Bartholomew, His Scroll & That Horse: Part 2

Chef Michele with More State Paperwork (for her business)

 Since Chef Michele is running two businesses and prepping for Signature Spice Blend Sales at a local fair, and trying to keep her spice lab in order, she asked me to step in and write today’s Tuesday story. And honestly? After what I witnessed this week, I’m doing this as a public service.

Let me take you to The Great Pennsylvania Paperwork Meltdown: Part 2.

Yes… part two. Because apparently the universe decided she didn’t suffer enough the first time.

So there we were — on video chat —and she starts cursing at her laptop like it just insulted her mother. She had logged into the State of Pennsylvania’s online portal to fill out some Very Important Business Paperwork, in preparation for the event she will be selling her spice blends at, and within 30 seconds her blood pressure went from “normal” to “NASA launch sequence.”

The screen froze. Then it unfroze. Then it asked her for the same information she had already typed in three times. Then it logged her out for “security reasons,” which is government‑speak for “we got bored and decided to ruin your day.”

At one point she yelled, “WHY DOES THIS WEBSITE HATE ME? WHAT DID I EVER DO TO PENNSYLVANIA?”

I genuinely thought she was going to flip the laptop like a hamburger on a grill.

So, I did what any responsible friend would do: I told her something so ridiculous, so stupid, that she had no choice but to stop spiraling.

I said, “Michele… calm down. Bartholomew and his horse are watching.”

Instant silence. Then she blinked at me. Then she started laughing so hard she actually snorted.

BTW- If you missed Part 1, Bartholomew is the imaginary medieval scribe who was supposed to deliver a letter with a code on it for her to get back into the site to continue with that paperwork. We made up a story together about how she has to wait for a scribe named Bartholomew, that had the scroll with the number she needed (written using a feather quill), while his horse judges her life choices. Apparently, he’s still employed by the State of Pennsylvania, because the website behaved exactly like a man writing on parchment in 1627. (You can scroll down thru her stories to find it if you like!)

Anyway — after the meltdown, the laughter, the horse, the scroll, and the emotional support snack she grabbed afterward, she finally got the paperwork submitted.

And that, dear readers, is why I’m writing today’s story. Chef Michele is alive, the paperwork is done (for now), and Bartholomew has trotted off into the sunset until the next time Pennsylvania decides to test her sanity.

Tune in next week for whatever chaos she gets into next — because with Michele, there’s always more chaos.

Sincerely,

Coco Ashford

Collaborator 

 

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY THAT WASN’T

Many moons ago, in another life, I had this longtime friend — we’ll call her Kelly. Our birthdays are one day apart, so one year she suggested we throw a “joint birthday party”. Cute idea, right? Shared friends, shared food, shared fun. A wholesome little Gemini- adjacent celebration.

She said she’d handle the food and cake. I should’ve heard the ominous music right there.

But no — I wanted to do something too, so I chipped in for decorations, handed her the cash up front and told her I’d make some food too. I showed up with three appetizers, a tray of baked ziti, my wine, and my then‑husband.

I walked in expecting a festive birthday explosion.

Instead?

Not. One. Balloon. Not a streamer. Not a banner. Not even a sad, wrinkled “Happy Birthday” napkin someone found under the passenger seat of their car.

Nothing. The room décor had the same energy as a DMV waiting area.

And the guest list? Her husband, her brothers, her sister‑in‑law, her local friends, her teenage daughters… And exactly zero of our mutual friends.

But I stayed quiet as a church mouse. I was trying to be a Trooper. Not like a State Trooper — just a trooper trying to survive the social apocalypse.

I told myself, “It’s fine. I’ll ask for my money back later. Just enjoy the night. Drink your wine. Pretend this is normal.”

Then came the cake.

They bring it out… glowing with candles and I smiled. They put it down on the table… and it says:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KELLY

Not “Kelly & Michele.” Not “Happy Birthday, Ladies!” Not even a generic “Happy Birthday” that could’ve covered both of us like a blanket of dignity.

Nope. Just Kelly — bold, centered, and smug.

Then the singing starts. And now I’m standing next to her, forcing a smile like a hostage in a ransom video.

