a hallway and a back door. It was through the staff lunchroom and down creepy dark hallways. If my life was a murder mystery this was the part where they would chloroform me and lock me in the broom closet. But my life is not a murder mystery and they just led me out to the parking lot.

    They said they would call when the footprints are ready. They made a little ornament with the bearded dragon’s paw prints in clay. They were the cutest little paws I’ve ever seen. Why didn’t I admire his cute little paws when he was alive?

    I took myself to a little roof top bar for a glass of wine to drink away my sorrows and also celebrate the sweet little bearded dragon’s life. I was still crying hysterically.

    Some guy came up and asked me if was OK. Maybe he was trying to hit on me? I told him through snot and sobs that my bearded dragon just died. He could not get away from me fast enough. I swear he tripped over a stool running away from me.

    Yes ladies, you are welcome to use my line if you are ever being hit on and you are not interested. It worked extremely well. 

    I missed the bearded dragon so much while I sat there and drank my wine. I wondered if a lot of my sadness was the feeling that I failed. I failed at keeping him alive. We always feel our failures so strongly.

    So, I ordered another glass of wine and really hoped my kids would not want to get a new pet to replace this one.

  • Beef Ewww

    So my cooking blogs have not really been about cooking lately because, all of a sudden, I thought I could cook. I know, hilarious!

    And also crazy things have been happening like my ex getting engaged and me almost burning my house down so I have been writing about those things instead. But it’s about time we get back to cooking. 

    Seriously, the cooking has been going pretty smoothly. I mainly stick to the meals I know my kid will eat like tacos, my homemade gluten-free mac & cheese, and chicken breasts. Although, I have experimented a little and made homemade gluten-free lasagna, and even shepherds pie that my kid has actually eaten five bites of. Five bites is a success. He gets full really quickly, but if it’s bad, he very politely takes one bite and then tells me he’s full.

    My kid used to love beef stew. I would make it in the crockpot and buy that McCormick beef stew seasoning and he just loved it. However, that seasoning is not gluten-free so I can no longer use it. I did buy some gluten-free beef stew seasoning about a year ago, but he did not like that.

    I was feeling adventurous so I was just flipping through gluten-free recipes and found a recipe for gluten-free beef stew! There was actually a bunch of recipes. Why are there always so many recipes? How could there be 28 recipes for gluten-free beef stew?  How do you choose? What’s the difference? I do read the reviews and also, I look at the amount of time and the list of ingredients. If I pull up some recipe and has 27 ingredients, I already feel overwhelmed and give up on cooking, go take a nap and order pizza later. But seriously, can’t everyone just agree on one gluten-free beef stew recipe and that is what shows up on Google?  No one needs so many choices. 

    I’ve also learned you have to start looking for the recipe early. And I mean hours and hours early. If you try looking for a recipe right before you want to start cooking before you know it it will be 10 p.m. And you will order pizza. Or just not feed your kid dinner.

    But this one beef stew recipe I was looking at, it looked pretty easy. It had good reviews, I think had all of the ingredients, and I was feeling pretty confident after my edible cooking streak.

    I kept putting off making it though. It takes over three hours so I had to pick an afternoon when I had the whole evening to cook. Every time I meant to do it, it would already be 6:00 before I knew it so I didn’t have time for it. How does time go so fast?

    But last night was the night. I was home at 4 p.m., and had nothing really going on for the evening so I thought this was the night that I was going to make my beef stew. I could already picture my kid’s cute little face all happy after he takes the first bite and exclaims how delicious it is. I could already feel myself swelling up with pride. Looking back, I should’ve known that was a bad sign. 

    I pulled up the recipe. Or was it this other recipe? No, I think it looked like this recipe. I really couldn’t exactly remember what recipe I used, but I found one that looked good. They all kind of look the same.

    This one requires a Dutch oven. Who has a Dutch oven? Why is it called Dutch oven? Is it from the Netherlands? Does it speak Dutch? And can’t I just use a spaghetti pot? Who needs a Dutch oven when you have a spaghetti pot? I figured the spaghetti pot would do just fine. It’s just like a Dutch oven. But American. For spaghetti. Which is Italian.

