Cooking Failures

Author: britaschrager

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

    Screenshot

    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?

  • Roll With It… The Thanksgiving with No Rolls

    “Please don’t insist on making a whole turkey this year,” my mother begged me. 

    I was slightly insulted because I had loved making a whole turkey for Thanksgiving the last two years. But then she reminded me that they were both disasters and at least one, and possibly both, were still frozen. I guess I’d forgotten that part.

    I just remembered the excitement of feeling like I was in a Norman Rockwell painting when I stuffed the little bird with a lemon and an onion and I tied up his cute little feet. I made a little butter mixture with herbs, and I rubbed it all over him like I was giving him a little massage. I talked to him while I gave him a little massage. I told him how cute he was and what a good little bird he was as I got under the skin. I was having so much fun rubbing all the goop into him, that I think half an hour had passed before my mom said, “I think he’s good.”

    I’ve always wanted to be able to make a perfect Thanksgiving turkey. The kind you see in cheesy Christmas movies that are brown and sitting on the table with happy faces surrounding them. That was going to be my Thanksgiving.

    But I do remember last year I called my mom in the kitchen with a finger to my lips and showed her that the turkey was not done at all. Together, we played it off though, and she cut off the parts that were cooked, and she cooked them a little more and we hid the frozen turkey parts. It worked fine and nobody questioned why there was such a small amount of turkey when they saw me massaging a great huge turkey earlier in the day. No one knew that the Thanksgiving turkey was a disaster and still frozen. Well, except my mom and me.

    I was telling the story to a friend who said, “Well, why didn’t you look online and get a turkey recipe there?”

    “Really? What? That’s a brilliant idea. Did you think I just came up with an idea in my mind on how to make a Thanksgiving turkey? Of course not! Of course I looked online and I got a recipe for the best Thanksgiving turkey ever!” I replied sarcastically.

    I was a little offended that he didn’t give me enough credit to look up a recipe online before I attempted to make the best Thanksgiving turkey ever.

    “Well”, he said, “you don’t follow the instructions when you make brownies.”

    Nobody follows the instructions when they make brownies. Especially not me. I don’t need instructions for making brownies. I’ve been making brownies for 40 years (although ever since my sister pointed out that I made the brownies wrong a couple months ago, I am more careful about reading the instructions but this is completely different).

    I was telling another friend this story and she said, “Well, you know, you have to defrost it in the fridge for days, right?”

    Yes! Of course, I know that. And I did just that. I defrosted it for like five days! And it was still frozen. I don’t understand.

    “Did you defrost it in the fridge or in the freezer?” my friend asked.

    Gosh, people must really think I’m an idiot. I guess if I have a blog called Cooking Failures and people have read about my many cooking mishaps, I can understand them questioning my cooking knowledge.

    But yes, I looked it up online. I looked up multiple recipes to find the best one. The one I used had the word BEST in the title so I figured that would be the best. I defrosted it for the suggested time. I poked it and it was nice and soft. I followed the directions perfectly and still; it came out a disaster.

    I think the year before nobody ate it. They said it was great but yet, nobody ate it. Except my mom. She eats everything. I don’t even think my brother ate it and he eats everything, too! There were tons of leftovers for Mom.

    Don’t forget that I’m a vegetarian so I don’t actually eat the turkey. So, I really don’t care what it taste like as long as everyone else eats it, even if it’s only to be polite. I guess I should have a serious talk with my family about that.

    So, this year, my mom begged me not to try the whole turkey thing again and just get a turkey breast. I was a little sad about giving up my dream, but also, sometimes you just have to give up.

    I did spend days after the past two Thanksgivings worrying that I gave my family salmonella so it will be nice not to have that worry. I have plenty of other worries though so don’t worry about me being worry free.

    Honestly, I wasn’t even really sure what a turkey breast was. I just knew it was simpler than a whole turkey. Don’t people always buy turkey breasts from the grocery store? And isn’t it always on sandwiches and stuff?  I figured it would be easy to cook, and I wouldn’t have to do any prep work. 

