The Olives Caper

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was visiting my mother's apartment while waiting for her to get home from work. My fourteen-year-old brother Tommy was there, and we spent a couple of hours hanging out until around 4:00 p.m., when one of his friends called and wanted to meet up with him.

As Tommy was heading out the door, he asked if there was anything I wanted from the store. He said he could pick it up on his way home.

I told him I didn't have any money on me, but I was craving olives. So, jokingly, I said:

"Steal me a jar of olives!"

Then I laughed.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think Tommy would take me seriously. First, because I was clearly joking.

Second, because he was fourteen-ish years old and therefore should have possessed at least one basic survival instinct.

And third, because "Steal me a jar of olives" is not a normal request.

If someone says, "Pick me up a loaf of bread," that's a request. But when someone says, "Steal me a jar of olives" and then immediately starts laughing, that's considered a clue.

What happened next was something neither of us expected.

While I sat at home waiting for Mom, Tommy was apparently carrying out what he believed was a noble mission on behalf of his pregnant sister. In his mind, he may have been solving the Great Olive Crisis of the 1980’s.

Unfortunately, there was one tiny problem.

A security guard had spotted him.

The man followed Tommy out of the store, and Tommy noticed him trailing behind. Thinking he could lose the guy in the crowds along the Avenue, Tommy picked up his pace.

He was wrong.

The security guard started running. So Tommy started running.

At this point, what should have been a minor misunderstanding was rapidly turning into what must have looked like the filming of an action movie.

The guard was gaining on him.

Tommy didn't know what to do.

What happened next came straight from information provided by Tommy and sounded like something stunt coordinators would consider an awesome scene.

Suddenly, Tommy stopped and bent over.

The security guard ran directly into him and went tumbling over his back, hit the ground moaning.

Tommy immediately changed direction and sprinted the other way.

For one glorious moment, it almost worked.

Unfortunately, what Tommy didn't know was that there was a second security guard. And Tommy ran directly into him. Can you say "lawyer?"

Meanwhile, I was still sitting at the apartment waiting for Mom when the house phone rang. And yes, for our younger readers, we actually had a house phone attached to the kitchen wall back then. The security guard explained that Tommy had been caught shoplifting and that they intended to press charges.

Immediately, I told the security guard that my mom would be home any minute and we will come to sort this out and I begged him not to call police before we got there. 

I had remembered that an ex-boyfriend of mine had a cousin who worked at the store and he was a manager. I called the ex, hoping he might be able to get his cousin to help. If not for that connection, this story could have ended very differently. It's not what you know ... Sometimes, it's who you know!

A short time later, Mom came home from work. I had the unpleasant task of telling her we needed to go pick Tommy up from the supermarket because he had been caught shoplifting. Unfortunately for my brother, this was also the same week he had gotten into an altercation with another student at school and had been suspended.

So, this- 

THIS was not helping his situation.

When we arrived at the store, security explained that Tommy had stolen a jar of olives and that surveillance cameras had captured him slipping it into his jacket pocket.

Tommy immediately shot me a look that clearly said:

"I DID THIS FOR YOU."

That's when my heart sank like the Titanic. "Oh no!" I blurted out. "You thought I was serious? I was joking!"

I quickly explained the whole conversation. I told them about my pregnancy cravings, my comment about olives, and the joke about stealing a jar. "It was a joke," I said. "I honestly didn't think he would actually do it."

Mom turned and gave me a death stare powerful enough to stop a charging rhinoceros.

I shrugged at her and quietly muttered: "What? It was a joke."

That explanation did not improve my situation. Mom was furious and made both of us apologize.

Notice I said BOTH of us.

Because apparently telling someone to steal olives as a joke is frowned upon almost as much as actually stealing them.

Who knew?

Thankfully, the security guard eventually chuckled a bit. He said he could understand how the misunderstanding happened and explained that someone they trusted had spoken on our behalf and asked them to consider dropping the charges because of the circumstances.

