Shadow: My Brooklyn Cat with Zero Boundaries and a BBQ Chip Addiction

When I was young, we lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, NY. I had a black cat named Shadow. I lived on the first floor of a large apartment building, and the cat would go in and out the window like he paid rent. When he wanted to come back in, he’d jump up on the windowsill, give me the “open up, peasant” look, and I’d let him in.

He was the coolest cat I ever had. Very different from any cat I ever encountered—and I had cats my whole life. He was certainly unique. If I opened a bag of BBQ potato chips, this cat would go nuts, pawing at me to have some as if he had just finished a 12‑step program for snack addiction and immediately relapsed. He ate them like they were the last food on earth, like it was the apocalypse and only Lays could save him.

He even used to hang out in the park across from my building with my brother and his friends. The cat would jump up on the park bench next to their boombox and stay with them for hours like a tiny, furry bouncer guarding the music. He was a very smart cat, and apparently liked rock music—particularly Led Zeppelin. One would think he was waiting for his audition to join the band as the first feline tambourine player.

One weekend on a summer evening, I left my apartment to go to a bar my friends and I frequented, called The Kilcar House. I entered the bar, ordered my drink, and headed to the back room as I always did, because there were booths back there, a dartboard, and a pool table. As I sat there, my friends began to trickle in, and we’d all hang out laughing, talking, and playing darts.

After a couple of hours, one of the owners came over to me, pointed to the window near my booth, and said, “Michele… is that your cat?”

I looked up, and there was Shadow staring at me as if he caught me cheating on him.

Everyone laughed out loud. I was stunned because this bar was six blocks from my building! I had to cross three side streets and a major busy city avenue intersection. He must have followed behind me and I never knew. But it explained why, when I crossed that avenue, people in the cars waiting for the light were staring at me like I was the Pied Piper of Brooklyn leading a single confused cat disciple. I had no idea why until that very moment when the owner pointed to the window and I saw my cat looking back at me

I went outside, picked the cat up, and brought him into the bar. I put him on the bench in the booth next to me. The owner asked if he wanted a drink. Everyone laughed again.

I said no, but if you have a bag of BBQ potato chips for him, he’ll be your best friend! The owner laughed. I said, “I’m serious. He loves them.”

The owner walked away and returned with a small bag of BBQ chips. He wanted to see how serious I was, as if I was running an underground chip‑eating circus act featuring one very committed cat.

I let the cat smell the bag before I opened it. He started to paw at me. I opened the bag and Shadow jumped into my lap. I pulled one chip out and he took it in his mouth, jumped down, ate the chip, and jumped back up pawing at me for more, as if he was trying to negotiate a long‑term snack contract.

The owner was absolutely amazed.

I walked home that night with Shadow by my side, like we were closing down the bar together after a long shift. After that incident, I always made sure Shadow was in the house before I went far. He would normally walk me down the block to my mother’s apartment or to the store on the corner, but never did he follow me six blocks before that night.

He was truly the legend of Bay Ridge—part cat, part rock fan, part snack‑obsessed stalker, and 100% unforgettable.

The Takeaway

Shadow wasn’t just a pet — he was a full‑blown Brooklyn character with the confidence of a man who owned the neighborhood, the musical taste of a 70s rock roadie, and the snack preferences of a hungover teenager. He reminded me that sometimes the funniest, wildest, most unforgettable stories come from the creatures who never say a word… but somehow manage to live louder than everyone else.

Shadow: My Brooklyn Cat Meteor Score

Category                                Score                                                               Notes

Shadow’s Attitude               10/10           Walked six blocks to a bar like he had weekend plans.

BBQ Chip Addiction           11/10            One chip away from joining a support group.

Rock‑n‑Roll Credibility        9/10          Preferred Led Zeppelin. Probably judged who didn’t.

Boundary Awareness             1/10          Had none. Absolutely zero. Negative boundaries, even.

Comedic Timing                  10/10         Appeared at the bar window like a furry little stalker

Cat Legend Status                10/10         People stared like you were leading a parade.

Owner’s Level of Control      2/10         Let’s be honest the owner of the cat had zero control.

 

Dumb Things Some People Do Drunk 

Featuring Brian: The Human Chaos Generator (A Triple Play Storyline!)

My brother’s first wife was away for the weekend visiting a relative. Tommy had to work Saturday, so he stayed home. He was off Sunday, so on Saturday night he and his best friend Brian cracked open some beers. And once the beers were gone, they made the kind of decision only two slightly buzzed men can make: “Let’s make blender drinks.”

Brian went to the store and came back with a bag of ice and a bottle of vodka — the two ingredients required for both cocktails and catastrophic home damage.