    I had been ordering groceries for Thanksgiving all week. I’ve had them all in my cart and I was adding them daily. I figured I would pick them up on Wednesday so they won’t sit in my fridge too long and besides, that gives me up until the last minute to put in everything I may have forgotten. I always forget something. 

    I pick up my groceries and I’m patting myself on the back for being all prepared as I’m putting them away in the refrigerator and singing Christmas songs. Then I pull out the turkey breast and it’s frozen. Frozen?!?! A turkey breast is frozen too? I flip it over and skim the instructions and it says it needs to thaw 1 to 3 days. 1 to 3 days?!?! Oh no! This is a disaster. For some reason, I thought I was ordering an already thawed Turkey breast! Do they not have that? Is that not a thing? I should’ve ordered my groceries earlier!

    It’s OK, I tell myself. It’s early on Wednesday. I have plenty of time to figure this out, so my family does not once again, need to eat a frozen turkey for Thanksgiving. I decide I will run to the grocery store and I will just buy an already thawed turkey breast. I will save this frozen one for another day.

    I go to the fancy grocery store. I’m proud of myself for my genius idea to save the day. Well, ALL the turkey breasts in the grocery store are frozen. I guess that’s what they do? Obviously, I’m not a turkey breast expert. I didn’t go to turkey breast school.

    So, I start googling it and I skim the back of the turkey breast again and it says that for the size of the turkey breast I have, it only needs 24 hours to defrost. Phew! because we have 24 hours. That was a close call.  

    The really funny part is, the next day on Thanksgiving, when we were taking the thawed turkey breast out to cook, my sister, (who’s really good at reading instructions), said, “Oh wow! You can cook this turkey breast from frozen. It doesn’t need to be thawed. See?” And she shows me where it says COOK FROM FROZEN on the front in big letters. 

    I really know that I need to read things more carefully and stop just skimming things thinking I can get the point.

    So this Thanksgiving, the turkey breast was a hit. It came out perfectly. But what was not a hit were the rolls.

    My youngest son has celiac so, weeks before Christmas, I searched for gluten-free stuffing(which was a huge hit by the way), gluten-free desserts and gluten-free dinner rolls.

    I found a company that looked good and ordered some gluten-free dinner rolls from them. They said they would be delivered between November 24 and November 26, which was just perfect. They ended up just being delivered yesterday, December 1, so that was out for Thanksgiving.

    Months ago, I had ordered some gluten-free crescent rolls. They came in a little packet, and I almost died when I read the instructions on the back because they were so complicated. You had to freeze butter and grate the butter into the flour? I always looked at those crescent rolls and then decided the instructions were too hard and I put them back on the shelf. “I’ll save them for a day when I really want a challenge,” I said to myself. But surprisingly, I never wake up and say, “Today is the day I want a challenge.” Especially not a making-gluten-free-crescent-rolls challenge.

    But the gluten-free crescent rolls were all I had so I guess I was up for a challenge on Thanksgiving. Once again, I skimmed the directions. I thought I was all ahead of myself too because I saw that it needed frozen butter so the night before I cut the right amount of butter and put it in the freezer. Once again, I just skimmed the directions and at the bottom, it said bake 16 to 20 minutes. So that is what I was planning on doing. Once again patting myself on the back for being so prepared.

    The turkey was almost done, and I figured it was time for me to start on these crescent rolls. Gosh, I wish I took a picture because they just looked like a disaster. But the directions were so specific and said things like “use a pizza cutter” and “cut it into 14 squares and roll it this way and that way.” Nobody has time for that so I just took little balls in my hand and shaped them as best I could into crescent rolls shapes.

    I just crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. How important could all that stuff be? And then I read the instructions more carefully and it said sit them in a warm place for 75 minutes until they double in size! What??? 75 minutes!!! But Thanksgiving dinner is just about ready!

