The Night I Became a Psychic

I was 26, and my sister and I were regulars at Peggy O’Neil’s -a bar in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn where the crowd was a tiny bit rowdy but fun, and the fun never started until after 9 pm. Showing up early was for rookies. We preferred the crowded chaos.

It was a Saturday night, and we’d already had one drink when I told my sister I’d grab the next round. I spotted a sliver of space at the bar, rare as a cab in a snowstorm! I wedged myself in. The bartender was busier than a squirrel at a rave, darting around the opposite end of the bar, while I waited my turn to order drinks.

To my right were five guys, deep in a “what do you do for a living” icebreaker. One guy (let’s call him Joe) wasn’t standing directly next to me, but close enough that I could hear what everyone said, including Joe, proudly declaring, “I’m in the Merchant Marines!”  The bartender finally made it down my way, I ordered our drinks and missed some of their chat - but I did catch what they all ordered after me. That was enough.

I returned to my sister and said, “I’m about to do something funny.” She raised an eyebrow. I explained what I’d overheard and told her to follow me back toward the group. We stealthily inched closer until I could squeeze in next to Joe. I placed my drink on the bar, turned to him, and said, “Hi.”

He greeted me back with a smile (probably assuming I was going to hit on him), and then I asked, “So what are you guys talking about?” He said, “We’re telling each other what we do for work.” I grinned. “Oh cool. I bet I can guess what you do.” He looked intrigued. “I doubt it. What makes you so sure?” I leaned in and said, “Let’s just say... I have a gift.”

Now he was hooked. “Okay, big shot,” he said. “Go ahead. Tell me.” I looked him dead in the eye and said, “You’re a Merchant Marine.”

The look on his face? Pure disbelief. His jaw dropped. The other guys were stunned. One guy laughed nervously, and I turned to him and said, “What are you laughing at? You just got laid off yesterday.” He instantly shut up.

Another guy in the corner piped up, “Read me next!” I said, “You deliver mail.” He gasped. “How did you know?!” I replied, “I already told Joe- I have a gift!” The last guy said, “You will never guess what I am drinking?” I looked at him and smiled with confidence as I replied to him, “I can certainly tell you it’s disgusting -  you are drinking what they call “Smokers Cough” (a drink made with Jägermeister and mayonnaise). He nearly fell off his barstool!

They were convinced I had some kind of powerful gift. As I turned to walk away, Joe called out, “Don’t go! Tell us more! Can you read the future?” I laughed and said, “No, idiot - I overheard you all while I was ordering drinks.”

My sister and I burst out laughing and toasted to my brief career as a bar-side psychic. I never saw Joe again, but that moment set the tone for one of the most entertaining nights we ever had at Peggy O’Neil’s.

Bar-Side Psychic Rating Meter™

How convincing was my impromptu mind-reading act? Let’s break it down.

Category Rating out of 5 Notes Shock Factor 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 Joe’s face said it all - jaw dropped, eyes wide, full-body disbelief. Confidence Delivery 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 “Let’s just say, I have a gift.” Nailed the drama. Accuracy 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 Merchant Marine? Mail carrier? Laid off guy? All correct. Crowd Reaction 🍸🍸🍸🍸 Laughter, gasps, and a request for a future reading. Exit Line 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 “No, idiots - I overheard you.” Mic drop. Sister’s Approval 🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸 Laughed out loud. Mission accomplished. Repeatability 🍸🍸🍸 Only works if the bar’s loud and the guys are chatty. Final Score: 34 out of 35. Verdict: A legendary psychic cameo. No crystal ball required.

 

 

A steakhouse visit turns into a fun lesson in survival and etiquette. 

Here’s how it all unfolded…

A Steakhouse Survival Story 

Tuesday's Featured Story - 10/21/25

There we were - Roger and I - dining at Mon Ami Gabi, a stunning steakhouse tucked inside the Paris Hotel in Las Vegas. Think white tablecloths, black-suited waiters with napkins draped over their arms, and a vibe so classy it practically whispered: “Don’t embarrass me.”

We ordered drinks, soaked in the romantic ambiance, and prepared for a meal worthy of a food blog photo shoot. I went full carnivore: a bone-in 16 oz ribeye, medium-rare, with whipped garlic potatoes. Roger? Same side dish, but his steak - brace yourself - well done.