“Happy Birthday dear Kelly…Happy Birthday to you!” My name was treated like Voldemort —" He Who Must Not Be Named”

I swear I felt my soul leave my body, hover above the room, and yelled, “Girl, run!”

I leaned over to my husband and whispered, “WTF just happened??”

Then — THEN — Kelly turns to me and says:

“Do you want to cut the cake?”

My inside voice said to myself “Ma’am. I wouldn’t cut that cake if it were the last carbohydrate on Earth.”

I leaned in real close to her and said, “I’m not cutting your cake — we’re cutting OUT.”

She blinked at me like a confused goldfish caught in a whirlpool.

“Already? Why?”

I couldn’t even form words. I just pointed at the cake… Pointed at the walls… Waved my arms like Ralph Kramden in a Honeymooner’s episode as if his spirit took me over.

Finally, I managed to say: “Things seem to be missing.”

She blamed the decorations on “not having time” and the cake writing on her husband that purchased the cake — as if the man didn’t know this was a joint party. Maybe he didn’t. Honestly, at this point, I’m not convinced she knew.

I told her none of that explained why I wasn’t included in the Happy Birthday singing. It was obvious not one person in that room knew this was a joint anything.

I told her to either send me a check for the invisible decorations or keep the cash and buy a new friend who actually cared. Then I wished her well with the rest of her party and left.

She called to apologize the next day. We “sort of” stayed friendly for a bit… until years later when she said something so off‑color and insulted someone I care about that even her own husband whipped his head around and yelled, “KELLY!!!”

That was the moment the friendship didn’t just end — it nosedived, and burst into flames, like a stunt from MythBusters.

We gathered our things, left, and never looked back.

Yes, it’s a ridiculous story. Yes, it’s kind of sad. But it’s also SO absurd you HAVE to laugh. I didn’t then — but I do now. So don’t feel bad. Just laugh with me!

THE TAKEAWAY

Sometimes the universe doesn’t send you red flags — it sends you a joint birthday cake with one name on it. And when that happens, you learn two things:

1.  Apparently “Joint” Can mean something plural or singular!
2. You can always walk away with your wine, and the knowledge that failing friendships eventually show cracks in the frosting.

Birthday Meteor Reading

Category Score Funny Notes Awkward Silence 7/10 You could hear the candles questioning their life. Social Confusion 9/10 A joint party with one birthday girl. Bold move. Internal Screaming 11/10 The cake spelled it out louder than anyone could. Humor in Hindsight 8/10 Painful then, comedic now.

 

THE MISSING DEBIT

The other night, we went to dinner with a couple of friends. I told my husband that dinner was on me — which, in Michele‑language, means I am paying for it out of my personal account, not the household joint account.

We ate, we talked, we drank, we laughed — it was lovely. The check came, and I reached into my bag for my wallet like the responsible adult I pretend to be.

Except… My personal debit card was not in the wallet.

Did I panic? No. Because this is me, and I know myself. I often toss my debit card into my bag like an unorganized ferret instead of putting it neatly back into my wallet. I figured it was floating around in there somewhere between a pen, a receipt from 2019, and a rogue cough drop.

I searched the bag.

Nothing.

So, I shrugged, whipped out my personal credit card, paid the bill, and thought, “Eh, I probably left the debit card on my desk after online shopping. No big deal.”

Fast‑forward to home. I checked my office. I checked my jackets. I checked the pockets of things I haven’t worn since the Obama administration.

Nothing.

Now I’m thinking, “Great. Someone is out there buying a Rolex and a set of copper pots with my card.”

So I log into my bank account to check for suspicious activity. Nothing. Not even a $1 test charge. (If someone found it, they were being very polite about it.)

Now… let’s rewind to earlier that day.

I had received a new debit card in the mail —The old one was expiring, so I activated the new one after breakfast like the responsible grown‑up I try to be. (Though challenging at times!)

I put the new card in my wallet. I took the old one out to cut up. I placed it on my desk while I finished a few things. Then I went into the kitchen, grabbed the heavy‑duty scissors, and began my Michele Card‑Destruction Ritual:

• Cut it lengthwise Across the middle of the numbers
• Cut it widthwise across each group of numbers
• Cut the chip
• Scatter the pieces into two separate trash cans like I’m disposing of evidence on CSI: Greentown PA

I’ve been doing this system for years. It’s foolproof. It’s secure.