    So, what ended up happening was that we all just ate Thanksgiving with no bread. With no rolls. I had bought the delicious Hawaiian rolls for the rest of the family, but it would be so unfair for everyone else to eat Hawaiian rolls while my little son with celiac has no bread just because I couldn’t read the instructions (which, by the way, I had skimmed multiple times).  We ended up making those rolls anyway later and they tasted like sand, so I’m glad we didn’t wait the 75 minutes to eat.

    The whole family decided to forego Hawaiian rolls all to not hurt a little boy’s feelings. They all gave up the best part of Thanksgiving, so one little boy would not feel left out. 

    That’s really what Thanksgiving is about, isn’t it? Being caring and considerate and thinking of other people’s feelings. It’s about sacrificing even something as delicious as Hawaiian rolls, to keep someone from feeling sad.

    There was plenty of food to eat though and I doubt anyone even really missed the bread. But I will tell you as soon as my youngest son went upstairs, we all did shove our faces with Hawaiian rolls. They are so good! Why do we only buy them at Thanksgiving? 

    The turkey was a success, but the rolls were a disaster. I guess every Thanksgiving needs some sort of disaster. 

    Really, this Thanksgiving taught me that I just need to slow down. Sure, I need to read directions more carefully, but also I need to slow down in life. I’m always in such a rush that I skim instructions, I skim emails, I even skim my daily readings in the morning and even sometimes the book I’m reading. I’m always thinking about the next thing on my list. I’m always thinking about what else I need to get done. I’m always rushing.

    It’s not a race. I don’t need to get to the finish line first. I don’t even need to get everything accomplished in one day. I’m going to slow down. I’m going to take my time. And hopefully next Thanksgiving, I will have read all the instructions perfectly and we will have that Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving. With bread on the table and everything. 

    But this year I am thankful for my mistake. Thankful that I was rushing and messed up because it showed the kindness and compassion of the human spirit. It showed me what family is really all about.  It showed the sacrifices we make for the ones we love. Even if it’s just the Hawaiian rolls.

  • Old broken plastic dog toy bins

    Is there anyone else who just doesn’t like new things? A new phone, a new car, even new clothes…. they just don’t excite me. There’s something about the old, the familiar, the well-loved, that just feels so comfortable. It feels like home.

    I wear my clothes out until they’ve disintegrated to nothing. My favorite pair of black pants has holes in the butt, but it’s fine, I just wear black underwear, and no one can really tell. No one’s really looking at my butt that closely.

     I had a favorite gray long sleeve waffle knit shirt that I wore and wore and wore until it fell apart. The collar had come off, the cuffs had come off, the holes in it were too big to keep wearing it, even around the house. I still miss that shirt over 20 years later.

     It’s also as if my old clothes know me. They know how I like them to fit; they know how I like them to feel and when I get up off the couch they say, “ Oh, are you going to get yourself another glass of wine?” Then they high five me  because my clothes know if they are lucky, I will spill some on them and they will get some wine too!

    New clothes are all tight and stiff, and uncomfortable. They try to be all high waisted. No one likes a high waist! I like a low waist. I know that’s your name and what you were made to do, but don’t try to do that stuff around my house. Go low.

    They’re also very judgmental and questioning. “Are you getting ANOTHER glass of wine?” They also freak out when I spill stuff on them.  “Quick! Get the stain stick!” They yell. “Oxy Clean! Shout! Where are you?!”

    “Chill!” I tell them. “You don’t need a stain stick! Or any of that other stuff. We love stains around here. It gives us character!”

    And then there’s my car. I’ve only had it for eight years, but I’ve put over 230,000 miles on it. The back right door doesn’t close properly; the left turn signal doesn’t work unless you push it down really hard. If you just push it down normally, then the right turn signal will come on. I give it a break because sometimes I confuse my right with my left also. 

    The air vent on the far right doesn’t work, the paint is peeling, it has more than a few dents and scratches, and the radio is very finicky. The radio sometimes stops working, but over the years, I have found that I can easily reset it with my earring.

    “Oh, not this again,” I say pretending to be annoyed with the radio and I drive along, pull my earring out and reset it quickly.  Usually resetting the radio fixes it. If not, I just wait until the next day and then it starts working again magically. I guess you need patience with used and well-loved things.