    I was grabbing all of my spices from the ingredients list, and it called for all spice. I went right to my little spice cabinet and grabbed the seasoned salt. For some reason, I thought seasoned salt could be used for all spice. I honestly thought they were the same thing. When I read all spice earlier in the recipe, my mind just said, oh, I have seasoned salt. I don’t know why in my mind I had seasoned salt and all spice being the same thing. It did make me pause for a moment, so I Googled it. Just up be sure I was right. 

    But when I Googled all spice, I found out it was not seasoned salt. What?!?? It was not even CLOSE to seasoned salt. It was something that I definitely did not have. But through Google, I learned that I could make my own using nutmeg, clove, and cinnamon. Well, I had no nutmeg and no clove. Who has nutmeg and clove in their house? Why would anyone put nutmeg in beef stew? Isn’t nutmeg more of a dessert thing? Or a hot chocolate thing? I do have cinnamon though so figured I was 1/3 of the way to allspice. I consider the grocery store the worst place on earth, so I was definitely not heading there for nutmeg and clove. 

    I texted my neighbor and she didn’t even have nutmeg and clove either so I figured it couldn’t really be that important. Who needs nutmeg, and who needs clove? So I just shook some cinnamon in there and called it a day. Still feeling very proud of myself.

    I got super confident while it was simmering on my stove for two hours and I would just sort of add a spice here and add a spice there every time I would check on it. My brother-in-law cooks like that. He just kind of adds spices all the time wherever he wants and it turns out so good so I figured I could do the same thing now that I was not a failure at cooking any longer. So I shook in a little bit of that, and I shook in a little bit of this, and I kept sort of sniffing it and mixing it. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was supposed to smell like, but it smelled good. I think…

    I felt like Martha Stewart or Betty Crocker or someone like that who whips up a healthy and delicious dinner just by throwing a few things together and having it simmer all afternoon so the house smells so good.

    I wish I had an apron! I would totally sport an apron at that moment, skipping around my kitchen with my mixing spoon in one hand and my beef stew simmering on the oven. The funny thing is, I never understood aprons and I never wanted one but in this moment, I felt like I had to have one.

    Last time I was visiting home, my mom tried to give me an apron because my aunt made a bunch of them out of all our old African material. I politely declined.  I don’t wear aprons! I don’t understand aprons. Do people get that dirty when they cook? Does food just fly at them? Why don’t they just wear an old sweatshirt or something? And why doesn’t the apron go all the way up to your neck? If I’m going to spill something while cooking it’s definitely going to be in between my chin and where the apron starts. Also, it seems like it would always come untied. Isn’t there a better way such as Velcro or even a buckle? But all you apron-wearing people, you do you. But honestly, at this moment, I was really starting to regret my decision of not being an apron person.

    Anyway, I chopped the potatoes and I added them after an hour and a half of simmering just like the recipe says. No one wants mushy potatoes. I probably also added a shake or two of some spice or the other during this point thinking I’m a professional chef here. I’m picturing how much my kid will love it and how he will rave about it and I can tell the whole world that I made homemade gluten-free beef stew and it was a hit.

    Well…. 

    My son takes the first bite, and he screams, “EWWW!  EWWW! EWWWW,” as loud as he can, and he literally spits a piece of beef across the room. I watched the beef fly out of his mouth and land on the couch. My first thought should be I can’t believe how much he hates my food, but it was actually well darn, now I have to wash that couch cover because he spit his beef stew clear across the room onto it.

    Now I have cooked some bad things. Really bad things. I have cooked some gross things. But I’ve never gotten such a strong reaction. Not from this kid. This kid is a polite one that tries not to hurt my feelings. Typically he’ll take a bite and pretend to think about it and then very nicely ask for frozen pizza or bagel bites or something.