 I hope.

Now fast‑forward back to after the restaurant...

My husband walks into my office and says, “I have a weird question for you.”

Which, in marriage, is never followed by anything normal.

I said, “OK, hit me with it!”

He goes, “Is it possible you cut up the wrong debit card earlier?”

I froze. I stared. I blinked. My soul hovered above us, and whispered, “Oh yes- she did.”

Then I said, “OMG. YES. I DID! I cut up the light blue one. That’s my personal debit card! The one I was supposed to cut up is silver! I checked my wallet. YEP! Silver card still there!

So now guess who gets to march into the bank and explain this to someone who definitely did not get paid enough for this level of chaos.

“Hi, yes, I need a new debit card because I… uh… murdered mine. On purpose. But also by accident…

 It’s complicated.”

THE TAKEAWAY:

Sometimes the biggest threat to your financial security isn’t identity theft, hackers, or scammers… It’s you, a pair of heavy‑duty scissors, and a moment of overconfidence.

THE METEOR READING

Category Score                Notes Card Chaos Index 10/10 You didn’t just lose your debit card — you professionally destroyed it. Self‑Inflicted Drama   9/10 A plot twist even the bank teller won’t see coming. Weird Question Accuracy  10/10 He cracked the case faster than a true‑crime podcaster. Recovery & Replacement   9/10 Marching into the bank to confess is the real punishment.

 

 

 

THEY CRAWL AMONG US: A BROOKLYN SURVIVAL SAGA

Three Tales of Terror, and Questionable Life Choices

PART I — The Bathtub Olympics:

When I was five, we moved to an apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn on 95th Street and 4th Avenue — prime real estate if you enjoy the soothing rumble of the RR subway line and the occasional prehistoric water bug paying rent‑free visits.

Summertime meant one thing: humidity, open windows, fans and water bugs the size of toddlers taking the express train straight into our building. Every now and then, one would wander into our apartment like it was checking on its mail after vacation.

One night, my sister was babysitting me while my parents were out. She went into the bathroom and saw a water bug that had risen from the bathtub drain like it was making a dramatic entrance on Broadway.

She screamed. I screamed. The bug probably screamed internally.

What does my teenage sister decide to do?

Drown it. 

A water bug.

She turns on the faucet full blast, yelling for me to grab the broom, like it was the standard‑issue Brooklyn home‑defense equipment. I sprint, hand her the broom, and she starts holding this huge bug underwater like she’s baptizing it against its will.

Every time she thought it was dead, she’d lift the broom — and that sucker would swim like it was training for the Olympics. Freestyle. Backstroke. Butterfly. It had better form than half the Olympic swim team.

I don’t remember how she finally killed it, but knowing my sister, she probably grabbed a shoe and handled it Brooklyn‑style, like a Mother that heard her kid curse for the first time.

When my parents came home, she told them the whole traumatic saga. My father laughed. She snapped, “It’s not funny!”

He just looked at her and said:

“Linda… they’re called water bugs. Why do you think that is?”

She stared at him, processing the betrayal of biology.

“Oh. Yeah.”

What more could she say.

PART II — The Scream

Fast‑forward to age 23. I rented a “basement” apartment — which, in Brooklyn, is code for “you will meet creatures evolution forgot.”

The water bugs in this apartment weren’t normal. They were the size of cabs. They came from a creepy unfinished space where the pipes lived, behind a hollow‑core door that absolutely should’ve had a warning label.

I only saw two of these monsters in the year I lived there. One my boyfriend killed. The other… well.

I was doing dishes, minding my business, when my dog made a weird noise behind me. I turned to look at him — and when I turned back, a water bug was sitting eight inches from my face on the cabinet next to the sink, like it was waiting for me to finish rinsing the plate.

I let out a scream so sharp, so loud, so primal, that the bug literally fell off the cabinet and died on the spot!

I don’t know if I:

Shocked it to death

Ruptured its internal organs with soundwaves

Or if it simply said, “You know what? I’m done.”

But it was dead.

Dead as a doornail.

