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.