    I’ve never gotten a loud EWWW and a spit across the room. I’m kind of in shock, kind of mortified, but also feeling like this has to be a milestone or a great moment. It’s kind of like the rejection letters I got when I sent off my children’s book to publishers. It’s like, “Good try. You failed greatly, but you tried.”

    Then he seemed super embarrassed and felt bad, and he said, “I just don’t know why it tastes SO weird.” 

    Wow! An EWWW, a spit across the room, and an, “it tastes weird?” This might be my worst of all. How can that be after all these years of improving my cooking?

    I guess the more you learn the less you know? The more you practice the worse you become? I wasn’t quite sure that’s how it went, but it’s definitely a humbling experience.

    But isn’t that how life goes? Once we think we know everything and we have it all figured out, something happens to show us that we really have no idea what we’re doing. And isn’t that the beauty in life? Always learning? Always changing? Never knowing what you’re doing?

    I promise that my brother and I used to know how to make bacon. A couple years ago we would make it all the time for breakfast, for dinner, and it came out fine. 

    But the last two years, we have failed every time we have tried to make bacon. Oh I looked at recipes, I asked friends, I know exactly what to do, but still, every time the bacon is not edible. I guess life is about learning things and unlearning things and learning things again and then just accepting that you will never learn them. 

    Today my beef stew turned into beef EWWW but there is always tomorrow. And tomorrow I could get it right. 

    But this cooking thing is exhausting and I think I will just order Domino’s for the next week.

  • Taco Bell Valentine’s

    Ah, Valentine’s Day. I’m sitting here trying to find a good present for my Valentine. Love poem?

     “Roses are red and violets are blue.” That is how all the love poems start. But roses are a lot of colors, not just red,

    And violets are actually purple so that’s just a stupid love poem so I will think of a new love poem to write for him.

    “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Is that Browning or something? I don’t know, one of those people who went to Carolina who doesn’t use proper English. Because nobody says thee. (This is a joke for my Valentine who went to “Carolina” and thinks he knows everything. And uses words NO ONE uses. Does anyone else know someone who went there as acts that way? Endearing, huh?) 

    I could start his love poem that way. It would be easy. I would just count one, two, three, four, five, all the way up to 2037 and then I would write the end. That would be a pretty boring love poem so I don’t think we will go with that.

    What about “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Love poems start like that sometimes. Is that Shakespeare? Did he go to Carolina? Nobody says thee or shall. We could go with that one if you want, but I’m not sure it makes much sense.

    You’re hot? You make me sweat? You’re too hot? I can’t wait until fall? Why is my AC bill so high? No, we probably won’t go with that love poem either. I mean, I know he’ll like that “you’re hot” part, but it doesn’t really scream romance. I think it would have been better to use “an early fall day.” Who doesn’t love an early fall day? I think that poem would’ve been a lot more popular if it went, “Shall I compare thee to an early fall day?” Might have even made the guy famous.  

    Oh! Oh! I should grab a boom box, wear a trench coat, and stand outside his window holding the boom box above my head with a forlorn desperate filled expression on my face while playing “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel. Swoon!  He would fall in love with me instantly. (he actually would love this)

    But I don’t own a trench coat. Or a boom box. And I don’t really want to invest in either of those just for this one grand romantic gesture. So, I probably won’t show my love that way either. I don’t know if he even likes that song. Also, I feel like my arms would get tired. Those things are heavy!

    A box of chocolates? Why do people only give chocolates on Valentine’s Day? They should give chocolates every day. And why are there only like two good chocolates in a whole box of chocolates? Why are they all filled with weird stuff like nougat or something super chewy that you worry it might break your teeth? Or something that just tastes gross. Can I please get a whole box of chocolate filled with only the orange and cream ones? Aren’t those the best?

    Stuffed animal? Come on! Those really are only for little kids. Why is it all of a sudden on Valentine’s Day, acceptable to give grown-up people stuffed animals? You wouldn’t give your mom a stuffed elephant for Christmas or her birthday!  Why is it ok to do it on Valentine’s Day? What are they going to do with them? 