The waiter didn’t say a word, but his eyes screamed “Nooooo!” like a silent soap opera. I felt it. He felt it. The steak felt it.

Then came the moment. The drinks were refreshed, then the steaks arrived. The waiter turned to leave, and Roger - my beloved, my ketchup-loving partner said:

“Oh, can you please bring me ketchup?”

I cringed. I wanted to dive under the table, fake a phone call, or pretend I was just a tourist who wandered in. The waiter’s eyes bulged. His soul left his body. He looked at me with a mix of shock and sympathy, and I did the only thing I could:

“None for me, thank you.”

He smiled. A knowing smile. A “you’re not the problem here” smile. He returned with the ketchup, placed it on the table like a cursed artifact, and walked away without another word.

Back home, I told a friend who happens to be a ketchup fanatic and he didn’t see the issue. I explained the sacred rule: you don’t ask for ketchup at a fine steakhouse. He offered a workaround:

“Just order fries with your steak.”

Cute idea. But let’s be honest - fries with your steak at a fancy steakhouse like Mon Ami Gabi? That’s like wearing flip-flops to a black-tie gala! To me, it’s basically a crime waiting to be tried!

 

Condiment Courtroom Rating Meter™

Verdict Rating     Description Hung Jury 1/5  Confusing flavor choices, no clear condiment       convictions. Mistrial 2/5 Some laughs, but the sauce didn’t stick. Guilty Pleasure 3/5 Entertaining with questionable taste—like ketchup on eggs. Flavor Felony 4/5 Bold, hilarious, and nearly perfect. Condiment Conviction 5/5 Slam-dunk storytelling. Judge Mustard approves.

FEATURE STORY BONUS:

Welcome to the condiment courtroom, where ketchup faces trial

Like most people, I have my quirks too, and when in a classy restaurant I simply follow the unwritten rules. Ketchup on steak? No ... Just NO! This isn’t weird - it’s just me being me! It’s my condiment integrity.

Get to know the Characters in the Condiment Courtroom:

Judge Mustard

Title: Chief Justice of the Condiment Court

The Personality: Stern and colorful, believes in flavor & ketchup boundaries.

Signature line: “Order in the court - and on the steak!”

Fun Fact: Once threw out a case, because the plaintiff confused Dijon with yellow. “Flavor misidentification is a mistrial.” On a side note: Judge Mustard keeps a tiny bottle of horseradish in his robe for emergencies.

Bailiff Ranch

Title: Bailiff of the Condiment Court

Personality: Silent but Salty - quietly judging everyone’s dipping habits. All Ranch-No nonsense.

Signature Line: “Keep it clean - or I’ll confiscate your fry basket.”

Fun Fact: Was removed from a party security detail, after tackling someone -  for double-dipping.

 

Ketchup Bandit

Role: Defendant on trial for culinary overreach - accused of appearing on Steak & other foods where he’s neither invited nor welcome.

Personality: Nervous but defiant. Thinks he’s beloved by all, but cracks under pressure when questioned about steak, eggs, and hot hogs

Signature line: “I go where I’m squeezed, don’t blame me for your poor taste.”

Fun Fact: Once tried to sneak into a Michelin-starred tasting menu disguised as tomato foam. The Executive Chef called security.

 

BBQ Betty Esq. & Associates

Role: Defense attorney for rogue condiments, specializes in defending condiments that go on food in which they don’t belong.

Personality: Sultry and unapologetic, always trying to justify a smokey presence

Signature lines: “If it clings to meat and makes mouths water, I’ll fight for it.”  And “Every rogue drizzle deserves a fair trial.”

Fun Fact: Filed a 12-page appeal when someone used ketchup on steak - and was sentenced to life without parole.

 

Mayo, Associate

Title: Associate with BBQ Betty Esq. & Associates  

Personality: Smooth & always prepared to cover anything.

Signature Line: “I don’t make waves - I emulsify them!”

Fun Fact: Once filed a motion to ban Aioli and redacted an entire transcript when someone said “aioli” instead of “mayonnaise.

To my fan base: Confess your food quirks & defend your condiments - or throw them under the bus in the comments section! This is a safe space for Condiment Criminals, Sauce Sinners, Dip Defendants and Gravy Gremlins. Speak your mind - All condiment confessions & quirks will be entered into the official record - unless they’re too saucy for public consumption!

