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.

 

The Night That Dinner Tried to Defeat Us

A Three Act Tragicomedy

Act I:

Before the fiasco even began, I had already put in over an hour of researching restaurants because we were determined to try something different than our usual haunts. I looked over menus, reviews, photos, checking out the vibes each gave me — the whole “Michele Method” of looking for a place to eat. 

And so it began:

The plan — and I use that word loosely — was to go to this Irish pub/steakhouse hybrid that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be when it grew up. The reviews were… let’s call them “optimistically concerning.” But our friends had been asking us for months to try it with them, so fine...we said let’s go and decide for ourselves.

I made the reservation for 6 p.m. We didn’t have to leave for 30 minutes, so I poured some pre-fiasco wine.

Meanwhile, I had my heart set on another place — because their menu had a 24‑oz bone‑in ribeye that I hadn’t stopped thinking about sinking my teeth into ever since I laid eyes on it on their website. But fate said, “Not tonight, chef.”

Then I got the text: “Sorry, have to cancel” I was a tad upset- but in the tiniest way- because now I could get the ribeye destiny intended! I cancel the original reservation and make a new one for 6:30 for the ribeye place!

Act II: The Restaurant that Catfished us

When we finally pulled up to the restaurant, the outside looked… tired (and that’s an understatement). But I said, “It’s okay. We’re here for the food and the inside online looked decent and the place got good reviews (for all that it’s worth).”

Then we walked inside.

Now imagine a fast‑food burger joint. Now imagine that same burger joint handing you a tri‑fold paper menu filled with “high‑end dishes” like they were auditioning for a Michelin star. And although we had a reservation, I was handed those menus at the counter and told to “sit anywhere.” The cognitive dissonance was so strong I could hear my brain rebooting.

We sat. We looked around. Suddenly we felt we were in a deli with a dream! We looked at the menu. We looked at each other. The server comes over and asks if we would like anything to drink. I look over the counter where we first entered, and I saw wine glasses hanging on a rack. I reluctantly asked if they serve alcohol – but it was too much to hope for-

I got a resounding “NO - but you can bring your own!”

 I said – “That would have been fine, had I known!” She asked if we needed a few minutes to review the menu- I said yes and she walked away—  My chef instincts kicked in like a fire alarm, and we walked out. I simply could not bring myself to order a $45 Ribeye in a room that looked like it should’ve had a self-serve soda fountain and a laminated “Order Here” sign.

So we got back in the car and decided to head toward the original place — somewhere down that same road was the Irish pub we had booked earlier and then canceled. Fine. Maybe they take walk-ins! Whatever. At this point we just wanted dinner.

We’re driving. It felt like fifteen minutes. We’re talking, decompressing, trying to salvage the night. And then Roger — that knows me better than I know myself —  turns to me and asks the $99,000 question that detonated:

“Did you remember to put your teeth in?”

Silence. Absolute silence. I mean you could hear crickets. Because the answer was no.

No, I did not.

I forgot.

I forget the teeth a lot.

One would think after a year of having bottom dentures, I would remember —

 but Nooooooo!

I apologized. Several times. And my husband who has definitely grown patience over the years thanks to me testing them every step of the way… he tells me “It’s OK, I still love you, but if this was anyone else …”

He knew what he signed up for—  he read the fine print and accepted his fate, initialing every page and he has fully subscribed with no refunds or cancelations, because he loves me, and because living with me is comical. Let me put it this way, I goober things… A lot.

So what do we do? We U‑turn like we’re in a Fast and Furious movie called “Furious & Famished”. It’s now 7:00 p,m-ish…we left the house at 6 and traveled the emotional equivalent of 600 miles! We now have to drive thirty minutes back home, so I can put my teeth in like a grown-up. At this point, we’ve been out for so long and haven’t even made it to a breadbasket.

Finally — FINALLY — we give up and go to a local place we know is good. Reliable. Comfort food for the soul.

Except the universe wasn’t done with us yet.