    To be fair, I do sleep with the stuffed Snoopy, but I think I’m the exception and I might be the only adult who does sleep with a stuffed animal. I just need something to put under my arm to get comfortable. I tried using my cat, but she’s not down with it and my dog just doesn’t listen. She’s the worst snuggler. She will literally sit a foot away from me and call that snuggling. Oh, I’ve tried. It is a hopeless case. If I cannot get that dog to snuggle, then nobody can.  

    Besides, my Valentine sleeps with one of these Darth Vader CPAP masks on his face. It would scare the heck out of a poor little stuffed animal! Scares the heck out of me when I turn around and see it. Poor little pink stuffed teddy bear would jump up and scream and run away as fast as he can.

    No, we will not go with a stuffed animal either.

    OK, sorry, back to my Valentine’s gift.

    Rose petals scattered on the bed? Why do people do that? That can’t be very comfortable. Or sanitary. And also, kind of sounds like a complete disaster to clean up. And my Valentine has enough problems cleaning up as it is so we will skip that one.

    I looked for Valentine’s Day reservations, but first of all, why are there no reservations left unless we want to go to dinner at 9:30? And second of all what is with the fixed Valentine’s Day menu? That’s so dumb. What if I don’t want to eat something on that menu? Why can’t I just order whatever I want like any other day? It’s Valentine’s Day so you can’t get what you want? That makes no sense. I’m going to open a restaurant and for Valentine’s Day, it’s going to be the “get anything you want” special. Except I’m not going to open a restaurant because first of all, I can’t cook, second of all I know nothing about opening a restaurant, and third, I’m broke.

    Oh, I know! What about shout it from the mountain tops? Now that’s a grand romantic gesture. Except I live in Wilmington and there are no mountain tops. But also, it seems like a lot of work to climb all the way up to the top of the mountain just to scream I love you. For NO ONE to hear.  If the mountain is so tall, nobody’s going to hear you. What’s the point of a grand romantic gesture if nobody can hear you? I don’t know who thought of shout it from the mountain tops, but I don’t think I’m doing that for Valentine’s Day. 

    I was walking around Target trying to get some ideas and there were an alarmingly large number of heart shaped pillows! Big pink and red fluffy heart shaped pillows. Don’t people already have pillows? And if people need a new pillow, it wouldn’t be a heart shaped one. Can you even get pillowcases for those?! Won’t they get dirty? I don’t think they make heart shaped pillowcases. Do you wash the whole thing? Can someone tell me how to wash a pillow? Every time I’ve tried it’s come out super lumpy and deformed, and I can never get it back to normal again. Not buying my Valentine one of those. 

    Candle lit dinners? Ummm… I need to stay away from fire for a little bit. If you read my post about my vacuum, you understand. Oh, to follow up on that post I bought fire extinguishers, but they are little. One time use. Why do things always look larger online? Well, I’m only planning on one fire at a time so it should be fine.

    A bouquet of flowers? I was in the grocery store and there were so many bouquets of flowers. So many! There is no way people can buy them all. Poor flowers will all be dead. Made me sad and reminded me of the story of the Little Fir Tree by Hans Christian Andersen. My mom used to read it to us when we were little. Heartbreaking story about a live Christmas tree who just gets dragged out to the curb and left there after all the Christmas festivities. He was so sad. It made me so sad. Bouquets of flowers remind me of the little fir tree. No flowers for my Valentine.

    I’ve run out of ideas. I’ve run out of ways to show him I love him. But no one really needs grand gestures. Just a million small kindnesses every ordinary day show love better than grand gestures. Maybe I’ll just bring him Taco Bell and take him to a comedy club. Although he really doesn’t need any more laughs because his girlfriend is hilarious. 

  • When your ex gets engaged, go buy Champagne

    You see it in the movies. The pretty young girl is going about her business, and then she finds out that (insert big dramatic foreboding music) her EX is ENGAGED. (Put some MORE dramatic music here for effect) The world stops, the world goes dark, the world spins, sometimes the girl even faints. 

    Everything changes. Her attitude, her demeanor, the way her apartment looks. It’s so dramatic in these books and these movies. She lies on her bed and cries for three days. Or something like that.