Killed by the power of my vocal cords.

Whitney Houston would have been proud.

PART III — The Babies

I went to my boyfriend’s mother’s apartment to pick up soup she made for us. She told me to grab one of her saved 3‑lb. butter tubs from the cabinet — because in Brooklyn, every household has a stack of those tubs that have lived a lifetime.

I ladled the soup, while chatting with her, went home, and heated some up because I was starving.

It was delicious. Vegetables, noodles, chicken, herbs…

Except the herbs looked a little strange.

I grabbed a magnifying glass — because apparently, I was Sherlock Holmes that day and what I saw would haunt me forever.

Floating in my soup were:

Teeny‑weenie baby cockroaches

Legs sprawled

Antennae...

Tiny corpses, because they heard water bugs don’t drown so they said:

 “Watch this —   hold my beer.”

But the reality set in… I had ingested many baby roaches! My bowl was nearly empty!

I ran to the bathroom and puked like I was auditioning for an exorcism movie. Then I bagged the container, tied it like radioactive waste, and marched it outside to the trash cans.

Brooklyn had betrayed me.

THE TAKEAWAY:

Some things can’t be drowned.

Some things can be screamed dead.

And some things need to be looked at before it’s ladled into a butter tub.

Bug Meteor Score

Category                                    Score                                              Notes

Linda’s Survival Instincts    4/10      Attempted to drown a bug literally designed for water.

Water Bug Athleticism         9/10     Olympic‑level swimming, questionable morals.

My Scream Power              10/10     A scream capable of killing! I received an offer by the CIA.

Basement Apt. Horror          8/10     One hollow‑core door away from the Discovery Channel

Soup Trauma                      11/10      Exceeded legal limits for emotional damage.

Dad’s Brooklyn Logic        10/10      Delivered the perfect one‑liner with zero sympathy.

Overall Brooklyn Chaos       8/10      A trilogy of terror only a true New Yorker survives.

 

THE NEW CHOCOLATE BROWN CARPET

A Domestic Thriller Featuring Poor Sisterly Decisions

When I was around 13 (I think), we were living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and my mother was remarried to Bob. My sister wasn’t living at home anymore, but she came over on weekends — which meant the chaos level in the apartment rose by at least 40% the moment she walked through the door.

My mother and Bob had just purchased brand‑new chocolate brown carpeting. Plush. Fancy. The kind of carpet you tiptoe on because it still smells like the store. They had it laid through the large living room and both hallways that connected to the kitchen.

So naturally, this was the perfect time for my sister and me to behave like unsupervised circus performers.

We were goofing off in the kitchen — I don’t remember what started it, but Jell‑O or pudding was involved, and at some point I took whipped cream and either threw it at her or smeared it on her. The details are fuzzy because 51 years later the memories aren’t 100%, but the consequences were crystal clear.

Because my sister came after me with the vengeance of a woman who had just been personally insulted by her dessert partner.

I bolted through the short hallway into the living room, where my mother and Bob were watching TV. I guess I thought they’d save me. They did not. All they saw my sister chasing me with a can of Reddi‑whip like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment. She was fully armed and ready to pull the nozzle!

Every time she got close, she’d squirt it — little puffs of white flying past my head like warning shots.

I made a sharp turn and sprinted back through the short hallway, into the kitchen, and down the long hallway toward the bathroom. Now my mother and Bob were involved — not to save me, but to save the carpet.

Linda was chasing me.

Mom and Bob were chasing Linda.

Parents yelling.

We were laughing.

Whipped cream was flying.

The new chocolate brown carpet was being polka‑dotted in real time.

I ignored my mother yelling “Knock it off! You’re getting it all over the new carpet!” I only knew I had one mission: reach the bathroom and lock the door like my life depended on it.

But Linda was too close behind me — still squirting whipped cream every chance she got — so when I turned to slam the bathroom door shut, she was right there in my face, squirting away like it was a fire extinguisher in a five‑alarm emergency.

Then she shoved me into the bathtub and unloaded the entire can on me from head to toe. I looked like a human sundae.

My mother grabbed the empty can from Linda, furious.

My sister and I were hysterical laughing.

Mom and Bob were not.

