A TREE BRANCH, A HAMBURGER, AND QUEENS

Many moons ago - back when summer parties were legendary and our tolerance for alcohol was heroic, my cousin (we’ll call her Tina) threw a massive backyard bash. I’m talking 50+ people, relatives from both our and her husband’s side, friends, neighbors, and even a live band courtesy of her brother that played in a band locally. It was one of those parties where the music is loud, the drinks are flowing, and everyone is convinced they can dance after a few.

At some point, I wandered down from the upper deck to the backyard to chat with my other cousin (we’ll call him Max), who was manning the band’s soundboard like he was mixing a Grammy‑winning album. A great song came on, he threw his arm around my shoulders, and the two of us started singing and swaying like we were auditioning for a drunk duet competition.

And then… One of us - we still don’t know who - swayed a little too far to the right.

We went down like two bowling pins.

Unfortunately, Tina and her husband had just planted baby tree saplings. Cute little three‑footers. Well, we landed on one and snapped it clean in half.

No hesitation. No mercy. Just crunch - nature defeated by two tipsy idiots.

We laughed so hard we could barely stand. I went back up to the deck to tell my sister what happened, but before I could say a word, she reached out and yanked a tiny branch out of my hair.

“You have a stick in your hair - how’d that happen?”

As I explained, she kept pulling out leaves and grass, and what might have been some mulch- who knows! She laughed the entire time. I must have looked like I tried to camouflage myself for a hunting trip- and failed.

When the party ended, our designated driver, my sister’s husband We’ll call him Joe) drove us home. It was about a 1 hour and 30‑minute ride from Long Island back to Bensonhurst.

Every fifteen minutes, my sister announced:

“I want a hamburger.”

I told her, “You should’ve thought of that before we left Tina’s. It’s 1 AM. No hamburger for you.”

I sounded like I was channeling the Soup Nazi (from Seinfeld), but somehow the Hamburglar from McDonald’s took over.

The next time, she got louder…

“I WANT A HAMBURGER.”

Joe finally said, “We’ll get you one when we get near home.”

Did she remember that?

 Absolutely not.

Every fifteen minutes or so: “I want a hamburger.”

We all stopped responding after a while. It was survival at that point.

When we finally got off the parkway, Joe pulled into a McDonald’s drive‑thru. And my sister-  the same woman who had been chanting “hamburger” like it was a religious ritual,  looked around and said:

“Why are we at McDonald’s?”

We said, because you wanted a hamburger! She quickly responded- No I don’t, I want to go home!

Seriously?

Anyway – Let’s fast‑forward to another time when she visited me. (we were only about a 15 minute drive from each other, but she took a car service because we planned to have wine. We had a great night, a lot of laughs (as we always do), but when she left, she miss-stepped, and fell down my front stoop, landed in a puddle, scraped her elbow, and came back upstairs looking like she had been mugged by gravity.

I canceled the car service and called her husband to come get her. The next day he told me that on their way home, as he turned onto their block, she yelled at him:

“Why did you take me to Queens?!”

Were they in Queens?

Absolutely not.

Not even close.

The Takeaway:

Some nights you break a tree, wear half a lawn in your hair, deny someone a hamburger, and still get accused of being in Queens.

And sometimes the real fiasco isn’t the fall, the puddle, or the drive‑thru - it’s trying to reason with someone who’s three drinks past logic.

ALCOHOL METEOR READING

Category                Score                     Notes

Tree Damage                     8/10           Sapling never stood a chance.

Drunk Swaying                 9/10           Synchronized falling at its finest.

Hamburger Panic          11/10          She wanted it with her whole soul.

Regional Confusion     12/10          Bensonhurst magically became Queens.

Overall Fiasco Level       9/10          Classic chaos with bonus landscaping

THE MIX‑UP

You know how adults are supposed to be responsible?

Well, I tried. I really did.