Act III: The Significant Other  

We get to the restaurant and get seated. Immediately I notice two tables over was The Patron From Hell — a 30 something woman who spent her entire meal verbally belittling and yelling at her significant other like she was auditioning for “The Real Housewives Of The Pocono Mountains” or possibly a new reality show called “Berate Your Partner: The Restaurant Edition”. Either way— she was the lead character!

I could swear she didn’t even breathe between her words. She didn’t pause. She didn’t take her eyes off him. She just loudly verbalized how he does this and that; sctually stated several times “You’re doing it now!” Which no one in the restaurant understood, because he wasn’t doing a thing- just sitting there quietly with his head partially down like he was walking in death row. And she just kept going… she took a bite, was belligerent again, took another bit, and so on and so on.

The poor man never touched his food. He just sat there like a man accepting his life sentence and silently questioning his choice in women.
Everyone was watching. Staring. Whispering. The staff was probably traumatized. After about 30 minutes, the owner had to intervene. And even after her apologizing to the owner, she kept going soon as he walked away— just at lower levels…Sort of.

We were sitting there like: “Sir, blink twice if you need help!” I kept saying to Roger He should just get up and leave her here, go home and pack! The entertainment was certainly not what we expected, especially after all we had just gone through. But it was fitting of the prior part of our evening- and it sure turned into one giant Fiasco for this True Tuesday Story!

And that, my friends, was our night.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes the universe doesn’t give you the night you planned — it gives you the night you’ll be laughing about for years. Between the restaurant we didn’t make it to, and the catfish joint, the forgotten teeth, and the Queen of Nightmares happening two tables over, we consumed chaos and finally – a good meal. That’s what makes it a Forks & Fiascos comedy, seasoned with patience, and served with a side of “you can’t make this stuff up.”

Comical Meteor Score Reading

Category Score                                  Notes Restaurant Research 10 An hour of prep for zero usable restaurants — elite-level futility. Catfish Factor   9 High-end menu, fast-food décor. Michelin dreams, deli reality. Teeth-Related Twist 11 Off the charts. The entire evening pivoted on one missing dental appliance. Emotional Mileage 10 Left at 6 p.m., returned at 7:15 p.m., spiritually traveled 600 miles. Roger’s Patience 12 He signed the terms & conditions and renewed the subscription. Dinner Success Rate   4 The food was fine — the journey was the entrée. Unexpected Entertainment   9 Real Housewives: Live Dinner Theater Edition. Overall Fiasco Level 10 A three-act tragicomedy worthy of its own mini-series.

 

  

Harry The Buffet Destroyer

My husband and I can put away a respectable amount of food at this local Sunday brunch we go to every so often. It’s one of our favorite haunts — an all‑you‑can‑eat buffet from 11 am to 3 pm with about twelve feet of steaming trays, plus a whole separate dessert table. It’s basically a culinary obstacle course.

But our friend — we’ll call him Harry — oh no, you don’t understand. This man eats like he has two buttholes and a backup generator.

Harry starts with an omelet AND a Belgian waffle and these waffles aren’t dainty — they’re big, fluffy, (and look like they were made by a man named Sven). Then he piles on bacon, breakfast sausage, breakfast potatoes, and sometimes swings back for Eggs Benedict like he’s topping off the tank. He washes it all down with coffee refills and orange juice.

And I’m not trying to scare you, but that’s just Harry’s warm‑up.

Less than an hour later, this man is back up there like a forklift with legs. He gets two full plates of the lunch items. Not “two plates” like a normal person — no. He fills one plate with half the buffet, eats it, then goes back and gets the other half. It’s like watching a man do laps at the Olympics.

Then — thirty minutes before we leave — he hits the dessert table and takes one of just about everything. Cookies, brownies, pudding, pastries, Jell‑O — if it’s on the table, it’s on Harry’s plate. I don’t know where he puts it. Maybe he has two stomachs. Maybe he has two buttholes. Maybe he has a wormhole inside him that sends the food to another dimension. Honestly, it might be a combo of all three.