    My car knows me. It knows what I want to listen to, it knows that I like to go below the speed limit and it doesn’t give me a hard time about it. Not like some rental cars that I’ve been in that just want to go fast. My minivan likes going slow and enjoying the view. Just like I do.

    I was going to say it knows exactly how I like my seat, but I just discovered last week that I can adjust the seat so there’s not a big bar sticking in the middle of my back! Who knew?  After eight years? I guess you can still learn new things about old cars no matter how long you’ve known them. And people too. With all its quirks and inconveniences, I love my car and I’m hoping it’ll last another million miles.

    My phone was the worst though. It was really old and well loved. It knew me so well. I don’t think another phone could ever know me so well. I know, I know, people talk about an Apple ID and you just sign in on the new phone and all of a sudden, all your stuff is there and then the new phone knows you too. I don’t really believe that. I got a new phone and I tried it. It doesn’t understand my typos, like my old phone did. This new phone corrects my typos to actual words!!! 

    “That’s not what I meant at all, New Phone! Old Phone would have totally known that” I actually said out loud the other day.

    It doesn’t know that I lose my phone all the time and there’s no reason to panic. Old phone just sits there and rolls his eyes and waits and waits for me to figure out where I left him. 

    New Phone is all panicky. “Where have you been? Why did you leave me alone? I thought you were lost forever!!!”

    New Phone needs to chill out.

    I do think it is pretty cool though how you can put one phone next to the other phone and they just transfer information and send stuff between them. How do they do that? It’s like magic!

    My old phone got to the point where it just wouldn’t send texts sometimes. (Maybe it knew I really shouldn’t send those texts, but still, it should do what it’s told) It just wouldn’t receive texts sometimes. I would get a notification that I got a text, but I couldn’t find it when I opened my text messages.

    There was also NEVER enough storage on my old phone so every time there was an update I have to delete everything. And still, there was not enough room for the update. Sometimes there was not enough storage for me to clock in on my work app. And don’t even get me started on pictures! There was never enough storage for me to take pictures.

    Sometimes I would delete and delete and delete a bunch of pictures I didn’t necessarily need (although I really wanted) and still there would be no room for me to take one picture. 

    “I just deleted 30 pictures!” I would say to Old Phone. “And you won’t even let me take one?”

    My phone said “no.” I get it. He was tired. I am too.

    I was at the vet’s office and they had the cutest little sign saying if your dog has anxiety, take this little bandana and lay it over her/him because it has been sprayed with something calming. (Well, the sign said it in a much more eloquent way. That’s why I wanted to take a picture!)

    I thought it was the cutest little sign, and I took one bandana and laid It over my dog. It had autumn leaves on it, and she looked so cute! I wanted to take a picture of the sign and take a picture of my dog to send to my family chat because I knew they would love it. But Old Phone said “no.”

    Even after I deleted so many things I just begged it for just one more picture and it said “no.”

    Also, the camera only worked in selfie mode. I’ve gotten pretty skilled though at taking every picture I need to take in selfie mode. I mean, doesn’t everyone just want my face in the corner of every picture I take? OK, probably NOT everyone.

    So I finally got a new phone, and I don’t know what the hype is about a new phone. I don’t know why people are so excited. It’s just a phone. It’s fine. It sends my texts. It receives my texts. It lets me take pictures. But really, I just miss Old Phone. My old phone was comfortable, well worn, and well loved, even with all his bad habits.

    Sometimes I think I want nice new things. The other morning, I was sitting on my couch looking around my house and I thought to myself that I really needed new baskets for the dog toys. This was after I woke up that morning and said to myself that I’m not going to buy anything unnecessary today.

    The current baskets are not even baskets! They are plastic bins the dog toys have been in for years. (and they have NEVER bothered me) They were bins that used to hold my kids’ toys when they were babies. These bins are over 15 years old. They don’t match and they are cracked down the side and cracked down the back. They are just not very pretty. Doesn’t my dog deserve better? For the toys she NEVER plays with. And besides, wouldn’t it just make my house look so pretty?