Mom, however, remained completely unimpressed.

Not a smile.

Not a chuckle.

Not even a tiny sympathy snort.

Years later, when the story came up at a family gathering, Tommy said:

"I’m glad you didn't ask me to rob a bank! My troubles would've been a lot bigger then."

Now, most of you probably understand what it's like when a mother discovers her teenage son and young adult daughter did something incredibly stupid. When we got back to the apartment, Mom was fuming. You can always tell when a mother is truly angry because her footsteps develop a very particular rhythm.

They're faster.

Louder.

More determined.

These aren't ordinary footsteps.

These are the footsteps of a mother who's considering disciplinary options involving a wooden spoon…

Possibly a shoe.

And let's be honest. Mothers have the best aim. Especially after years of raising three children and dealing with countless "What did you do now?" moments -  they could hit a moving target from twenty feet away!

Looking back, Tommy probably should have known better than to shoplift a jar of olives simply because his pregnant sister jokingly suggested it. On the other hand, I probably should have known better than to tell a fourteen-year-old boy to steal olives.

Neither one of us was exactly conducting a master class in decision-making that afternoon.

The good news is Tommy learned a valuable lesson about taking sarcastic remarks literally. The bad news is I learned that when you joke around with teenagers, you should always be prepared for the possibility that they might actually listen.

The Takeaway

If you're going to make jokes, be very specific about which crimes are hypothetical. Never underestimate a teenager's ability to misunderstand a joke and fully commit to it. The difference between a joke and a bad idea is probably whether Tommy is listening!

Olive Jar Meteor Reading

Category                      Score                               Notes

Pregnancy Craving         8/10       Apparently cravings inspire criminal activity!

Tommy's Decision          2/10       He failed to ask even one follow-up question.

Joke Detection                1/10       The snickering should have been a clue!

Stealth Shoplifting          1/10       Needs work! Grocery store security saw it all.

Detective Work               9/10       Followed the suspect & solved the case. Bravo.

Excuses Executed           3/10       “Oh! You thought I was serious?" was a bold strategy!

Death Stare Power        20/10       No yelling necessary. Justice immediately served.

Contraband Delivery      8/10       Package almost arrived. Security intercepted.

 

 The Great Kitten Heist

When I was around 16 years old, my friend Genine and I were walking back from having pizza for lunch. We were headed to the bowling alley where all my friends hung out because they had pinball machines, and we loved playing them.

As we approached the corner we needed to turn to get to the alley, we spotted two younger boys, probably around nine or ten years old. They were tossing a black kitten back and forth like a football!

Genine and I quickly came up with a plan and asked the boys if they wanted to play a game called "Monkey in the Middle." Since they already knew the game and how it was played, they happily agreed.

The moment one of them tossed the kitten toward the other boy, I leaped into the air like a professional volleyball player going for the championship point and caught the kitten. Then Genine and I took off running like two fugitives who had just stolen the world's largest diamond. We sprinted down the block, into the bowling alley, and straight into the ladies' room to hide.

Honestly, if there had been an Olympic event for rescuing kittens and fleeing the scene, we'd have brought home the gold medal.

We stayed in that bathroom for at least thirty minutes to make sure the boys had given up looking for us. I held the kitten in my arms, petting him gently and talking softly until he fell asleep.

Genine left the bathroom to scout the area. I watched through the bathroom door that I'd opened just a crack. I stayed behind like A dense wall of an excessive perfume cloud, while she skulked around like an introvert trying to escape a party without making eye contact with the hosts.

When she returned and announced the coast was clear, I knew that was my cue.

I told Genine I was taking the kitten home because my mother had a soft spot for animals, which is another way of saying every stray within a three-mile radius had a retirement plan.

 I knew if she took one look at that kitten and heard how I'd acquired him, she'd let me keep him. We already had a cat, but I didn't think that would matter.