The Great Radio Heist: Midnight Mission 

10/14/25

Picture this: A modest two-bedroom apartment with a cozy living room nestled right outside the bedrooms, and a kitchen tucked quietly to the side. Mom’s place - our playground - and the setting for one unforgettable night.

Tommy’s room was a double-bed camp: two single beds with a nightstand sandwiched in between, perfect for late-night conspiracies. Mom was in her master bedroom, her party-hardened presence lingering like perfume and authority.

It was close to 1 a.m.- the witching hour, when quiet schemes come alive. Tommy and I were hanging out when I made the declaration of the night: We need music! But Mom had disciplined Tommy days earlier (for who knows what) and confiscated his beloved radio. “It’s in her room,” he said, nodding toward the wall we shared with Mom.

She was snoring softly—fueled by liquid courage, no doubt—but that didn’t dampen our plans. Tommy, the stealth expert, volunteered for the retrieval mission. “Stay put and be prepared,” he whispered. Prepared for what? I had no clue. But I perched on the edge of the bed like a soldier awaiting orders.

Minutes passed. Silence. Then movement.

I sat still, light off - just in case it was Mom. I listened, heart pounding. I heard her walking through the living room and down the hall to the bathroom. But where the heck was Tommy?

Suddenly - THUD! The unmistakable sound of disaster.

Tommy burst back into the room, slid something under the bed, dove onto the mattress, and hissed, “Quick, play dead!” No questions asked—the mission was clear.

Seconds later, I could feel Mom’s gaze burning into the darkness. After five full minutes of covert stillness, we peeked out. No Mom in sight.

Tommy flicked on the light. I demanded the tale of the near capture.

Turns out, Tommy had tiptoed past every creaky floorboard, ninja-style. He was inches from the radio on the floor by her nightstand when Mom coughed and began to stir. In one swift survival move, he flattened himself against the bedframe and boxspring, spine rigid, heart pounding, as her feet landed inches from his face.

She shuffled off to the bathroom. Once the door clicked shut, Tommy made his move—grabbed the radio and bolted.

But fate had other plans.

The THUD I’d heard was the radio hitting the living room rug. Four D-sized batteries exploded out of the back like popcorn kernels, scattering in every direction. Tommy scooped up the radio, kicked the rogue batteries under the sofa like a soccer pro, and sprinted back to warn me.

Now it all made sense.

With Mom back in her room, we turned to each other, snickering quietly about the night’s chaos.

Then came an odd sound - something between a cow’s moo and a foghorn echoing from the wall beside my bed.

Tommy perched up, pressed his ear to the wall. “It’s Mom,” he whispered. “Snoring like a farm animal.”

We burst into muffled laughter, faces buried in pillows, the tension dissolving into joy.

Finally, Tommy rescued the batteries, powered up the radio, and we lowered the volume to ninja level. Our late-night soundtrack played in the background as we whispered and laughed until dawn.

The Great Radio Heist - forever etched in our family lore.

Midnight Mooing Rating

Stealth Level: 10/10 (Tommy’s ninja crawl deserves a medal)

Battery Chaos: 9/10 (D-sized drama at its finest)

Snore Symphony: 11/10 (Mom’s foghorn moo earns bonus points)

Sibling Solidarity: 10/10 (No one plays dead like we do)

Final Rating: Moo-gnificent! 10.5/10

 

Love Hurts: The Spa Edition

10/7/25

Two Resorts. Two Romantic Getaways. Two Unscheduled Injuries.

Some couples collect wine corks from anniversaries. We collect bruises.

Let me take you on a journey through two romantic escapes—Resort 1 and Resort 2—where the jetted tubs are luxurious, the pools are inviting, and the laws of physics are apparently optional.

Resort 1: The Tub That Fought Back

Last year, we stayed at Resort 1, a cozy hideaway with a jetted tub that looked like it belonged in a movie montage. I was feeling glamorous, ready to rise from the bubbles like a goddess… until my hand slipped on the wet edge, my foot followed suit, and my entire arm dragged across the tiled casing like a human squeegee.

The bruise? A full foot long. From wrist to shoulder. I looked like I’d lost a duel with a marble countertop. Roger, ever the gentleman, offered sympathy and snacks while I iced my arm and plotted revenge against the tub.