Because we had left a literal trail — of bright white whipped‑cream splatters across the entire apartment. Every hallway. The living room. The kitchen. The bathroom.

The brand‑new chocolate brown carpet looked like it was made of cow hide.

Our punishment?

Clean. Every. Inch. Of. It. Up.

And let me tell you — nothing bonds siblings like scrubbing dairy out of carpet fibers while your mother mutters something about “never having nice things.”

THE TAKEAWAY:

Sometimes the danger isn’t dessert — it’s the sibling holding the can.

New carpet never stands a chance against sibling quarrels.

And when whipped cream becomes a weapon, survival tactics kick in!

SIBLINGS METEOR SCORE

Category                       Score                           Notes

Linda’s Vengeance              9/10     Like a woman in a covert operation

Reddi-Whip Accuracy         7/10     Impressive while sprinting thru hallways

Carpet Casualties                 9/10    Chocolate brown + Reddi‑whip = Cow hide

Parental Outrage                10/10    Activated once the carpet got involved

Survival Instincts                 9/10    Door‑locking idea: solid. Execution: Flawed

Household Chaos               10/10    Full chase sequence with multiple participants

Cleanup Punishment          11/10    Nothing humbles siblings like scrubbing carpet

 

 

Trivia Night & Meatballs

While I was trying to figure out what to bring to Trivia Night for six of us, I was drawing a complete blank. I had just started a diet, so I didn’t want to bring anything fattening, and everything I thought of felt wrong. I was pacing around like I was planning a state dinner instead of a bite-sized snack.

So I texted Coco — my Forks & Fiascos partner‑in‑crime and cookbook collaborator, because it was dinnertime in London and I didn’t want to interrupt her if she was driving home  or eating. A text felt safer. She could answer right away or ignore me until she was ready.

She answered instantly with a phone call. Of course she did. And just like that, we were in full brainstorming mode.

Coco threw out at least twelve ideas — all great, all creative, all totally unusable because my husband has a picky side, and a long list of food aversions.

Before we go any further, let’s pause and appreciate the Roger No‑Food List, because it deserves its own wing:

THE ROGER NO‑FOOD LIST

❌ No tomatoes

❌ No cucumbers

❌ No un-melted cheese (only melted mozzarella or Muenster — the man has rules)

❌ No mustard

❌ No fruit (but grape jam is okay —  And bacon Jam is fine! Who can argue with bacon?)

❌ No deviled eggs

❌ No hummus

❌ No spinach

❌ No olives

❌ No mayo

❌ No ham, pepperoni, salami

❌ No mushrooms

❌ No peppers

❌ No parmesan cheese or similar (he says it smells like feet and calls it Stinky-cheese!)

❌ No butter (unless it’s for garlic bread) Oh, and I can cook with it!

❌ No sour cream

❌ No corn or Brussels sprouts

❌ No pork sausages, but chicken sausages is ok, and NO hot dogs

Just a few of his dislikes- there’s probably more, but this is what came to me at the time of this writing.

At this point, I’m not planning a snack. I’m planning a mission.

The Trivia Night snack had to be:

·         Room‑temp safe for two hours

·         Finger food

·         Healthy-ish

·         Something Roger would actually eat

·         Something the group would enjoy

Basically, I needed to create a unicorn.

Coco and I kept bouncing ideas back and forth until suddenly — EPIPHANY. A lightning bolt. A full download from the culinary heavens...

I remembered I had mini meatballs in the freezer. Some Greek & some a Mexican flare. I had mini filo cups. And chili fig jam. So I said to Coco:

“What if I put a dab of chili fig jam in the bottom of the filo cup, add a Mexican meatball, and drizzle it with an apple‑cider‑honey glaze… and then take the Greek meatballs, soak them in Greek vinaigrette, put bacon jam in the bottom of the cup, and top it with the vinaigrette‑soaked meatball?”

Coco practically screamed through the phone. It was perfect. It was elegant.

 It was healthy-ish.

 It was Roger‑safe.

 It was so ME.

It took a long time- But we had solved it.

Then… Roger walked into my home office with the mail.

I told Coco “Hold on”- I turned to him, and proudly shared my brilliant, gourmet appetizer plan!