As it turned out, I was right.

When I got home, my mother was sitting on her bed putting on her socks. She saw me coming and immediately knew I was holding something alive. Without even looking directly at it, she turned her head, raised her hand to block her peripheral vision, and simply said:

"NOPE."

That was it.

Just... "NOPE."

Well, I wasn't giving up that easily.

Every time I moved the kitten into her line of sight, she'd turn her head the opposite way. It became a ridiculous game of Keep-Away. Finally, I decided it was time to explain how two boys had been using the kitten as a furry ball and how I had rescued him.

That story must have tugged on Mom's heartstrings because the second I finished, she finally looked at him.

He was tiny, barely fitting into the palm of my hand.

The moment she laid eyes on him, she sighed and said:

"Aww, the poor little thing."

At that exact moment, I knew the battle was over and I'd won. So I immediately went in for the kill…

"Can I keep him?"

She agreed, as long as I took care of him.

And I did.

I named him Ponch because at the time there was a TV show called CHiPs, and Erik Estrada played Ponch. I had a teenage crush on the character, so naturally I named my kitten after him.

I litter-box trained him, fed him, played with him, and kept him mostly in my room because Mom's cat wasn't exactly thrilled about this new roommate. Apparently, Mom's cat “Gray” considered herself ruler of the household and viewed Ponch as an invading force.

After all, cats are territorial.

And Gray had been there first, like Queen Elizabeth defending her throne from an unexpected challenger.

One day, I came home from school and Ponch wasn't in my room. I asked Mom where he was. Without missing a beat she said, "I lent the cat to your uncle."

Excuse me?

Apparently, my uncle's delicatessen had a mouse. The mice were chewing through bread bags, cupcake wrappers, and anything else they could sink their tiny little rodent teeth into like coupon-clippers looking for free groceries.

I was devastated.

Mom assured me it was only temporary.

Since it was supposed to be temporary like every home improvement project that starts with the words 'this'll only take a few days,' and because I could visit Ponch whenever I wanted, I reluctantly accepted the arrangement.

I visited him every day after school since the deli was on my way home. On weekends, Genine and I would walk over just to spend time with him. Unfortunately, one day my uncle announced that Ponch had escaped and couldn't be found.

I immediately rushed to the store and marched up and down every nearby block yelling:

"POOOONNNCH!"

People were probably looking out their windows thinking I had either lost my mind or was being overdramatic looking for my boyfriend named Ponch.

But I found him!

I scooped him up, brought him back to the deli, and we made signs for both sides of the door reminding customers not to let the kitten out.

Problem solved.

Or so we thought.

Sadly, it happened again. This time we never found him. I cried for days before finally accepting that Ponch wasn't coming back.

Ironically, about four years later, when I was 20 years old, I went to an animal shelter to surprise my boyfriend. We'd been living together for about a year, and he had always wanted a cat.

While I was there, I spotted a tiny black male kitten. He was so small he fit right in the palm of my hand. Seems familiar- yes?

Yes. Just like Ponch had.

Naturally, I adopted him. In a strange way, I felt that something led me to this cat, perhaps some force of nature, trying to correct the wrong of “lending” my cat away? Who knows.

I didn't name the new kitten immediately because I wanted to get to know his personality first. As it turned out, he bonded with me far closer than he ever bonded with my boyfriend. That cat followed me everywhere like an unpaid intern whose only job was to guard the bosses every move.

So I named him Shadow. It was definitely fitting!

Eventually, when my boyfriend and I broke up, Shadow officially became my cat when we moved to our own places. I had Shadow for many wonderful years until he eventually passed away at the age of 14.

In fact, one of my earlier stories in this blog tells about “Shadow” following me everywhere and one particularly ridiculous adventure that still makes me laugh. If you enjoyed this story, go back and look for:

"Shadow: My Brooklyn Cat With Zero Boundaries and a BBQ Chip Addiction."