Resort 2: The Ladder of Doom

Fast forward to this year’s anniversary at Resort 2. We had a private pool in our room—not Olympic-sized, but perfect for two lovebirds. I was descending the ladder with grace (or so I thought), when my right foot slipped off the rung. My left foot, still perched on the top step, bent backward so far it practically high-fived my own backside.

I saw stars. Not the romantic kind. The “I might need a brace and a prayer” kind.

I limped through the rest of the trip like a wounded warrior, but we still managed a beautiful dinner, a sun-soaked pool day, and a brief encounter with a karaoke DJ who mistook three people for a crowd. (“Everyone here has already sung, so you’re next!” he said. I leaned into Roger and whispered, “Everyone? There’s three people here and one’s the bartender.” We turned and walked out like divas.)

Resort Survival Guide: For the Accident-Prone Romantic

1. Wet surfaces are not your friend. Treat every tub edge like it’s plotting against you. Dry hands, slow movements, and maybe a helmet.

2. Ladders are sneaky. Always assume the next rung is a trap. Descend like you’re defusing a bomb.

3. Bring your own brace. Knee, wrist, emotional—whatever you’ve got. You’ll probably need it.

4. Don’t trust a DJ with a microphone and no audience. If the crowd is smaller than your dinner party, karaoke is optional.

5. Laugh anyway. Because love hurts, but laughter heals. And if you can’t walk away from a resort injury with a good story, at least walk away with a blog post.

We may be bruised, bandaged, and limping into our next surgeries, but we’re doing it together—with humor, heart, and a growing list of spa-related battle scars.

Stay tuned for next Tuesday’s tale! Until then, stay safe and watch your step!

Resort Injury Index Meter™

Rated on a scale from “Mildly Clumsy” to “Call the Concierge and a Chiropractor”

Rating Level Description 🧼 Slippery Snafu A minor slip with dramatic flair. Bruises, but no bruised ego. 🛁 Tub Trauma Tango Involves a jetted tub, a wet hand, and a physics-defying arm scrape. 🪜 Ladder Limbo Foot-to-butt contortion worthy of a Cirque du Soleil callback. 🎤 Karaoke Ambush Emotional injury from being drafted into a three-person concert. 🧊 Brace Yourself Deluxe Requires ice packs, Bio-freeze, and a cane. Comes with a complimentary limp. 🏥 Anniversary ER Package For couples who celebrate love with matching surgeries and spa-related bruises.

 

 

The Snack Bandit Strikes Again

10/1/25

One man. Two digestive systems (possibly 3), and Endless party snacks.

Every party has that one guest. Ours is a quiet guy we’ll call Merle—though around here, he’s better known as “The Snack Bandit”.

Merle doesn’t say much. He blends into the background like a decorative throw pillow. However - when the snacks come out? He transforms. If I had to use a comparison; I’d say he’s comparable to a racoon … raiding a midnight garbage can buffet with the stealth of a ninja and the appetite of a vacuum cleaner! I’ve seen him singlehandedly eat five foot-long hot dogs at a BBQ once. I observed him taking down a loaf of Italian bread like it owed him rent! His appetite is legendary. We’re convinced he has two digestive systems and a third one on standby!

With snacks, Merle never uses a paper plate at parties. He scoops chips, pretzels, peanuts or anything small like it - right into his hand and eats them one by one, hand clutched to his mid torso, like he’s guarding the last ration in a post-apocalyptic pantry. It’s not just a snack to him - it’s a mission.

My observant husband once joked, “If you put a bowl of dry cat food near him, I bet he’d eat it!” I reluctantly vetoed the experimental idea, but the theory carries on in my mind like a TV jingle from 1994 - uninvited, catchy, and permanently lodged in my brain. Every time Merle reaches for a handful of peanuts, my husband whispers, “Is this the day?”

Merle never notices. But we do. And we’re watching. Because when the snacks come out, so does The Bandit.

Snack Bandit Rating Scale™: How Bold Was the Grab?

Rating Description 🥄 1 Scoop Took chips. No plate. Possibly a bandit- like a racoon. ✋ 3 Palms Used hand-as-bowl. Guarded snacks like treasure. 🛒 5 Scoops & Side Stash Circled the snack table like a hawk.  🐾 7 Sneaky Paws Approached the snack table silently. Took food mid-conversation. Mistook the centerpiece for edible flowers. 🐉 10 Dragon Hoard Cleared the table. Left no survivors. Guests whisper his name. The cat food bowl was nearly breached.