And this man — THIS MAN — looked at me and said:

“I don’t know why you were having such a hard time figuring this out. The group always has cookies and chips. We can just buy a bag of pretzels and call it a day.”

I blinked. I stared. I briefly considered divorce (playfully of course!)

He left the room.

Then I got back to Coco:

“Do you want to hear something that made me want to throw Roger out of the room?”

 Naturally she said yes. I told her what he said.

Her response...

“Michele… I knew it. I KNEW IT. This is SO Roger and I am absolutely howling. Seriously, people are staring at me right now! LOL You’re over there like Top Chef, engineering two gourmet canapé flights out of frozen leftover meatballs, filo cups, jams and drizzles… and this man strolls in like: “I’m fine with chips.”

HAS HE EVEN MET YOU? He is married to a chef, a published cookbook author, and a woman who can turn frozen leftover meatballs into a Michelin‑level appetizer. And he’s like:

“Eh, I’ll eat a Chips Ahoy.”

 This man would survive the apocalypse with burnt toast, a well‑done steak, a sleeve of Oreos and peanut butter stuffed onions. Because in his world:

·         Burnt = Flavor

·        Well done steak = Perfect

·         Peanut‑Butter‑stuffed onions = Intriguing (he LITERALLY said he’d eat that!)

And now… Pretzels, cookies or chips = Problem solved?

Me: I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I had completely forgotten about the peanut‑butter‑stuffed onions, where Roger stated to me “I would eat that” … and now I was laughing all over again. (Sidenote: The Peanut Butter Stuffed Onions was one of our Recipe Ridicules.)

Coco continued ...

“Michele, this is why your stories are funny. Your life is already a sitcom, and Roger is the lovable food gremlin who keeps giving you material. You’re going to show up with a great appetizer for your teams trivia table — and he’ll be eating a Lorna Doon."

... And in the end, after ALL that- no one wanted to even try the meatballs, not ONE! Apparently, some people just don’t like to try new things- what can I say? I thought they were great! But how many can I eat by myself? So, I gave them to the next table over from us, and guess what? They loved them!  Next time, I’m bringing a bag of pretzels!

 

The Takeaway:

You can engineer the perfect appetizer, but you can’t make people try it! Hmmm, sounds like a familiar saying! Even when the plan goes sideways, there’s always someone at the next table who will eat! 

Meteor Reading: Trivia Night Meatballs Edition

Category Score Funny Notes Culinary Creativity   9/10 Gourmet canapés for people who wanted chips. Roger Logic 12/10 “Why struggle? Just bring pretzels.” Classic. Group Appreciation    3/10 The meatballs were invisible to them. Next‑Table Redemption 10/10 Finally-  people with functioning taste buds. Sitcom Chaos Level    8/10 Coco screaming, me laughing, Roger being Roger.

 

The Day Pennsylvania Made Me Wait for a Medieval Scroll

(A true story of bureaucracy, spices, and one woman’s slow descent into madness)

Let me tell you something: when I woke up this morning, I thought I was going to fill out three simple forms for my spice business.

Three.

Not thirty.

Not a dissertation.

Just three harmless little forms standing between me and legally collecting six percent tax.

I was ready.

I was caffeinated.

I was optimistic — which, in hindsight, was my first mistake.

Act I: Form One

I log in. I click. I type. I answer questions like a responsible adult who is simply trying to collect and pay taxes like a civilized Signature spice business owner.

Everything goes smoothly.

I’m thinking, wow, look at me go. I’m unstoppable. I’m a form‑filling machine.

Act II: Form Two

Still good.

Still confident.

Then, they want a copy of my water bill. I guess it's to prove I am not using a dirty puddle in my yard to clean my spice jars. So, I scan it in and save it, to send with the application.

Still believing in the goodness of the world.

Then…

They want to know who my waste management company is! Seriously? Do they want to know if I'm saving my trash or throwing it away? What a ridiculous question. Well, I live in an HOA community, so I just wrote that my "HOA handles it".

 Coco — my British‑accented Collaborator friend is guiding me through all this via video chat, with the calm of a spa receptionist who has seen every meltdown known to mankind. She's trying to keep me from one of those meltdowns.