Trust me.

That cat earned every word of that title.

THE TAKEAWAY

Sometimes doing the right thing involves questionable planning, a flying leap, and hiding in a bowling alley bathroom for half an hour. If someone is using a kitten as sporting equipment, all normal rules are temporarily suspended.

KITTY METEOR READING

Category                                Score                                                 Notes

Kitten Interception            12/10      An airborne rescue worthy of slow-motion replay.

Escape Planning                 10/10      A game was used for vigilante kitten recovery.

Bathroom Camouflage   10/10      Not glamorous, but surprisingly effective.

Mom's Resistance               2/10      "NOPE" lasted about as long as a snowball in July.

Gray's Welcoming                 1/10      The queen of the household didn’t approve the tenant.

Cat “Lending”                       15/10       Still a suspicious loan agreement in the family history.

 

 

Posted 9/28/26

The Bank Job

Back in 2010 or so, Roger and I bought a “used” 2007 Santa Fe. I put “used” in quotes because the car had 114 miles on it. One hundred and fourteen. That’s not used - that’s barely broken in. Whoever owned it before us must’ve had five other cars, a helicopter, and a teleportation device, because they clearly weren’t driving this one.

Anyway, I was on my way to my new place of employment. It was my very first day after the months of school training for the bank job. It was the kind of day where you want everything to go smoothly so you look like a responsible adult. I even left the house fifteen minutes early so I could swing through the bank drive‑thru and deposit my last paycheck from my old job. Quick and easy.

Except when I pulled into the parking lot (not the bank I was starting to work for), the woman at the vacuum tube had her car in park and had apparently decided the drive‑thru was her personal office. She proceeded to fill out what must have been every form the bank has ever created. She wasn’t ready to do a transaction. Not even close. She was writing, flipping papers, digging in her purse, and probably applying for a mortgage.

Meanwhile, I was sitting behind her like an extra in a drive‑thru documentary. Ten minutes went by. Then fifteen. I stared at the clock thinking, Do I beep? Do I get out? Do I ask if she’s opening a small business?

Finally, I said, “Nope. I can’t sit here another second or I’ll be late for my first day.”

I put the Santa Fe in reverse, backed up, and decided I’d just deposit the check on my way home. I swung over to the other side of the drive‑thru - the lane that wasn’t open for transactions but was still open to drive through it.

And that’s when it happened.

I cut the corner too tight.

One of those little yellow poles, you know, the ones that look harmless until they reach out and grab your car? It jumped out and attacked my practically‑brand‑new Santa Fe. Right on the front fender and passenger door.

Then I heard it.

Over the microphone, the teller asks the woman what happened. I guess she heard the “hit.” And the woman from her car‑office says, “A lady just hit a pole going through the drive‑thru!”

I jumped out and yelled, “Well maybe if you were prepared for your transaction instead of filling out crap and holding people up, I wouldn’t have needed to go around to the other side to exit!”

I pulled into a parking spot, took a breath, and looked at the damage. It wasn’t pretty. Dents along the fender and door with yellow paint from the pole. Ugh. I then called Roger.

He answered immediately, and I said, “I had an accident with the car.” His first words, without hesitation, without even a pause were:

“Is the car OK?”

My reply?

“I’m fine, thanks for asking!”

We didn’t even go through insurance because Roger knew someone who fixed it for less than our $1,000 deductible. And the best part? It’s 2026 and we STILL have that car. It survived the pole, the panic, the paperwork lady, and me. It literally runs fine to this day.

I went on to my new job and wasn’t even late, despite the paperwork lady, the accident, the yelling, and the call to Roger. The rest of my day was good, but I felt awful for what happened.

THE TAKEAWAY

Sometimes the biggest obstacle on the road isn’t traffic, weather, or bad luck - it’s a woman doing her entire financial history in the drive‑thru and a yellow pole with a personal vendetta.