Back in April, Roger and I went for our eye exams. We both wear progressives - distance, up close, the whole “I need to see life in HD” package. The eye doctor’s staff told us that the lenses alone would cost $700 (that was for just one of us)! Then they tried to sell us frames that cost more than a used Honda, so we grabbed our prescriptions and high-tailed out of there, like two fugitives escaping a luxury heist. We figured when we had time, we would go to Walmart. It came recommended from a friend that gets her contact lenses there.

Fast‑forward through April’s busy schedule chaos, May’s chaos, June’s vacation and my fall (basically, our general theme of 2026) … “We’ll get to it eventually”. 

And we did, late but we did it. We finally picked up our new glasses. Tested them on some reading material,  tiny print and all. Everything was crisp and clear. In the end Walmart saved us almost two grand compared to what we would have spent  (and have spent in the past) at our Eye doctor’s office.

We felt like champions.

Then… about a month later…

I started noticing things looked blurry.

Not “I need to clean the lenses” blurry.

Not “I’m tired” blurry.

More like “Did my eyeballs file for early retirement?” blurry.

I’d try to read fine print and suddenly I could barely see it. I’m thinking, great. My eyes have changed again ALREADY? Perfect. Love that for me. As usual though, I kept meaning to call the eye doctor, but life kept happening. And honestly, I was dreading hearing, “Yes, your eyes changed dramatically in 30 days, please hand over another $400.” Well, I’m glad now that I didn’t get a chance to call because…

Today… TODAY…

I discovered the truth.

I wasn’t going blind.

I wasn’t aging at warp speed.

I wasn’t experiencing sudden ocular betrayal.

No.

I was wearing my OLD GLASSES from last year!

Apparently, at some point during my daily “swap to prescription sunglasses” routine, I grabbed the wrong pair, didn’t realize and kept wearing them.

For WEEKS.

It was the glasses.

The WRONG glasses.

The glasses from 2025.

I’ve been out here living life in last year’s vision like it was a vintage filter.

The Takeaway

Sometimes life doesn’t blur because your eyes changed — it blurs because you accidentally downgraded yourself to last year’s prescription. Before assuming your eyeballs have entered early retirement, check to make sure you’re wearing the right glasses!

Meteor Reading: The Mix‑Up

Category   Score Funny Notes Eye Confusion    8/10        Everything looked like a soft‑focus soap opera for a month. Internal Scream    9/10       WHY ARE MY EYES FAILING ME AGAIN? They weren’t. Adulting Failure   10/10       Accidentally wearing old glasses is peak “I tried.” Hindsight   11/10       Turns out the problem wasn’t my vision - it was my mix-up

 

 

The Curfew Chronicles

I wasn’t a good teenager. Then again, what teenager is perfect? They all come with their own master mind and illusions. For part of my teenage years, we lived above a delicatessen on 5th Avenue and 83rd Street in Brooklyn, NY. I thought I was grown enough and therefore exempt from curfews. My mother disagreed.

Of course she did.

I stayed out past curfew constantly, got grounded every time, and yet, still held onto the fantasy that one day my mother would throw her hands up and say, “just do what you want - because you’re going to anyway!”

She did not.

On Fridays and Saturdays, my curfew was 11 p.m. Weeknights were even earlier. And on one particular night? I came home at 2 a.m.

I figured I could sneak in undetected like a Ninja. I crept up the hallway stairs of our building like a burglar who had studied the architectural blueprints – double stepping and skipping those few, loud creaky steps, sometimes holding my breath like that would somehow help.

At the apartment door, I slid the key in at the speed of a garden snail. Turned it even slower and opened the door to step inside. The apartment was dark. I closed the door silently, locked it, and turned right toward the dining room. (Immediate right was the dining room doorway, and another immediate right led to the three bedrooms), my brother’s, my mother & stepfathers, and mine was the last one.

As I was saying… I went to turn into the dining room… and apparently my mother had taken our coffee table and barricaded the doorway of the dining room with it!