To break up the ice, Brian did what everyone does: he dropped the bag on the floor.

Except… you’ve never met Brian. he is the kind of guy who could trip over a cordless phone.

He’s the human version of a “wet floor” sign.

So, of course the bag didn’t just split — it detonated.

Ice shot out of every side like a glacier giving birth, skidding across the kitchen in different directions like a rogue GPS recalculating every two seconds. Brian, ever the problem solver, said:

“It’s ok, I’ll gather up the cubes and rinse them!”

Tommy stared at him.

“Rinse them? Brian… I have two cats.”

Brian blinked.

“Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” 

They salvaged the few cubes that were still in the bag and added the ice trays from the freezer. Brian asked what they were mixing the vodka with. Tommy opened the fridge and found the only beverage available: A pitcher of cherry Kool‑Aid.

So, Brian dumped the ice, vodka, and Kool‑Aid into the blender…and before Tommy could say a word - VROOOOOOM! Brian turned it on without the lid!

Cherry Kool‑Aid painted the kitchen like a crime scene from “CSI: the blender edition.”

Walls. Floor. Ceiling. Appliances. If it had a surface, it was sticky. They laughed so hard they could barely clean it — and it took HOURS.

The next day, Tommy’s wife came home, picked up the wall phone (remember those?), and said: “Tom? Why is the phone sticky?” Tommy just sighed.

Because how do you explain that?

 Brian, Part II: The Beach Chair Fiasco

After I moved from Brooklyn to NJ, Tommy and Brian came to visit for the weekend. Brian sat in a beach chair in the yard, tipping it back on two legs like a toddler testing gravity.

I warned him three times:

“Brian, stop that before you break the chair.”

He finally stopped. I went inside to grab another beer.

When I came back out, Brian was sitting in a different chair. Tommy had a smirk on his face like he was trying not to rupture a lung.

I looked at Brian.

“You broke the chair, didn’t you?”

“Uh‑huh.”

“Where’s the chair?”

Tommy pointed behind the pool. Brian had hidden it, like dogs burying evidence.

Brian Part III: Brian vs. BBQ

The next day, Brian and Tommy started drinking by noon. I joined a bit later, but we had fun swimming and laughing. Later we decided to BBQ. I had a kettle grill, the round old fashioned type with a dome lid. I had a bag of Matchlight briquettes. The briquettes are pre-soaked in lighter fluid. Designed to catch quickly. No lighter fluid needed, just toss in a match. I told Brian that. I left him to it and I went inside to make some hamburger patties.

I should’ve known better. I left him alone for five minutes. Brian had never lit a BBQ in his life. I didn’t know that. He didn’t tell me that.

He dumped the entire 20‑lb. bag of Matchlight into the grill and tossed in a match.

POOF!

Flames shot up so high they were practically waving at airplanes. I heard yelling and ran outside to see what was going on.

Brian?

Standing there holding the box of matches, looking at them like they betrayed him. The flames were nearly as tall as my second‑floor windows! And because Brian lit the grill right next to the house, the vinyl siding MELTED like a cheap candle at a summer wedding. My neighbor saw what happened and came over with a metal bucket and shovel and took out more than half the coals! Didn’t I tell you that Brian was a walking disaster?

And that my friends is what I call two stories of dumb things we do drunk!

The Takeaway:

Alcohol may lower inhibitions… but in Brian’s case, it also lowers furniture stability, kitchen hygiene, and vinyl siding integrity. Drink responsibly. Or at least… don’t let Brian near the blender. Sometimes the universe gives you a friend who is both a walking disaster and a lifetime supply of comedy material. Brian may break chairs, melt siding, and redecorate kitchens in Kool‑Aid…but he also gives you stories that become family legends.

Meteor Score: “Dumb Things People Do Drunk”

Category Score                           Notes Ice‑Bag Physics 9.6 / 10 Bag detonates like a budget glacier eruption Kitchen Carnage 9.8 / 10 Cherry Kool‑Aid crime scene worthy of CSI: Blender Unit Brian Logic 10 / 10 Rinsing cat‑floor ice + lidless blending = peak Brian Furniture Stability 8.9 / 10 Beach chair collapses under the weight of poor decisions BBQ Safety 11 / 10 20 lbs. of Matchlight + house siding melting like a candle Property Damage 9.7 / 10 Second‑floor flames waving at airplanes Laugh‑Till‑You‑Cry 10 / 10 The story escalates like a sitcom written by tequila Brian Being Brian 10 / 10 He hides chairs, melts houses, and still looks surprised!