THE BANK JOB METEOR READING

Category                     Score                                            Notes

Drive‑Thru Dram          5/ 10        A full mortgage application at a vacuum tube.

Pole Aggression           9 / 10        That pole woke up and chose violence.

Roger’s Priority          10 / 10        “Is the car OK?” will echo through eternity.

Damage Control          8 / 10        Yelling at lady in her car “office” – satisfying but redundant!

Car Longevity             12 / 10        Starting at 114 miles & still going in 2026 – It’s Immortal.

 

 

BOREDOM

Because apparently my family can turn ANYTHING into a competitive sport.

Sometimes adults do dumb things.

Not dangerous things.

Not illegal things.

Just… dumb things, born out of boredom, hangovers, and the kind of family chemistry that guarantees someone is going to say, “Let’s try it and see what happens.”

Many moons ago, when my sister Linda used to come from Bensonhurst to Bay Ridge with her daughter, she’d stay the whole weekend at my mother’s place. We’d hit the local bar, drink like we were 18, and wake up the next morning moving slower than dial‑up internet.

One particular Sunday, we were all sitting in my mother’s living room - lazy, hungover, bored, and absolutely useless. I don’t remember who started it. I don’t remember who suggested it. I don’t even remember whether the carpet fiber was already loose or if one of us pulled it out like a deranged archaeologist…

But I do remember this: Everything began with one single carpet fiber.

Someone - and I truly wish I knew who - said: “See if you can get it into my mouth.”

And instead of saying, “That’s disgusting,” or “Let’s act like the adults we are.”

we said: “Okay!” With great enmthusiasm!

So there one of us sat, mouth wide open like a baby bird waiting for a worm, while the other two took turns shooting a carpet fiber at the other’s face, to see who could land it in the mouth. Each successful shot earned one point. My little niece kept score like she was officiating the Olympics.

We played until someone hit 10 points.

TEN.

That means at least one carpet fiber went airborne 10 times. Oh- and when we lost one- my brother just pulled another one out of the carpet. I remember saying- if we keep doing this, Mom is going to find a bald spot on the carpet and wonder how it got there. Yet, we laughed and carried on regardless.

I know what you are thinking- but the truth is- Yes, we actually did this. And yes, we laughed so hard, our stomachs hurt,

This story resurfaced at my brother’s Labor Day BBQ recently, and we realized, with full adult clarity, just how stupid it was. But none of us regret it. Because back then, we laughed our asses off playing a game we proudly named:

“Rug In the Mouth.”

Until...

THE UMBRELLA TAG GAME

Because apparently we also gamble on patio furniture.

Speaking of my brother’s BBQs…

Years ago, we were sitting on his patio - me, my sister Linda, her husband Doug, Uncle Robert, my brother Tommy, and my brother’s friend Brian.

My brother had a brand‑new patio umbrella, and he hadn’t removed the tag hanging from one of the ribs. Every time a breeze picked up, the umbrella spun like a lazy carnival ride. One of us joked, “We should place bets on who the tag stops over.”

Uncle Robert said, “We can do that! Why not?”

We all froze for a second... Looked at each other.

Shrugged.

 And then I yelled: “PLACE YOUR BETS!”

Everyone dug into their pockets and pulled out dollar bills like we were at a Vegas roulette table instead of a backyard patio. We each called out who we thought the tag would stop over, threw our $1 into the center of the table, and waited for the breeze.

 When that umbrella spun, you would’ve thought we were betting hundreds.We were yelling, cheering and watching that tag like it was the ball on a roulette wheel.

 Oh- and we had one rule- If more than one person bet on the same “winner,” they had to split the pot.

 Eventually we ran out of singles. So we started asking other guests if they could break $5 bills. When THAT ran out, we actually discussed sending someone to the store for change.

 We didn’t go - but the fact that we considered it tells you everything you need to know. We laughed ourselves stupid playing what became known as:

“The Umbrella Tag Game.”