    I mean, why are women and girls so dramatic about this stuff? My brother and I are currently watching Sex and the City. I think we have run out of shows to watch.  Of course, I watched it when it first came out, but that was before my brother was even born.

    I remember watching it over 25 years ago and just feeling so heartbroken for Carrie. But watching it now I’m like, “what are you doing, Carrie? Just dump Big! He’s terrible for you. He’s just playing with your emotions! You are too good for him!” And also, if you watch the show, there are plenty of rich eligible bachelors in New York City. 

    But seriously, Carrie, why are you SO dramatic about every little thing? You’re crying because he didn’t want to go to dinner with your friends? After he said he would! Who cares? 

    You’re crying because you want to move to Paris to be with him and he says, “don’t move for me?” I get it, 20 years ago, I probably would’ve cried too. 

    I think I had a boyfriend at the time who was very similar to Big. I felt like I was being strung along and that he couldn’t commit and all that heartbreaking stuff. (That’s not really that heartbreaking) But at the time I could totally relate to Carrie. I was living her life. Relationship-wise I mean. Not in the “cute shoes and cute clothes and going out to brunch with your girlfriends everyday” type of life.

    So, when it happens to you, you sort of wonder if you’re supposed to do the same thing. But you don’t really think about it happening to you. Or at least I didn’t.   

    But then it did. On an average Wednesday morning when I’m walking out of Bible study feeling all Zen and peaceful, I get a text from a friend saying she saw something on Facebook.

    I try to be dramatic. I really do! Sometimes I like being dramatic. I think it’s part of being a Pisces. But I excel at it. Sometimes. 

    I try to be that young girl in the Hallmark movies who just crumples into a pile on the street and bawls her eyes out. Strangers walking by asking if they should call 911 or if she needs any help. 

    I try to be that girl who later will comment that she couldn’t remember what happened at that moment because it was all a big blur.

    Should I take the day off? Should I walk along the beach and contemplate how life did not work out how I planned? 

    Should I go to the beach and hurl handfuls of sand into the ocean with tears streaming down my face? That sounds kind of fun actually. Minus the tears. But it also sounds a little cold and messy. There’s lots of options for healing heartache at the beach when you live so close to it. I think there’s probably crying at the beach in some of those movies also.

    Should I be jealous? Should I be angry? Should I punch a wall? Should I cry all day? Should I take a nap? Actually, a nap sounds good on any day. 

    I think I’d be pretty good at throwing myself on the bed and pounding my pillows with my fists. I bet I could even fake cry. All I would have to do is think about that commercial from last night at the Super Bowl, where the little girl lost her dog in the storm, and I can probably really cry. I used a whole box of tissues for that commercial. I should make myself a little note to order more on Amazon. 

    So, I walked around all day not really sure how I felt. I told my friends who, of course asked, “Are you OK?”

    Am I OK? Am I not OK? Am I supposed to be OK? Am I not supposed to be OK?

    Is there anyone else in the world who has a hard time knowing what they feel or am I the only one?

    And how often do we feel what the world tells us to feel even if we don’t really feel that?

    Like when I bought my house, everyone was all like, “Congratulations! You must be so happy!”

    I mean I was, but mostly I was confused and terrified. Did I just buy a house? Did they let me buy a house? Do they know me? Am I responsible enough to own a house? Am I in charge of everything that goes wrong with the house now? I don’t know how to own a house honestly. But also, of course, I was happy. 

    So, it was 8 o’clock on that night that I found out my ex was engaged. I walked around all day trying to figure out how I feel, acting out some of the emotions like I was in one of those movies and my life was completely over because the man of my dreams was going to marry someone else. I always thought I would make a pretty good actress, but I’m painfully shy so that never worked out for me. Maybe I’ll give it a go in my 60s.