 Because no normal human physiology explains this.

 Harry’s Buffet Performance Breakdown

Round 1: The Warm‑Up (which is already a full meal)

Most people would be done for the day after Harry's first round.

Harry calls this “exercising.”

I don’t know what he’s exercising — maybe his right to EAT the all‑you‑can‑eat buffet? Maybe Harry looks at it like a challenge? Perhaps he's exercising his legs by getting up 17 times? Your guess is as good as mine.

Round 2: The Lunch Assault

Harry doesn’t make a plate. He makes a sampler platter of destruction and fills it with half the lunch items.

Eats it.

Goes back and gets the other half.

Eats that.

Then sometimes looks around like, “What else ya got?” He’s not grazing. He’s conducting a multi‑phase buffet campaign.

Round 3: The Dessert Mugging

One of every dessert item? That’s not dessert. That’s a large flight. And the fact that he does this after two full plates of lunch and a breakfast that would knock out a linebacker tells me one thing:

Harry is not eating. Harry is competing.

 The Funniest Part?

My husband and I, in the four hours this buffet is open, probably eat enough between us to make the buffet owner nervous.

 But Harry?

Harry is the reason the owner wakes up at 3 am in a cold sweat whispering:

“Why do I do this… why do I do this…”

Harry is the final boss of Sunday brunch. He is the undefeated champion. If they made a championship belt for all‑you‑can‑eat buffets, Harry’s belt would never leave his waist. They should hang his picture over the buffet with a sign that says:

 “If you see this man, hurry up and get your food — it won’t last long.”

The Takeaway: 

Even when you think you can eat, there is always someone out there who treats a buffet like a competitive sport, a personal challenge, and a spiritual journey. And honestly? Watching that level of commitment is half the entertainment.

Buffet Meteor Score Reading

Featuring Harry

Category                            Score                              Notes

Breakfast Warm‑Up Chaos          9.7                Harry warms up with a waffle the size of a hubcap.

Lunch Plate Destruction            10.0               Harry made half the buffet disappear in one lap.

Dessert Table Devastation           9.9              One of every dessert. At this point he’s just showing off.

Stomach Capacity Mystery       11.0              Science cannot explain this man. NASA should study him.

Buffet Owner’s Panic Level     12.0              Owner wakes up at 3 am whispering, “Not again… not HIM”

Overall Meteor Impact               9.8               Buffet infrastructure compromised. Steam trays rattling.

 

The Clumsy Chronicles: Volume 1 (Because Let’s Be Honest… There Will Be More)

(Some pictures are real, some cartoons for when I didn’t have the actual picture) Either way, enjoy the Clumsiness…

Some people have guardian angels.

I’m convinced mine clocks out early and leaves me unsupervised.

Listen — I’d love to tell you all of these mishaps happened because I was drunk.

On at least one, possibly two of these occasions, that is absolutely the case.

But the rest?

Nope.

Stone‑cold sober.

Just me, battling gravity with nothing but optimism and poor coordination.

This weekend alone, I walked into my bedroom at 11:30 pm carrying my phone, my charger, and a bottle of a sports drink that was blue (apparently the cap was hanging on by a single thread of hope) because at some point as I was walking,  I tilted the bottle and baptized my bedroom floor in that blue sports drink, like I was performing a late‑night floor exorcism.

Did I clean it up?

Absolutely not.

Roger walked in, sighed the sigh of a man who has seen things like this before… too many times — bless that man, he cleaned the whole thing up, while I got into bed.

 

                                                                          

 The Peppercorn Apocalypse (Times Two)

I have dropped my pepper grinder not once… but twice.

And not just any pepper grinder — a glass one.

Both times it exploded like a pepper‑filled grenade when it hit my tiled floor, sending peppercorns and shattered glass scattering across my kitchen floor like they were trying to flee the scene. After the sweeping and vacuuming, I still found peppermills under cabinets months later!