Until one day we came up with: 

THE POOL BETTING GAME

Because why NOT gamble on water pressure?

When I lived in New Jersey, we had an Intex pool - the kind you put up every spring and take down every fall. Every year, the family came over to help set it up. And every year, once the hose went in, we placed bets on how long it would take to fill the pool.

Rules were: No Google, No math.

No thinking more than 30 seconds.

Pretty much just pure guessing.

We’re talking $10’s and $20’s in the pot - not singles. Everyone picked a day and time. Whoever was closest won the money. My uncle won twice, my husband won once and my niece won once.

We’d BBQ, drink, and hang out as the pool began to fill. It usually took 2–3 days depending on the water pressure at the time, so of course I had to make a phone call to the winner to let them know.

One year it filled in ONE day, and we still don’t know why, but we think we started in the morning that year, or-

Maybe the neighbors were away, and the water pressure gods were smiling?

Maybe the fire department took the day off? 

 All I know is: We turned filling a pool into a sport betting contest. And now you all know the truth:

I was born into a crazy family.

A fun family.

A ridiculous family.

 A family that can turn carpet fibers, patio umbrellas, and garden hoses into entertainment.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

THE TAKEAWAY

Sometimes boredom makes you creative, ridiculous, and slightly unhinged. Whether it’s shooting carpet fibers into someone’s mouth, gambling on patio umbrella tags, or placing $20 bets on water pressure, my family can turn absolutely anything into entertainment. And honestly? That’s the kind of chaos that makes life worth laughing about.

METEOR READING: BOREDOM

Category                          Score                                Funny Notes

Carpet Fiber Olympics   11/10   A sport no one asked for, yet everyone played.

Umbrella Tag Roulette   13/10   Vegas energy with $1 bills and patio furniture.

Pool‑Filling Gambling   12/10    High‑stakes hydration.

Family Chaos Level       14/10    Competitive nonsense is our love language.

Overall Fiasco Level      13/10    Boredom + My Family = Instant Silliness.

 

The Brooklyn Landlords

When I lived in Brooklyn NY, my first husband and I rented the upstairs apartment of a two‑family house. The landlords lived downstairs - which was fine - except for the fact that there was a door in my kitchen that led directly to a set of stairs, leading to their apartment.

A door.

 In my kitchen.

To them.

Like a direct portal to another dimension.

Every so often we heard them arguing. Nothing dramatic… just the usual Brooklyn marital soundtrack of two people that have been together over 40 years.

One day, while I was doing laundry, that kitchen door flew open like a scene from a low‑budget horror movie, and there stood one of my landlords, Fernando.

I yelled out- “FERNANDO! What are you doing?”

He asked me some ridiculous question - I don’t even remember what it was, but I remember thinking, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. All while I’m pulling towels out of the washer!

So, I told him, loudly and clearly:

“YOU NEED TO KNOCK BEFORE YOU ENTER…. BOUNDARIES!”

He apologized. I thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The Nightgown Incident

A few weeks later, at 7 AM, I’m in my nightgown making my son’s breakfast. The door flies open AGAIN.

I yelled, “FERNANDO WHAT IS IT WITH YOU?!”

He jumped and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you to be in a nightgown.”

I said "And i didn't expect you to just walk into my apartment like you are paying the rent! Then I just stared at him as if I were burning a hole through his soul. Like he even had one!

What exactly did he expect at seven in the morning? A ball gown? A full Broadway costume? LOL

Then he mumbled something about how I was a big woman; I told him to "speak up", but then he made it worse, because when he said it louder…  And I swear on every cat I’ve ever owned - 

That man put his hands on his own chest to mimic my large breasts while saying:

 “You’re a big woman!”.

Then he said, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

He’s damn straight he wasn’t thinking…

I walked over, pushed him back into the hallway, slammed the door, and yelled:

“DON’T EVER COME BACK UP HERE AGAIN!”