 

The Pizza Chronicles: Cheese, Char, and Chardonnay

10/1/25

Two pies. One peel. Zero regrets.

There’s something magical about homemade pizza. The dough, the sauce, the bubbling cheese - it’s a performance, a declaration of culinary independence. And sometimes, it’s a complete disaster.

The Case of the Missing Cheese

It started with a 16-inch homemade pizza, lovingly shaped and sauced on a giant wooden pizza peel, waiting to be cooked. The dough was perfect. The sauce was rich. 

Wine drinking may or may not have been involved - just sayin'!

I slid that saucy crust onto a 550-degree pizza stone like I was auditioning for Top Chef - The Tipsy Edition! About thirty seconds in, I went to the refrigerator to pour another glass of vino while the pizza was cooking. I reach in for the bottle and there it was ... staring me right in the face like it was out of place. THE MOZZARELLA! It was just sitting there on the shelf (like that elf) - in all its glory. It was shredded and waiting for a pizza to blanket. "Oh no! There's no cheese on the pizza!" I yelled. My husband (in the other room watching TV) was completely oblivious to my mistake! Good!

I panicked! I grabbed that pizza peel and ran to the stove to try to retrieve the dough, but it was still too soft - and it had started to fluff up a little... so now its oversized and off the edge of the pizza stone. It was hanging like a slice of lasagna on a spatula - sliding toward chaos with every breath, and impossible to get the peel underneath. It was clinging to the stone like a toddler to a new toy in a toy store.

I did what any resourceful chef would do - I let it cook longer, then added the cheese mid-bake and melted it like it was part of the plan all along. It wasn’t perfect, but it was edible and turned out pretty good. Just not the kind of pizza that wins awards. Unless the award is “Most Likely Made Under the Influence of Merlot.”

The BBQ Blackout

Feeling bold (and clearly not burned enough by the last fiasco), I decided to make a second pizza on the grill. The logic was sound: higher heat than a home oven can offer, crispier crust, more authentic. I cranked that BBQ to 700 degrees and placed the pizza stone directly over the flames like I was born in Naples and raised by fire gods. I waited a while for the stone to get very hot and then I slid the pie on with confidence. This one had sauce and cheese on it! LOL Closed the lid. Walked away.

Two minutes later, I returned to a scene that looked like a chimney fire. Smoke billowed. The grill hissed. And the pizza? The bottom crust was so black, it was like walking blindfolded in a dark room while wearing sunglasses at midnight.

Turns out, pizza stones need indirect heat. Who knew?

 Lesson Learned

• Always add the cheese before the bake - skip the wine until after its done!
• Wine and pizza-making are a risky pairing. Proceed with caution.
• BBQ pizza is fabulous… if you don’t treat your stone like a sacrificial offering to the flame gods.

  

Giuseppi Rating™: How Italian Did You Feel?

Level		Description
1. Cheese-less Shock	🍅	You forgot the cheese. Giuseppi clutches his chest and whispers, “Mamma-Mia …”
2. Improvised Dinner	🧀🍷	You added cheese late and paired it with wine. Creative, but risky.
3. Fire Alarm Fiasco	🔥	You summoned Mount Vesuvius on your BBQ. Giuseppi respects the boldness but fears the smoke.
4. Happy Accident	🍷🧄👨‍🍳	I cooked like a jazz musician - off-script, a tad tipsy, but entertaining.
5. Pizza Pro	🏆🧀🍕🔥	You nailed the crust, honored the cheese (a bit late) and didn’t burn down the house. Bravo!

 

The Christening Cake Catastrophe

A cautionary tale from the same kitchen, where ovens betray and meatballs take off!

It was a day of celebration: my firstborn – my son’s christening! The church ceremony was beautiful, the baby was angelic, and I had orchestrated a post-service gathering at our apartment with family and close friends. Everything was prepped with care the day before, down to the homemade sheet cake I’d labored over -- perfectly frosted, delicately piped, and adorned with flowers and writing that screamed “first-time mom with something to prove!”

There was just one problem: I had two cats. And if you’ve ever lived with a cat or even met a cat, you know they have a sixth sense for locating the most sacred surface in the house and planting their paws directly on it…and sometimes their entire bodies!  With the fridge packed full of food trays, I made a snap decision—into the oven the cake goes! Safe from feline footprints – it’s Genius!