    It was cold and it was rainy, but all of a sudden, I knew what to do. I knew the perfect thing to do when your ex gets engaged. I told my brother I was going out and I’d be right back. (Now you have to understand that I would never go out to the store at 8 o’clock at night. I hate going to the store. If I needed toilet paper, I would just cut up T-shirts and use that rather than go out to the store. I hate the store! Read my blog titled The Worst Place on Earth if you haven’t yet so you have a better idea of what I’m talking about)

    But my ex was engaged, so I went to the store to buy a bottle of champagne. When your ex gets engaged, buy some champagne! 

    I was texting my friends (who know me well and were not that surprised at this type of reaction).

    One friend told me to get the most expensive bottle and use the best glasses I have! Yes, I thought! I sent her a picture of me from the grocery store holding a bottle of champagne and she said, “good for you, but that is NOT the good stuff.”

    First of all, it’s Food Lion. Second of all, I don’t know what the good stuff is! I don’t really buy champagne unless it’s for Thanksgiving or Christmas when we make mimosas. And then I just buy the cheapest stuff I can find because, well, we drink a lot of mimosas on the holidays.

    I brought that bottle of champagne home. I got the best glasses I have, which are really not fancy glasses but at least they have stems. I’ve started using stemless wine glasses because really, what is with the stem? How is a big wine glass supposed to stand up on that tiny stem? It’s just asking for a disaster! The proportions are all off! I wonder if whoever invented the wine glass did that on purpose so people would break so many and have to buy so many more?

    My brother and I sat at that kitchen table that rainy night and drank that bottle of champagne out of our glasses with stems. We didn’t even watch TV like we usually do. We just sat and talked. Reminiscing about old times and talking about the future and our life in general. We laughed and laughed.

    I wasn’t “celebrating” that my ex was getting engaged. I wasn’t NOT celebrating my ex getting engaged. I was just celebrating. It’s not even really about him. Except finding out he is engaged gave me the thought to go buy a bottle of champagne. (So, I should probably thank him) 

    What is my other option? Be one of those girls from the movies? It is what it is and it doesn’t change my beautiful sweet little life. Not one bit. It took me eight hours to figure out the answer was to buy champagne. I always knew it deep inside but was so influenced by the movies and the books and those poor heartbroken girls. I wish I could tell them all to go by themselves a bottle of champagne and get over it. But they’re young, and I’m 50. And I like champagne. And I’m smarter than they are.

    So, I think that might be my new solution for anything. Go buy a bottle of champagne and celebrate something. Because there’s always something to celebrate. Unless something breaks in my house. There will be no celebrating then. There will be no champagne then. There will be lots of crying and being dramatic.

    So that’s what I did on that cold rainy day when I found out my ex was engaged. I went and bought a bottle of champagne. And I enjoyed every sip of it.

  • Oh, It’s Just my Vacuum (when really, it’s my house burning down)

    Isn’t it funny how we just think that we know things? We’re so confident and so secure. It’s become a habit or a routine, or we just forget that we don’t know everything. I just thought it was my vacuum, but it was actually my house burning down.

    It was a normal quiet Saturday night at home. We had cooked another nonedible meal and cleaned the kitchen. We were sitting on the couch watching TV. I have a little Roomba that I set free around the house to do the vacuuming for me. Of course, I do still vacuum and Swiffer but he helps out a little bit. He’s not the smartest guy so he often just crashes into things, and I’ll hear bangs from all over the house, but I tell myself, it’s just my vacuum. At first, I was worried about these sounds but it was always just my vacuum.

    Suddenly, there was a loud exploding sound from the front room. My brother flew up off the couch with a panicked look on his face. And I told him, “Don’t worry, it’s just my vacuum.” “Are you sure?” he asked me. “Of course I’m sure,” I said.

    Then we both looked over towards the dining room and saw lights flickering that could only come from flames! We shot up and ran into the front room and sure enough, there was a fire 3 feet high. 

    Maybe it wasn’t just my vacuum….

    Isn’t it also funny how sometimes, we just don’t give up even when we know we should? We keep believing in something and we keep trying and trying and trying even though it’s told us over and over again it’s just not going to work?