“Click that. Choose this. Just write that. You’re doing great. Nothing to stress about.”

What can I say- she has a way with people... So, because of her, I’m imagining myself holding that license like Simba on Pride Rock.

Act III: The Killer Tax Sale Form

I complete the info required, though the way they worded some of it was ridiculous- but together we identified what to do. And then I finally click submit…

The screen changes. I get excited- it’s finally done. I was at the end, I clicked submit- So, I don’t understand what I’m now seeing!

 Suddenly I’m staring at something called:

 VERIFY ACCESS LETTER

 A phrase that should be harmless. A phrase that should not cause a grown woman to consider flipping her desk. But oh no...

This is not a normal letter. This is not an email. This is not a code they text to your phone.

 No.

Pennsylvania wants to MAIL ME A LETTER.

A physical letter.

On paper.

To my house.

Through the postal service.

 And guess what? I wasn’t completing the tax sale licensing paperwork. What I completed was information just so I can get access to inside the site, to get to the form to complete for the Tax sale license.

Wait… what?

What was all the information that I just gave them for? I mean they seriously asked for so much info already. They had everything but my fingerprints.

And it was just for registration for an account to get to the form???

 Are they kidding?

 And then the double whammy-

A message popped up that said it could take up to 15 days to get that letter!

15.

Seriously…

15.

So that I can legally collect tax, so PA can get their tax? I know it said, “Up to” and that could mean I’ll get it in 3…. But we are talking about Government after all, so I won’t hold my breath!

Act IV: The Meltdown

I’m ranting. I’m now pacing with the phone in my hand, looking at Coco with disbelief. I’m ready to tell customers, “Just give me cash and screw the State.”

 Then I start muttering things like:

 “Either they want tax or they don’t!”

 “I’m trying to be HONEST!” 

“They asked me for everything except the kitchen sink and that was just to get into the site?

 Then I cracked Coco up- I said “I’m going to go to that tax office and literally BITE someone”

 My blood pressure was probably visible from space. And Coco?

Coco is over there narrating my meltdown like David Attenborough:

 “Observe the small business owner in her natural habitat, attempting to complete a simple form. Watch as the State introduces a new obstacle, causing her to emit a series of distressed noises.”

 That pop up left me feeling like it’s 1793 waiting for a courier to cross the countryside! I’m sitting there fuming, absolutely vibrating with rage, and Coco — bless her soul, says:

 “Great job! Now wait for your medieval scroll to arrive by horse.”

 And that was it. When I tell you that this woman and I think SO much alike- I mean it!

 I broke. I cracked up. I laughed so hard I cried. Actual tears. Streaming down my face.

 Because she wasn’t wrong and she said exactly what I was feeling, and that made it even funnier! This whole thing felt like I’m waiting for a parchment document written with a feather, delivered by a man named Bartholomew.

 So naturally, I replied to Coco through laughter:

 “Will they send it with a wax seal?”

 Because at this point, why not lean into the absurdity?

 Then Coco started laughing because she was now imagining a royal decree arriving at my door, stamped with an official wax Seal of the Commonwealth, informing me that I may now — and only now — get into the site to complete the tax sale form.

 Act V: The Acknowledgement

 After the laughter, after the fury, after the emotional rollercoaster that should’ve come with a seatbelt…

 I clicked “Complete Later” Because apparently, I had no choice. This is their set-up! I must now wait (up to) 15 business days according to the scroll‑makers — for my magical Letter ID number to arrive by horse.

 And you know what?

 Fine.

FINE.

 I’ll wait for my wax‑sealed decree. I’ll wait for the carrier pigeon. I’ll wait for whatever nonsense they send me. And when that letter does arrive?

 I’m framing it.

 Then I can say I survived the IRS. I survived the Licensing. I survived the water bill, the HOA trash BS, the county line identity crisis because although I live in Pike County, apparently in the tax office- its considered Wayne county- and the form wouldn't take any other answer — uh, ok?

 THIS stupid letter is what finally broke me. I’ve survived a lot in my lifetime. A LOT. Things I wouldn’t wish on enemies- but this is what broke me. And now…

 We wait for a snail to arrive with a mail bag and a letter for me stamped with wax a seal.