 

 

Raggedy - Granny

My sister Linda tried to kill me before I could walk, and honestly, that was the most normal part of our childhood. When I was born, she was seven — old enough to read, write, and apparently commit a low‑budget crib‑side attempted homicide. One day my mother heard me crying, walked in the bedroom, and found my head wedged between the crib bars and the mattress like a slice of bologna stuck between two pieces of Wonder Bread.

For those who know me today… it explains a lot.

Eventually Linda accepted that I was not a temporary unwanted pest but a permanent roommate she couldn’t evict.

Fast‑forward to me around six years old. My sister was babysitting, and while I slept, she decided to make me a doll like raggedy Ann. What she ended up with was not a normal doll. Not a cute doll (but it does grow on you). It wasn't even a doll that looked like it had a stable home life. No — she grabbed one of my father’s white T‑shirts, scissors, thread, and a needle, and created something that looked like an elderly woman who had survived the Great Depression and a tornado all at once.

We named her Granny.

Granny had no hair, two button eyes and a button nose and a drawn-on mouth, with the kind of smile that said, “I’ve seen things I can’t unsee.” We created a weird voice and laugh for her, in sort of a southern tone produced from the back of our throat. She had a laugh similar to that of someone chugging a gallon of paste in a cartoon! Somehow both my sister and I could do the exact same voice for her. It was our first shared talent but probably more like a genetic glitch we both inherited!

We made Granny part of my Barbie doll family — she was their grandmother! Linda made outfits for her out of scrap fabric and whatever clothing my mother wouldn’t miss. We built a whole Barbie house using books as walls, upside‑down teacups with upside-down saucers on top of the teacups as tables, sewing thimbles as cups, and large buttons as plates. Martha Stewart would’ve applauded or called a psychiatrist. Hard to say.

Then came the Granny Tapes — our audio‑drama era. Using my sister’s cassette tape recorder, we created entire storylines for Granny. We’d get so hysterical we’d be doubled over, making Granny yell dramatically or get loud out of excitement, until my mother stormed in to tell us to quiet down before the neighbors thought we were performing an exorcism.

One day, we were throwing Granny back and forth to each other, across the living room. Well, one of us threw her too high and she hit the hanging light, sparks literally flew, and instead of panicking, we screamed:

“OH NO — GRANNY GOT STRUCK BY LIGHTNING!”

And then we laughed like two children who absolutely should not have been left unsupervised. (Apparently my "unsupervised" moments started at a younger age than originally thought).

As we got older, we played with her less, but Granny was part of our sisterly DNA. We couldn’t (wouldn't) throw her out. Sometimes she got filthy, and my sister had to give her a “new covering” using another one of Dad’s T‑shirts or an old pillowcase. I think looking at her today- she needs another new “covering” — to which she had many over the years. Granny was probably the only woman in our family to get cosmetic surgery regularly!

When my sister moved to her own place, she took Granny with her — mostly because my mother kept threatening to throw her away like she was cursed. Mom hated that doll! At one point Granny disappeared, and I’m pretty sure my mother was involved like a thief in the night. Most likely a well-planned heist! So, my sister made a new Granny! Then she told my mother Granny will always come back! I think it was my sister’s way of telling Mom not to try any further tricks, without saying exactly that. If you knew my sister, this would not surprise you.

Eventually, Linda started hiding Granny in the back of our Christmas tree every year. She would lay Granny across some inner branches. A secret tradition between us. A silent guardian. Granny was probably the first "Elf on a shelf." Okay- well, Elf on a branch, but you get my drift. A bald little lone elf who had survived lightning strikes!

Last Christmas, she gave Granny back to me. YES! She still exists! She said Granny was made for me and belongs with me. Now Granny sits on my desk, staring at me with her button eyes, reminding me of every ridiculous, chaotic, hilarious moment my sister and I shared.

Call me a nut — but if you grew up with a lightning‑proof grandmother doll watching over you and made by your sister, you’d be sentimental too.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes things look strange, are silly, or just make you ask: “why do you still have that?” But end up being some of the threads that stitch a family together. Granny wasn’t just a doll — she was a witness, a co‑conspirator, a lightning‑proof legend who holds decades of sisterly laughter. Childhood doesn’t always leave us with perfect memories, but if we’re lucky, it leaves us with something fun, weird, and full of love to remind us of where we came from.

Humor Meter Score

Category                                Score                                                   Notes

Sibling Shenanigans        9.7/10     Attempted crib‑murder, Granny tapes & tree branch hide-outs.

Homemade Doll               10/10     Granny’s chaos & face could headline a comedy special.

Unexpected Violence      9.9/10     Doll hits light, sparks fly, children laugh. Peak comedy.