Roger told me, and I quote:

“If you break ONE more of those, you either switch to a wooden peppermill or buy stock in the glass peppermill company.”

I love those glass ones.

I will not be switching.

Pray for Roger.

And that was just the warm-up …

 

The Great Salt Explosion!

Then there was the day I dropped the salt grinder.

Pink Himalayan Salt everywhere.

My kitchen looked like a fight occurred at a salt mine.

 

The Wine Glass Incident

I once dropped a wine glass onto my dining room floor — not a polite little crack, but a full‑scale glass glitter bomb of “surprise, you’re bleeding.” My feet have trust issues now.

The Can‑Opening Injury

I cut my finger opening a can.

A CAN.

Not a papercut from a package. Not as bad as a power tool injury.

But a slice, from a can of tomatoes.

I have photographic evidence because even I couldn’t believe I managed to injure myself with pantry goods and a can opener.

 

The Stumble-Tumble

I once tripped up the stairs at a restaurant.

Up.

UP!

The most humiliating direction to fall.

My friends (we’ll call them Petunia and Tanner), me, and Roger had just arrived at a restaurant. Tanner and I had to pee, so we headed to the restrooms. I took three steps up the 5‑step staircase, misjudged everything, caught the front of my shoe on the edge of one of the steps, and suddenly I was tripping upwards. Trying to regain control of my steps, I managed to get to the top stumbling all the way up, and down I went — sprawled across the landing, face down. Tanner tried to pull me up by both hands, but that wasn’t happening, so I had to flip onto my stomach and push myself up like a tipped‑over turtle trying to right itself. The only thing missing from the way I felt was the murder‑scene chalk outline… because I think I died of embarrassment.

My friend tried to pull me up by both hands, but we just couldn’t get me off the floor. So I had to flip over onto my stomach and get myself up. I felt like a tipped‑over turtle trying to right itself. Meanwhile, I was on the floor the entire time, right behind other customers’ chairs. Chairs that were…

occupied.

And then the waitress yelled, loudly enough to echo through the entire restaurant:

“ARE YOU OKAY?”

So now everyone is staring at me, during my mid‑pee‑ stumble-tumble as if I’ve just been taken out by an invisible sniper. Welcome to my world.

 

The Tiki Bar Situation

One tiny step down at a tiki bar.

One miscalculation.

One right arm.

One hospital visit.

One cast …

wrapped from elbow to wrist, including my ring finger and pinkie together like I was a piece of high-end crystal.

So yeah — I fractured it.

Because why do anything else?

The Cheeseburger

I made two gorgeous 8‑oz cheeseburgers for my son and his friend, carried them downstairs to our home bar… and one slid off the plate mid‑journey and launched itself down the steps like a meaty Slinky.

RIP cheeseburger.

You were probably too sexy for your bun and too delicious for this world.

 

The Slip and Shoe

I once slipped on ice while crossing the street walking with my friend John. Of course I fell. But when I did my shoe flew off and landed in the intersection like it was trying to escape the scene. My friend had to retrieve it while I sat on the curb contemplating my life choices.

So yes. I am a walking, talking, gravity‑challenged sitcom.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Takeaway

Life keeps handing me chaos, spills, fractures, airborne footwear, and public humiliation… and somehow, I keep bouncing back with a story, a laugh, and a husband who quietly cleans up after me at midnight. If nothing else, “The Clumsy Chronicles” proves one thing: I may not always stay upright, but I always land on my feet — eventually. 

 

Meteor Scoring Table

Category                     Score                                            Notes

Physical Comedy        9.8       Multiple falls, airborne shoe, cheeseburger Slinky — elite slapstick.

Destruction                   9.5       Peppercorn grenades, salt explosions, wine‑glass bombs.

Medical Drama         10.0        Fracture and wrapped like a mummy.

Embarrassment          9.7        Restaurant fall + “ARE YOU OKAY” to the entire building.

Roger’s Patience      11.0        Midnight Gatorade Clean-up, still loves me. Give him a metal