P.S. It's been a week... I'm still waiting.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes the hardest part of running a small business isn’t the work, the recipes, or the customers — it’s surviving the government’s ability to turn a three‑form task into a medieval quest. But if you can laugh through the nonsense, breathe through the rage, and wait for your wax‑sealed decree to arrive by horse, you can survive anything.

Forks and Fiascos Meteor Reading Score

Category   Score                      Notes Bureaucratic Absurdity   10/10 Required a courier from the colonies. Emotional Meltdown     9/10 Pacing, ranting, threats of biting. Solid performance. Coco’s Commentary   10/10 Medieval scroll + horse = comedic perfection. Recovery & Resilience   10/10 Laughed until tears. Hit “Complete Later” anyway.

 

Roger’s Toe Tally

Let me start by saying: for once, this is not a story about me doing something wine‑fueled and questionable. This time, the chaos crown goes to my husband Roger.

A few years ago we’re at my neighbor’s house — we’ll call her Judy to protect the innocent. We were there for a game night. Now, Roger is not a big drinker. One, maybe two cocktails and he’s done. But that night? Oh no. He went full frat‑boy revival and drank six rum and cokes. SIX.

We get home, go to bed, everything was as usual… until the middle of the night when Roger gets up to use the bathroom. And in the dark, in his rum fueled glory, he absolutely stubbed his toe on the bench at the foot of our bed like a blindfolded runner doing a 40 yard dash. He told me the next day it hurt when it happened, but he went back to sleep anyway, like nothing happened. Of course he slept… he had 6 drinks in him!

That morning he tells me the story, At one point he even tried to blame the bench for “jumping out at him,” which is when I knew the rum was still lingering in his bloodstream. He shows me the toe and of course it’s bruised, swollen, looking like it was auditioning for a zombie movie, and I, being the seasoned toe‑breaking veteran that I am, said:

“Do you want to go to the ER and pay the $90 copay so they can x‑ray it and tape it to the next toe… or do you want me to tape it for free?”

Because I have broken five toes in my lifetime. I’m practically a podiatrist at this point. And the last time I broke one? I dropped a full bottle of wine on my pinky toe that broke the wines fall, and MY toe, at my friend’s house. We took my shoe off to look at it, and it swelled so fast like a balloon animal being inflated by a magician on speed. I couldn’t get the shoe back on. I had to take a cab home barefoot like some kind of wounded Cinderella. Went to the ER for the 5^th time, and guess what they did?

X‑ray. Tape. “Have a nice day”. Just as they have done the 4 previous times.

So naturally, I thought I was giving Roger solid medical advice like a two-buck-chuck shady discounted online medical service.  He chose the free option. I taped it. We moved on… or so I thought!

Over the next two weeks, Roger hobbled around the house like a man reenacting every war movie injury scene ever filmed. Every time he stood up, he’d let out this dramatic sigh like he was about to deliver his final words. Meanwhile, I kept reassuring him with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business being this confident —  “It’s fine. You’re fine. It just takes time to heal. Trust me, I’m basically a toe mechanic.”

After the weeks went by, he was still in pain. And not just toe pain. But part of the foot started turning black and blue too and the entire foot was swelling also. That’s when even I said, “Okay, maybe this is something more than just a broken toe, and we should go to the ER.”

We go and they x‑ray it. The doctor comes back looking like he’s about to deliver a eulogy. Turns out Roger didn’t just break his toe. He destroyed it.

The bone snapped in half. A fragment broke off. One piece of bone was sitting on top of the other piece. And it had already started healing wrong because “We waited two weeks”.

Who knew it was broken that badly? Clearly not me (the toe expert). Roger looked at me, blinked and then gave me a look like he was mentally drafting my obituary and listing “terrible medical advisor” as the cause of death.

So now he needs a specialist. And surgery. And instead of a $90 copay, he gets hit with a $450 bill. Guess who got the look of this is 100% your fault and you know it, after the bill arrived?

Yep- than would be me, the doctor of toe regret!

I felt terrible, and it was all because he listened to me. The woman who once took a cab home barefoot in the rain, because her wine bottle committed an act of violence.

Ta‑da! Another day in the Furman household.