    So, I hopped on Amazon, and I bought my dog two new matching baskets for her toys. We have one in the front room and one in the back of the house. Honestly, she doesn’t even play with toys. It was the other dog that played with toys, but they are all still here.

    The new baskets are very pretty. They are woven baskets with a the cute little dog bone on them. 

    I was all excited when they came and I switched out the dog toys and showed them to my dog who didn’t care. She loves old well-loved things the best too.  After all, she loves me.  

    After three days of looking at them and how pretty they made my house look, I decided that I didn’t like the new dog toy baskets. 

    They were too nice and too new and too fancy. And the old ones reminded me of my kids when they were babies. They also reminded me of my old dog too who would often pull out all the toys.  And not clean them up.

    Good thing I hadn’t thrown the old bins out. I just threw them in the garage. I dug through the garage and found those old plastic broken bins and I returned those new dog baskets. It’s funny how you don’t really realize how much you love something sometimes. It is funny how they look perfect to me now.  Mismatched, well loved and all.

    It’s like that with people sometimes too. We get old and we get broken and we get worn out and we get boring. I hope no one will ever trade me in for something new and shiny. 

    That’s the thing though, we learn to love people just like we learn to love things. We love them with their faults, and with their broken parts. We love them because we know them so well, and even their annoying habits become endearing. We love them because they are not perfect. And neither are we.

    The world would be such a better place if we were happy with what we had instead of wanting something new and pretty, if we appreciated a little more our old well-loved things that brought us comfort, and if we were just happy with our old broken plastic dog toy bins.

  • The boss of the house

    Who is the boss of the house? The cat. Of course it is the cat. For those of you who have cats, you understand.  

    In 2008 we decided we should get a pet for our almost one year-old. We thought a cat would be a nice easy pet for him. Ha! Nice and easy.  We didn’t want a kitten that was wild and crazy and would claw him as he walked by, so we decided on a somewhat older cat. A two-year-old cat would be perfect. 

    So, we went to our local PetSmart to adopt a cat. They said, “a two-year-old cat? We have just the one. Here! This cat is two.”

    She was a sweet little gray tabby named Juniper. For some reason, one that I cannot remember now, we changed her name to Lulu. How rude! Why do we humans think we can just change a cat’s name after she’s already lived with it for two years? And we expect her to listen?  (kidding, we all know cats don’t listen but changing her name makes it especially hard to listen)

    “Lulu?!?? Who the heck is Lulu? My name is Juniper!” I can hear her thinking to herself. And for the life of me, I cannot remember why we didn’t like Juniper. I think it’s a great name. Isn’t it funny when you get older you really can’t remember anything? Or is it just me? It can’t just be me.

    Anyway, we brought Lulu home and introduced her to our wild one-year-old.  If you’ve read my blog from the beginning, you will know what I’m talking about when I say he was a wild almost one-year-old.  If not, go back and read the very first blog post called cooking failures. Then you will have a better understanding of just what my sweet little wild one-year-old was like.

    The introduction went well. Dylan was thrilled to meet the little kitten. We sat him on the couch and put the kitten in his lap and Dylan was gentle and kind. I had images of them being best friends. Images of them playing with toys together and reading books together. I imagined myself getting up in the middle of the night and tiptoeing down the hall to check on Dylan and finding he and Lulu snuggled up together. I couldn’t wait for them to grow up together.

    Well, to put it nicely, Lulu did not like Dylan. The first morning, she walked out all proud like she owned the place. But then Dylan woke up. He ran around the house like a crazy person, he threw toys and books, he climbed on chairs and tables, he jumped on the couch and he was really, really loud. 

    Poor Lulu cowered in the corner for most of the day looking very confused. This is not what a home is supposed to be like, I pictured her thinking to herself. This is not how they described it in the pet store. They described it as a calm and loving place where people would give you lots of attention and you will be safe. Nobody mentioned it had a Tasmanian devil.