Later in the day, my husband called from work to see if I needed anything from the supermarket. So, I told him what happened.

He came home, marched straight downstairs, and gave Fernando a verbal beating so intense his wife Gianna stood there staring at Fernando, with daggers coming out of her eyes- while listening, like she was watching the finale of a horror movie.

Then my husband came upstairs, grabbed his toolbox, and installed a hook‑and‑eye lock on that kitchen door. Meanwhile, we could hear Gianna yelling at Fernando downstairs.

We laughed and laughed.

The “Robbery”

A few weeks later, there was a knock at the kitchen door - but this time it was Gianna… with a detective. A real one. Badge and everything. She said their apartment had been ransacked, and all her real jewelry was gone. The detective asked if I’d been home all day. I said yes, all day. He asked if I heard anything or saw anyone suspicious in the area lately.

Nope. Everything seemed normal and quiet. Nothing unusual.

He left his card and told me to call if I remember anything.

Three weeks later, I’m coming up the front stairs and hear Gianna yelling at Fernando again - but this time she’s crying too.

“I don’t understand why you would do this!”

Fernando replied three times, “I need the money.”

I froze. Had to listen!

Then she said, “You let me worry and be afraid for WEEKS that our house was robbed, when all along YOU staged the robbery and hid my Jewelry?!”

I thought: HOLY CRAP!

Then Fernando said, “Well, now you know, so there’s no need to worry. I have all your jewelry. You can have it back after the insurance pays.”

I went upstairs like a ninja and told my husband quietly about what i heard. He wanted to call the detective immediately, but I said no, because with our luck, Fernando would blame us and say we helped him or something. The man is clearly sick in the head.

We decided to stay out of it.

The Security Deposit

When our lease was up, we decided to move. during our stay, we had done a ton of work to the apartment - paneling, carpet, paint, removal of old wallpaper, new wallpaper, new linoleum in the kitchen, all with permission from the landlords, but they said it would be at our expense.

The linoleum got ruined because nails were popping up from the subfloor. We told Fernando the subfloor needed screws, not nails.

He said, “Just put a throw rug over the damage.”

A throw rug.

Over nails.

Coming through linoleum.

This man was a walking comedian.

We figured we’d get our security deposit back because of all the improvements. It didn't go as expected.

Fernando told a neighbor (a friend of mine) that we ruined HIS kitchen floor, and my cats ruined the stove! Trust me, the cats didn’t ruin anything. I asked her to see if he would let her in to look at the stove. She did. She reported back to me:

“There’s nothing wrong with it. Just some cat hair under the top of the stove when he lifted it up.”

I called Gianna. Explained everything. Even offered to come clean the stove.

She said:

“There is no need. Come by within the hour and I’ll have your security check. My idiot husband is always thinking of new ways to make money. Unfortunately, it's always the wrong ways! 

When i got there, she proceeded to tell me how he staged their robbery and how angry and upset she is. I acted surprised and then told her to talk to a divorce attorney.

She said she already did! LOL

I did NOT stay for the fight that surely followed. And I said a prayer for the next tenants.

THE TAKEAWAY

Sometimes the scariest part of living in Brooklyn isn’t the noise, the traffic, or the rent - it’s the people who think your apartment is open to the public like a walkway. Boundaries matter, locks matter, and if your landlord ever mimics your breasts with his own hands, it’s time to install hardware, and plan to move!

METEOR READING: The Brooklyn Landlords

Category                                 Score         Funny Notes

Landlord Boundaries           2/10           Doorway to Narnia… but worse.

Nightgown Trauma              11/10          He expected Broadway costumes at 7 AM?

Crazy Breast Mimicry         15/10          Hands-on demonstration NOBODY asked for.

Insurance Fraud Fiasco     14/10         He gave it it back after the insurance paid!

Security Deposit Drama    10/10         Throw rug over nails  - A Brooklyn landlord solution.