Fast-forward to post-ceremony bliss. I changed into comfy clothes, laid the baby down for a nap, and handed my Mom and Aunt Mary a glass of vino! I began prepping for the rest of the guest’s arrival. Chips in bowls, dip stirred, trays out of the fridge to get a bit room temp to help reheat faster. Everything was moving along, when my aunt—bless her observant soul—said, “Ooohh, Michele that cake smells so good!”

I froze. Rut-Roh, Scooby-Doo! I preheated the oven!

The cake. Was. Still. In. The. Oven.

The once-pristine frosting had liquefied into a pastel puddle. The writing- Gone. The flowers? A memory. It was a melted monument to my own multitasking madness and two cats that I tried to ward off of catastrophe. What was meant to be an interception and touchdown turned into a fumble while chasing a cat across the 40-yard line. My heart sank!

My Mom and Aunt felt terrible—briefly. I caught them snickering when my back was turned, right as I stomped my feet and yelled, “Damn, Damn, Damn!” like a sitcom character having a meltdown in real time.

Cue the emergency response team: my Mom and Aunt quickly came into play! Mom sprinted down the block to her house (thankfully just around the corner) and returned with icing from her pantry. I had cake writing left in the tube, and together we scraped off the damage, patched it up, and re-frosted the cake into something decent to serve. It wasn’t the masterpiece I’d started with, but it was a testament to teamwork, quick thinking, and maternal pantry preparedness. And just when I thought I’d learned my lesson about oven-related disasters from that pan of baked Ziti Catapulting out of my oven!

The Catastrophe Cake Rating™

A tribute to multitasking meltdowns, feline sabotage, and frosting redemption.

Metric Rating Notes Feline Interference 🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾 (5/5) Cats sensed sacredness and struck preemptively Oven Betrayal 🔥🔥🔥🔥 (4/5) Preheated sabotage—classic rookie move. Maternal Recovery 👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳👩‍🍳 (5/5) Pantry raid + frosting triage = MVP moms Sitcom Meltdown Factor 📺📺📺📺½ (4.5/5) “Damn, Damn, Damn!” deserves a laugh track Fiasco Flavor 🍰🍰🍰🍰 (4/5) Not a total loss—just a melted monument to motherhood

 

 

Aunt Ethel’s Guide to Home Security

Because banks are shady and burglars never check the rinse cycle.

We had a friend by the name of Moisha, and his Aunt Ethel was in her early 90's at the time.  Through Moisha, we had the pleasure of meeting Ethel and becoming friends with her over the years. Even though she wasn't our actual Aunt - she wanted us to call her Aunt Ethel, so we did! She was quite the character, and she made us laugh a lot! We have many Aunt Ethel stories to tell within this blog- and little by little they will come out.

 Aunt Ethel had her own ideas about safeguarding valuables. Especially her personal important papers, like the deed to her home, life insurance policies and above all, her investments in the stock market because that became her bread and butter after retirement. She invested well and as a result, she was a millionaire! She didn’t trust banks. She didn’t trust most people. But apparently, she did trust her dishwasher!

One day Moisha was helping her do some things in her house and he went to load the dishwasher. He opened it up and much to his surprise, it was already loaded - with all her important papers! He asked her why all these papers were all tucked inside the unused appliance! 

She replied: “If anyone ever breaks in, I’m certain they won’t find my papers in the dishwasher!”

She wasn’t wrong.

And just to be thorough, she also taped envelopes with $10,000 to the backs of every picture in her home. Her logic?

“No one will look behind that picture of me or that picture with the Jewish star!”

Honestly, if Gladys ever needs a security consultant, we know who to call! (Glady's is another story for another time).

Aunt Ethel’s Rinse Cycle Rating™

Category Rating Security Ingenuity 🧠🧠🧠🧠🧠 (5/5) — Dishwasher-grade brilliance Paranoia Level 😳😳😳😳 (4/5) — Trusts no one, not even the fridge Legacy Impact 🏛️🏛️🏛️🏛️½ (4.5/5) — Her logic may outlive the banks Gladys Compatibility 💯 — She’d hire Ethel in a heartbeat Fiasco Factor 🍝 (1/5) — No actual disaster, just eccentric genius