    Oh, and when Dylan saw Lulu, his eyes lit up! He ran at her full speed ahead before I could get over there, and he grabbed her and hugged her and pet her and by the look on her face, you would think she was being tortured. I guess she kind of was. No matter how many times I talked to Dylan about being gentle and modeled the gentle petting the cat and took his hands and tried to help him be gentle, this kid really had no gentle in him.

    A few mornings later, I woke up, I fed Lulu, and we watched the Today show together while I drank my tea. This is how I pictured having a cat. 

    Then Dylan woke up.  And Lulu disappeared. I could not find her anywhere! I searched the whole house. Every single part of it. I called my husband at work, crying that I lost the cat. He assured me she was fine. Don’t men always do that? Just say everything ‘s fine. How do they know it’s fine? How could it be fine? I lost the freaking cat! She was nowhere in the house! It was not a big house so I could easily search every single part of it multiple times. I spent a whole day looking for the cat trying not to cry so Dylan wouldn’t worry. First of all, of course I was worried about Lulu and worried if she was OK. But also, I felt like a failure of a pet owner. How could I lose my cat? Does that happen to other pet owners? Please say it does. 

    As soon as Dylan fell asleep, my husband and I sat down on the couch to watch some TV and suddenly Lulu jumped right up on the couch in between us. I was so surprised and thankful. I think I started crying right away. I’m not a terrible pet owner! I did not lose my pet! Oh, and also, I’m so happy you are ok, I told Lulu. 

    “Where were you?” I asked Lulu. But of course, she just ignored me. Cats like to do that.

    The next day, the same thing happened. I know it sounds silly, but once again, I thought I lost my pet. I searched the whole house, called my husband, crying, he said it was fine, I didn’t believe him, and I spent the whole day worrying. But that night, as soon as Dylan fell asleep, there was Lulu on the couch, snuggling with us. I guess Dylan really did make her nervous.

    Poor Dylan did figure it out and would ask where Lulu was every day and I said, “well she goes to work, just like daddy goes to work. Hopefully she’ll be home from work before you go to bed, but sometimes daddy’s not home from work before you go to bed either.”

    Dylan went off to preschool and told everyone there that his cat goes to work every day. No one really questioned it because he was three. If anyone ever asked me about it, I would’ve said I have no idea what he’s talking about.

    When Lulu was about three, we took her to the vet for extremely bad breath and found out she was allergic to her own teeth, so they had to pull them all out. But when the vet looked at her teeth, he said she was probably eight or nine years old. What?!?! We thought she was three. So, there’s really no telling how old Lulu is. The papers we got say she was born in April 2007. But maybe she was born five years earlier. It’s a mystery. I just don’t put a number on her birthday cake every year. I don’t want to tell her we really don’t know how old she is.

    Over time, Lulu got used to Dylan. And Lulu loved Dylan. He would read her bedtime books before he went to bed. I guess some relationships just take time. I did have to tell him that Lulu quit her job so she could spend more time at home with him when she started coming out more. I’m sure he went to preschool and told everybody his cat quit her job and is now home more often to play with him. 

    We lived in Chantilly for five years and Lulu had a litter box under the sink in the downstairs bathroom, and she used it. Although when we left, we noticed the floor was pretty messed up under the litter box, so she must’ve been going down the side or something. But she used the litter box.

    And then we moved to North Carolina. We got her a cute little leash for the car ride down even though it was only 5 1/2 hours. Cats can definitely go that long without going to the bathroom, but we figured she would need to stop and relieve herself, so we bought her this cute little blue leash so we could take her out at rest stops and she could pee. I don’t know if any of you guys have ever gotten a leash for your cat, but please tell me it did not go so well? Lulu just lay flat on her stomach. She wouldn’t get up, she wouldn’t walk, the kids dragged her down the sidewalk thinking they were walking her, and she was enjoying it. She definitely did not go pee on a leash. She did not seem to enjoy it one bit. And she absolutely did not believe me when I told her that I really thought she would like it and I thought I was doing something nice for her. She just cat scoffed at me. We never used that leash again.