Nostalgia Factor             9.5/10    Wonder Bread, cassette tapes, DIY Barbie real estate!

Sisterly Bonding              10/10    Equal parts love, mischief, & questionable decisions.

 

 

The 4th of July Rooftop Pool Fiasco

Back in 1989, I was living in a two‑bedroom apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn with my then husband, Steve, and my first-born child. The kind of place where you could hear your neighbors argue and smell the beauty parlor’s perm solution through the floorboards. My other kids weren’t even a twinkle in my eye yet; they were more like a twinkle in the universe’s “maybe later” folder.

It was the Fourth of July, and my husband at the time was working for his father’s limousine business, chauffeuring people who were probably having a much easier day than I was about to. I invited my brother Tommy and my sister Linda over, hoping someone on the block would light fireworks that night, so we could at least pretend we had plans.

We hung out, played with my son, ate lunch, and enjoyed the afternoon. Then one of us and I won’t name names, but let’s just say beer was absolutely the fourth guest at this gathering — said, “You know what would make this day more fun? A pool.”

Not a real pool. Not even a respectable inflatable pool. Just something to splash around in like overheated toddlers at a daycare sprinkler day.

Tommy knew there was a store a block away that sold baby pools, so off he went. He came back triumphantly holding a plastic pool that was two feet tall and about six feet wide — basically a blue salad bowl for humans.

And that’s when it hit us:

We had no idea where to put it or how to fill it. Not one brain cell in that apartment had considered logistics. We were operating like three contestants on a game show where the prize was heatstroke.

We debated putting it on the sidewalk and asking the beautician downstairs if we could hook a hose to her sink. But she had closed early — probably sensing chaos in the air like a dog sensing a thunderstorm.

So naturally, the next idea was:

“Let’s bring it to the roof.” 

Because nothing says “responsible adults” like hauling a six‑foot round pool up a staircase like we were smuggling a large satellite dish AND pretending it was totally normal. Once we got up there, we noticed my upstairs neighbor had a hibachi grill there. He wasn’t home, but we took that as a sign from the BBQ gods. I had briquettes, lighter fluid, and matches in the apartment because apparently, I was always one minor inconvenience away from starting a cookout — so we decided we’d grill up there too. We hauled up chairs, toys for my son, a cooler, a radio and enough beer to make us believe this was a good idea.

We sat down, cracked one open, and then it hit us:

We still hadn’t filled the pool! Tommy didn’t have a long enough hose. Buckets would take forever. Pots would take even longer. We were brainstorming like three raccoons trying to solve a calculus problem.

Then I remembered:

We had just bought a brand‑new 30‑gallon garbage can that hadn’t even been used yet.

Perfect! We’d fill that and carry it up.

Well, we filled it.

It took ages.

And then, shocker — we couldn’t lift it! Not even a millimeter. Who knew it would be that heavy? Certainly not the three stooges that were drinking beer that day! It was like trying to deadlift a sleeping adult that had too much to drink. So, we regrouped on the roof, opened another beer (because hydration is important), and decided to bail out half the water. That meant more trips, but fewer hernias. We siphoned out half, tried again, and it was still heavy — like carrying an anvil tied to an anvil.

We got Linda, set my son up safely inside, and the three of us lifted that garbage can up the stairs like we were reenacting a low‑budget version of the pyramids being built.

We did this three times.

By the end, the pool was only half full, but honestly? We didn’t care. We were sweaty, exhausted, and slightly buzzed — the holy trinity of rooftop decision‑making while drinking beer.

We splashed around, grilled the food, and when the sun went down, the surrounding blocks lit up fireworks. From the roof, it felt like our own private show.

Was it worth the trouble? Maybe.

But it was me, my brother, my sister, and my son — laughing, sweating, and making memories like a family who had absolutely no business being in charge of anything involving beer, fire, or gravity.

And that’s what made it worth it.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes the best memories come from the dumbest ideas — especially when you’re surrounded by the people who make even the disasters feel like celebrations.

Rooftop Meter Reading

Category Meter Score Notes Planning & Logistics 1.2 / 5 like a GPS that rage‑quit halfway through the route Teamwork 4.9 / 5 like three superheroes whose powers are chaos, beer, and determination Physical Strength 2.3 / 5 like trying to bench‑press a sleeping walrus Creativity Under Pressure 4.7 / 5 like MacGyver but with fewer tools and more alcohol Pool‑Filling Strategy 0.8 / 5 like solving a math problem by setting the paper on fire Fun Factor 5 / 5 like a rooftop block party hosted by three lovable lunatics Memory Value 5 / 5 like a family legend that gets funnier every year