Believe me when I tell you: I flipped over that coffee table like I was Jackie Chan in a scene from Police Story! I did a full tumble and roll, then crash‑landed into the dining room chairs. They banged together loudly, like an uneven washing machine cycle.

I’m lying on the floor, trying to figure out what dimension I’ve fallen into, when the dining room light snaps on and my mother yells:

“Ah‑HA! I KNEW you wouldn’t make curfew!”

Naturally, I got grounded… Again.

But wait – There’s more! My faithful readers know there’s always more...

Our apartment had two doors leading to our building hallway. Guess where the second one was?

My room!

Time to develop a new plan!

I decided I’d outsmart my mother. Before going out on weekends, I’d quietly remove the chain from my bedroom door, then unlock it, close my bedroom door and leave through the main apartment door like I was a normal teenager heading out to be with friends. Mom would give her usual warning:

“Be home by 11. If you blow curfew, you’re grounded for two weeks instead of one this time!”

I’d roll my eyes and say, “Ugh, whatever. I can’t wait until I’m 18.”

Knowing full well, I apparently had a fool-proof plan that was sure to work.

It did not.

There I was, on a Saturday night, blowing curfew like always. Once again I was stomping on my mother’s last nerve, like I was putting out a fire. I snuck up the stairs, skipped the noisy steps like a delinquent acrobat, I slipped into my bedroom, closed the door silently, turned around…

And my mother was sitting on my bed.

Of course she was!

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice the chain off that door? Did you think you could fool ME?”

Two weeks later, I was released from house arrest by my mother, the warden. With only a couple months until my 18th birthday, I decided it was in my best interest to follow her curfew law and become an abiding teenage citizen. For the next 8 weeks I treated my release as though I was on probation and managed to ride it out.

When I turned 18, I proudly announced, “I know you’ll be disappointed, but now that I’m legally an adult, you can’t tell me when I have to be home anymore.”

She stared directly into my soul as if she was burning a hole through it with heat vision, like superman. Then she smiled. It wasn’t her usual ‘I’m happy for you" kind of smile. It was confusing and scary. 

Then she said something I never thought I'd hear... she said: “You’re right.”

I inquisitively asked, “I am??” 

“I mean - YES, I AM!” I declared, boldly.

She continued, “You ARE an adult now. You can do what you want, as long as it’s legal. And legally? You just became my tenant, unless you want to move out. Adults work and pay rent. Rent will be $100 a month for room and board. You might want to hit the pavement tomorrow and get a job fast, because the first of the month is just two weeks away!”

I remember thinking, That’s cold, Ma. Happy Birthday to me, huh?

Obviously, she was moving into a different phase of motherhood- the one where parents begin to teach adulting lessons instead of kid lessons and as adults we have to do adult things and if we don’t, we pay the for it with repercussions far worse than being grounded.

She did give me a nice birthday present that day though- a real one! A Walkman (if you are old enough, you will remember those) and if you are too young- go ask an adult what that is! Mom also baked me a birthday cake, and the family sang to me, like always. Mom was Sturn when she had to be to shape us into responsible grownups, standing on our own feet, but she was also very loving and caring.

Looking back, she taught me a lot of life lessons. And with age and those lessons came wisdom… which gave me a one‑up on my own kids when I was raising them. Whenever I caught them doing something they shouldn’t, I’d say, “There isn’t much you can pull over on me; I pretty much did it all.”

Apparently, I didn’t “Do it all”

My kids tested the waters and made their mistakes, just as I did, growing up. Obviously, any product of “ME,” had to turn out somewhat like me, right?

And honestly? I can only respect that.