    We got to our beautiful house in North Carolina, and I found room for the litter box in the downstairs bathroom in between the toilet and the wall. I showed Lulu where the litter box was, and then I walked away, brushing my hands together, thinking that was taken care of. I mean, I told her where she was supposed to go to the bathroom. I put her in the litter box and talked it up to her. “Wow! Look at this awesome litter box! It’s blue! Your favorite color! Great place to go potty! And look! There’s a chicken picture on the wall to look at while you do your business. Your dad saw it and just had to have it. Who has to have a chicken picture? Anyway, enjoy!” Simple. Of course she would listen. What could go wrong? 

    But Lulu did not want to pee in the litter box. I don’t think she wanted it in the bathroom. I don’t know why. I don’t know why she thinks she’s in charge of where she’s going to go to the bathroom. I told her that no cats get to decide where their litter box goes and she just has to go where the litter box is. Does she think when a cat moves in the house the owner says, “I want you to be as comfortable as possible here. Please tell me where you would like your litter box. Even if it’s where we eat.” As you can imagine, that went over really well. Nobody else listens to Brita, especially cats who probably don’t listen to anyone. If your cat does listen to you, please don’t tell me. It will only make me feel bad.

    We had a CARPETED dining room and that is where Lulu wanted to pee and poo! I told her it was not happening and there was no way I was putting a little box in my carpeted dining room, and she just has to go in the litter box in the bathroom. She pretty much cat laughed in my face and kept going in my carpeted dining room. 

    There was a power struggle for a couple days with me saying no and putting her back in the litter box to show her where to go and cleaning up pee and poo off the carpet in my dining room. But finally, I relented. Come on, we all know the cat was going to win this power struggle. Cats win all power struggles.

    So, I put a litter box in the dining room right over where she likes to go. “Happy dear?” I asked Lulu. That is one of my favorite lines from the movie Beaches. Bette Midler leaves her towel on the bathroom floor and Barbara Hershey’s daughter (who is not a fan of Bette Midler) tells on her. She says, “Mom! Cece left her towel on the floor!” Then Bette Midler marches out of her bedroom, with her hair wrapped in a cool towel, and then hangs the towel up on the towel rack. She turns to the kid and says, “Happy dear?” Full of sarcasm. I don’t know why we loved that line so much when we were little and my sisters and I would always say it to each other. Anyway, I said it the same way Bette Midler did. A little snippy and sarcastic, but I didn’t really think Lulu would notice. But obviously she did. Cats know these things. 

    Guess what she did? She went poop 2 inches to the right of the litter box on the carpet. So, I cleaned the carpet and moved that litter box two inches to the right thinking I just placed it wrong. Then the next day she pooped two inches to the left. I kept cleaning the carpet and moving the litter box around to exactly where she wanted to go to the bathroom. She just sat in the corner, watching me and laughing.

    Eventually, I got to the perfect spot where she wanted it. I literally marked the carpet with tape so I would know exactly where she wanted it. She’s very particular as you can tell. Believe it or not she went in the litter box. Mostly. I have a feeling she did pee on the carpet because that room started to smell a little bit, but at least she was doing the poo in the litter box, mostly. And I admitted defeat and Lulu won. And we just stopped eating in the dining room. That is what the kitchen is for. Lulu can have the dining room.

    So, life ran smoothly, mostly, and then we decided to get a dog. Well, we had to get a dog. I put off getting a dog for years every time my kids and husband asked because dogs are a lot of work, and I know I was the one who was going to take care of the dog. We got hamsters and a bearded dragon and a fish all to avoid getting a dog. But on my son’s seventh birthday after he blew out his birthday candles, he looked at me and said, “I make the same wish every year, and it never comes true.” That broke my heart! I asked what the wish was, and he said every year he wished for a dog. So, I turned to my husband, and I said, “Gosh darn it! Now we have to get a dog. We can’t have a seven-year-old thinking birthday wishes don’t come true!”