    I did that earlier with this charging brick. We were expecting bad weather, so I was getting flashlights and portable chargers and candles. I found this little power brick thing that my mom gave me years ago and thought it would be just perfect. But it had no charger. It looked like it might’ve taken the same charger as my kid’s E-bike, so I plugged it in there, and it appeared to be charging at first. But then it stopped. So, I kept trying to charge it. Even though I saw a little tiny spark when I plugged it in. Still, I would not be deterred. 

    When it did not seem to be charging there, I thought hey, it also looks like the charger for my small little hand vac! That might work. So, I took it in the front room and used that charger. Once again, it looked like it was charging, but then it stopped. It wouldn’t charge up more than the two little bars. At this point, I should’ve said, geez, you’re an old little guy, and you’ve worked hard, and I think you’ve seen your better days. And I should’ve just given up and thrown it in the trash. But did I do that? Of course not! I plugged it in again and left it charging, believing in a 10-year-old power block that has repeatedly told me to let him die.

    That is what caught fire, exploded and caused the fire in my front room on that quiet Saturday night. 

    My first thought in every situation is always, it will be fine. If there’s a flood, and my house is floating away, the first thing I will say is, it will be fine. Even when I know in my heart, nothing will be fine. The first words that always come out of my mouth are, it will be fine. I think it’s part of being a mom. When you’re terrified inside, you have to keep calm for your kids, so you simply smile and say, it’s fine. After years of that, I guess it’s become a habit. I don’t believe a word I say, though. I just hope others do. 

    So here we are standing in the front hall, watching this fire in my living room and all I say is, it will be fine. My son comes running downstairs, every smoke detector in the house is going off, and I calmly tell my son that everything is fine and tell him to go back up to his room and keep playing video games. Thinking back, don’t you evacuate your kids from the house when there’s a possible fire instead of telling them it’s fine and sending them back up to their room where they could be trapped on the second floor?  I’ll make a note to myself for next time. He listens to me though and goes back up to his room. Maybe people shouldn’t listen to me. Who let me have kids anyway??

    The house is filled with smoke, and I pick up the cat to lock her in my bedroom and tell her, it will be fine. Looking back, I just trapped her on the top level, too. I should not be allowed to have pets.

    Good thing I didn’t become a fire fighter. (Which was actually one of my dreams when I was little but the thought of possible blood at accident scenes made me pause and take a different path.)

    Now, you learn all about fire safety, and what to use to put out certain fires and what to do if there’s a fire emergency but when you’re actually in it, you don’t remember anything. I grab the doormat inside the front door and throw it to my brother to tell him to put the fire out with it. He puts it over the fire and then, I’m not even joking here, he sits on it to try to put it out. Of course, the fire burns right through my doormat (which I really love and miss) and he jumps up quickly when his butt starts to get hot.

    And then it hits me, this is what a fire extinguisher is for, right? There’s been one on the wall in the kitchen ever since I moved into the house. It came with the house in 2013. So, I run to grab it, look at the little full and empty sign and of course it’s on empty. 

    Did I know it was empty? How long has it been on empty? I’m sure I’ve seen it. Did I just ignore it because when am I ever going to really need it? Retelling this story to my son he recalls how he and the neighbor used to spray each other with it for fun. “Is it the same fire extinguisher?” he asks. Yep, sure is.

    Meanwhile, the fire is just growing. There is a lamp next to it, and the cord is just melting in front of our eyes. The plug is melting into the outlet. And what do I think about? I think to myself, THAT is the charger to my hand vacuum! I use it every day to vacuum the pet hair off the couch! And it’s perfect for vacuuming my stairs. How am I ever going to charge my little hand vacuum again?

    When I realized I was being ridiculous worrying about charging my hand vacuum my next thought was, what a freaking mess this is going to be! Who is going to clean up this mess? Am I going to clean up this mess? Of course I’m going to clean up this mess. Can I clean up this mess? I cleaned so much already. I don’t know if I have time to clean up another mess? Do I EVEN know how to clean this mess??

    Once again, stop worrying about the mess because there is still a fire in your house!