Overall Fiasco Level             12/10         A full-season sitcom in one apartment.

 

THE HOME BAR INCIDENT

I’ve always said things happen to me. It’s no secret I’m a magnet for mishaps, chaos, and situations that make people say, “Only Michele.”

But apparently… I’ve rubbed off on my husband. Roger is having his own episodes, because apparently my husband has joined my club, of accidental injuries.

A couple of months ago, my step kids came from New Jersey to Pennsylvania for a visit with their significant others included. We had a great time- laughing, catching up, eating, drinking, and doing all the things families do when they haven’t seen each other in a while.

In the evening after dinner, we went downstairs to our home bar.

Now, when I say: “home bar,” I don’t mean a little corner with a bottle of cheap vodka. No. Ours is 900 square feet of pure entertainment. A full bar with pub tables, chairs, pool table, dart board, shuffleboard, basketball game - basically, if Dave & Buster’s had a basement, it would look like ours.

We were all sitting around the bar after playing some of the games, having cocktails - because of course there were cocktails...

 And shots.

And wine.

That’s how we roll.

 Seriously, if you come to our house and are still sober at the end of the night, that’s on you.

Roger was sitting on one of the wooden bar stools next to a table - which is actually a giant wooden barrel we pretend is furniture. We’re classy like that.

Suddenly, we all heard a loud crack.

Everyone froze. You know that moment when a group collectively thinks, “What just broke and how expensive is it?”

Roger stood up, turned the stool on its side, inspected it, and said, “Huh. Looks fine.”

Then he went to flip it upright.

And that’s when the universe said, “Let’s have some fun.”

He grabbed one of the stool legs to lift it, and the entire leg came off in his hand like he was performing a magic trick. The stool dropped.

There he stood:

Stool leg in one hand… And the edge of the barstool fell directly on the instep of his foot!

His facial expression displayed pain and the look of “I regret everything I just did.”

He looked down at the stool, then at his foot, then at us, and said:

“Yeah… it’s broken.”

The five of us didn’t know if he meant the stool or the foot.

Turns out, he meant both.

He had a scratch where the stool hit him on the instep of his foot, so we sent him upstairs to clean it. He came back and I asked him if he could wiggle his toes- and he did. I said well, you just walked upstairs on it- how’s it feel. He said sore, but not bad. His daughter is a nurse and told him to get the foot checked in the morning anyway.

Morning arrives.

Roger’s foot is black and blue, swollen, and looking like it’s auditioning for a medical textbook. He could still wiggle his toes, which was good, but the foot still looked like it had been through a bar fight.

Once the kids left after breakfast, we hightailed it to the emergency room. They did x‑rays, poked, prodded, asked questions, and finally said:

“No break. No fracture. Just badly bruised.”

Which is an ER‑translation for:

“You’re fine, but you’re going to complain about the bill.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I said at the beginning of this story:

I think I’m rubbing off on my husband. Because now he’s breaking furniture and injuring himself too. I used to be the only one silly things happened to.

Now Roger has joined the club.

I’m not sure if I should be flattered… or concerned.

THE TAKEAWAY

Sometimes life hands you chaos. If you build a 900‑square‑foot bar in your basement, just know that sooner or later something - or someone - is going to go down. The real lesson? If you marry Michele, eventually you join the "Mishap Club". Membership is automatic. Injuries optional… but likely.

METEOR READING: The Home Bar Incident

Category                                             Score                         Funny Notes

Barstool Structure Integrity        10/10         Collapsed faster than my patience.

Unexpected Foot Trauma            12/10         Instep vs. Gravity: Gravity wins.

Family Witness Shock Level         9/10         Five witnesses froze like a live studio audience.

ER Drama & Diagnosis                    8/10          Badly bruised = $190 confirmation of what we knew.

“Mishap Club” induction             10/10        Roger officially inducted into Michele’s Mishap Club