    So, we got a dog, but I was very worried about how Lulu would do with the dog. I’m not sure why I was surprised, but Lulu put that dog in her place the second she walked in the house. She showed that dog who was boss, and that dog was slightly terrified of Lulu.  If Lulu was sitting in the middle of the hallway and the dog wanted to get past, she would go all the way around the house to avoid walking by that cat. I sure wish I had some of that in me. Nobody is terrified of me. Nobody avoids me. Well, maybe they do and I don’t know it. 

    One time my sister came to visit and brought her puppy with her. Her puppy was potty training, so she had all the doggy pee pads and they were all over my house. I guess we left them down after she left and a couple days later, I noticed that there was pee on one of the pads! I ran around the whole house, asking everyone in it if they peed on the pee pad. Of course, they didn’t and that is how I came to discover that Lulu likes to pee on doggy pee pads instead of in a litter box. But of course, you have to have the pad in the exact spot so it took a bunch of moving it 2 inches to the right and 2 inches to the left and 3 inches below to find the exact spot where Lulu would like her pee pad. Still, I think it’s much easier than a litter box. Even though she doesn’t always get all the pee exactly on the pee pad. Just close to it or on half of it. That is when I threw out the litter box, and we just started using the pee pads. There is still a lot of mopping up pee, but I was happy with the direction it was going in. Also, we had gotten flooring put down in the dining room by then so that definitely helped with clean up. 

    Life gets crazy, things happen, I moved out, and Lulu and I were separated for three years. My ex recently gave her back to me. 

    Of course, I unnecessarily worried about how she would get along with the dog, so I got baby gates to separate them. But once again, she walked in that house and showed the dog who was in charge.

    I feel bad for the dog because Lulu bullies her a little more than she used to. She will get up in her face when the dog is minding her own business and hiss and a swat at her nose. 

    You know what I saw the other day? The poor dog was just standing at the water bowl, drinking water and minding her own business. Lulu came up behind her, put her paw up and tried to swipe her leg right out from under her. My brother and I both saw it and our mouths dropped open! 

    I gave Lulu a lecture about how there’s no need to be a bully and she needs to keep her paws to herself. Hissing is one thing, but actually putting her paws on the dog is not OK. I’m sure she listened very well. Now I just follow the dog around like her personal bodyguard to protect her from the little cat.

    Lulu did decide though that she didn’t want any furniture in the dining room. Except the dining room table, but she didn’t want any chairs. She would just pee under the unnecessary furniture until I finally cleaned out the whole dining room and moved it all into the garage.  Now it’s just like she likes it. Who needs real furniture in their dining room anyway? Thanks for helping with the decluttering, Lulu.

    Every morning, she sits with me on the couch while I drink my tea. She jumps up in my lap while I’m on Zoom meetings and sits on the couch with me in the evenings and we watch TV together. She sleeps in my bed, but I always leave the door open so she can get up in the middle of the night and go potty. She is an old lady after all. Then she comes back to bed and snuggles some more.

    She’s very picky about her food and one morning she will not like a particular type of food and I will have to throw it out and give her a different one. She’s also very demanding when it’s time to eat. 

    She’s also teaching me balance and to watch where I’m walking because she loves to walk right in front of me. She zigzags in front of my feet while I’m walking to try to trip me. I’m proud to say it hasn’t worked yet, but I am very careful about where I step now. I should thank her for teaching me to pay attention.

    Sometimes when we’re hanging out, I can’t believe that I’ve known this cat for 17 years. We’ve been buddies for that long. And I think that I should really be more like Lulu. Maybe we should all be more like Lulu. Stand up for yourself! Don’t put up with anybody pushing you around no matter how big they are. Make people move furniture if you don’t like it. Make them pay attention when they are walking. Go to the bathroom where you want to. Bully big dogs who secretly intimidate you. Love your people unconditionally and always just do what makes you happy. Hide for a day, or a month, or as long as it takes until you are comfortable. OK, maybe we shouldn’t follow the go to the bathroom wherever you want or bully people ideas. I think we should all just stick to toilets, and nobody likes a bully. But there’s still a lot of other lessons to learn from my old toothless, stubborn, mean sweetheart of a cat.