    I run around the house, opening windows and opening doors. Not all the windows open, but I know the ones that do. Once again, another afterthought, why are you opening windows when the fire is not even out yet??? Get that fire out first!

    The funny thing is no one stops to call 911. No one even thinks about it. What have you always been taught if there’s a fire? Call 911!

    Also, none of the neighbors came over to check on me or called 911 themselves. What kind of neighbors are they? The doors were open, the smoke alarms blaring, and all my neighbors were asleep in the beds?? I guess I can’t count on them to save my life.

    Oh! Water!!! I’ll just get us some water! I’ll get us some water! I think to myself all excitedly and all impressed with how brilliant I am to have thought of water. Can I get the hose from outside and bring it in here?? No, that will take too long. And will it even reach?

    Retelling this story to my mother she said you have to be careful with water if it’s an electrical fire because you can get shocked. Huh! My mother is so smart. I didn’t think of that even though after the fact, it makes perfect sense. Well, the good news is no one got electrocuted here! Not this time!

    I filled a spaghetti pot with water and ran it over to my brother who dumped it on the charging block and threw it on top of it to suffocate it. The fire was out. 

    Now I’m a crier. I will cry about anything. I cried when my fridge broke. I cried when my dryer smelled like smoke. I even cried when I had to throw out my outside shoes because they were covered with such an unbelievable amount of dog poo, I could never get them clean again. But do you know what I did when the fire was finally out? I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed so hard that I couldn’t stop for about five minutes. Even though there was nothing funny about the situation. Isn’t it funny how your body responds with the opposite emotion sometimes?

    The smoke detectors were still going off. We ran around the house, trying to figure out where they all were, and which one was making a loud noise. We finished opening windows and doors. It also happened to be the coldest night ever in Wilmington.

    We pulled off all the smoke detectors, and the house was finally quiet. My brother had to use a wrench to pull the black plug which had burned into the wall and outlet. He covered the outlet with electrical tape, stood up, brushed his hands and says “Whew!” And then he said so calmly, “well, I’m going to bed.” 

    To be fair, it was after midnight, but still….

    What?!?! Going to bed??? We almost burned the house down! I’m traumatized! Aren’t you? There’s a huge mess! I will never be able to sleep tonight.

    I stood there looking at soot covering every surface of my house, a big puddle on the floor, doors and window open and he can sleep?!

    Is it a guy vs girl thing? Or is it just my brother. He is always so calm and laid back. I want to be him. 

    So I mopped the floor at least 10 times, wiped off every surface I could, although they all needed to be wiped off again at least 10 times over the next couple days, closed the doors and windows when I thought the home was ventilated enough, and then stayed up all night googling how to clean up fire damage in your house.

    This is how my house looked after I cleaned. 

    img_1332

    The first thing I read was, don’t try to clean the soot off with water because that will make it worse and just spread it. Which is exactly the first thing I did before I decided to ask Google. It just makes sense! Always ask Google first! I should know that rule! 

    Don’t you hate it when you ask Google and there are a million different answers? How do you get rid of fire damage? The answers ranged from vinegar, bleach, a dry chemical sponge, (never heard of it but it was $45 when I looked it up) and some cleaner I had never heard of that sounded like toilet paper.

    So, the next morning my brother and I got to work. I could not live with a black wall in my front room.  Do we know anything about fixing a wall after fire damage? No, but it’s amazing what you can learn from Google. We started with vinegar because we had it. Then we just googled it and went from there. Less than 24 hours later it looked like this.

    img_1337

    I’m not quite sure how we did it. It’s not perfect but I can live with imperfect. But isn’t it amazing what you can do when you really put your mind to something? When you really don’t want to live in a home with fire damage on your wall? If my brother and I can perform this miracle, you would think we could cook an edible meal. Maybe we can now? I will keep you updated. 

    But for now, don’t blame things on your vacuum. Get off your butt and investigate. Also, don’t think you know everything.

    Lastly, does anyone know where I can get a new charger for my hand vac?