 

Eau de Car Show

It was a Sunday - the sacred day of rest for normal people, and the sacred day of Cars & Coffee breakfast for me & my husband, Roger. It’s always the first Sunday of every month, which means I automatically wake up on this particular Sunday knowing two things:

1.      I will be surrounded by men who think horsepower is a personality trait. 

2.      I will need caffeine to get me going.

After breakfast, we planned to visit a very old classic car museum - the kind of place that smells like dust, engine oil, and unresolved family disputes. The museum is owned by an eccentric man who opens it only once a year, for five hours, like some sort of automotive groundhog. If he sees his shadow, maybe you get to see a Model T.

On the way home from breakfast, I told Roger we needed to stop at the house so I could use the bathroom. I had just drunk 2 cups of coffee and a full glass of water at the restaurant, and we were about to embark on a 50+ minute drive to this museum. I wasn’t about to risk guessing whether the museum had a bathroom or just a decorative outhouse from 1912.

When we got home, I realized I hadn’t taken my blood pressure meds. So I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, popped the meds, took a quick sip, and rushed off to the bathroom, so we could get going. I was basically in “we only have a few hours before the museum closes” mode - the same urgency people have when they’re trying to catch a flight, except mine was for antique cars.

On the way out of our house, I tossed the water bottle into my bag because I always carry spring water with me.

We had a lovely time at the museum, even though it was raining. The outdoor classic car show didn’t interest us because it was not only raining, but we see those types of cars all the time (and we each own one ourselves). Plus, Roger runs a classic car show.

 But very early 1900’s cars? The Bonnie‑and‑Clyde‑might‑have‑sat‑here type? That’s rare!

On the way home, I reached into my bag, grabbed the water, and took a big swig. And immediately regretted it. The water tasted like perfume!

Not a “hint of floral.”

Not “lightly scented.”

No.

It tasted like someone had steeped gardenias in a bathtub and bottled it.

I said, “EW. This tastes like perfume!” and then I smelled it. It reeked. Roger smelled it too and made the same face he makes when someone suggests buying a Prius.

My first thought: One of my travel perfumes must’ve leaked in my bag. Except… it didn’t smell like any perfume I own. I don’t do floral perfumes. I don’t like to smell like a garden.

So, I sniffed inside my bag.

Nothing.

No perfume.

No leak.

Just the scent of leather from my bag. Now I’m confused. Where did this eau de Fiasco come from?

I told Roger, “I don’t think it tasted like this earlier when I took my meds. But I was rushing, and took a tiny sip, so maybe I didn’t notice?” I’d dump it when we got home.

 When we got back, I poured it out, tossed the bottle, and thought that was the end of something unexplainable. Except I couldn’t get passed it. I kept thinking about this mystery, because the scent was so strong, I think it had permanently perfumed my soul. I was a little upset because I thought I might get sick from drinking it.

So, I turned to AI to help me figure this out, because with something like this, I could either call Coco, a doctor or consult a robot. And Coco would’ve told me I was dying! 

 After explaining to AI briefly what happened, I asked: Am I going to get sick? Can I die from drinking the tainted water? AI basically said (And I'm paraphrasing) ... “Calm down, drama queen,” but in a polite robot way. It said I wouldn’t get sick from two swigs and would’ve already shown symptoms. So, I was relieved. Then AI gave me several possibilities of how this could have happened, but the one that made the most sense was contamination during storage or transport. Maybe it sat next to scented detergent that leaked in a hot warehouse. Maybe something else leaked. Maybe the plastic absorbed the scent. 

Maybe the universe hates me.

Then I wondered which case of water in my garage was tainted. I looked in the fridge but had two different brands of spring water in there. Not helpful. I went back to the garbage can, retrieved the empty bottle I threw out earlier, and checked the label.

First clue- It was purified water. I NEVER buy purified water. I only buy spring water. This was a foreign object that came from my fridge. I was confused. I went into the living room and told Roger, and suddenly he had an epiphany - the kind where eyes widen and look like he just solved a murder.

“I KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED!” he said with enthusiasm.

Me: “How??”

He explained that the day before when he went to a car show with his friend, they handed out goody bags to those that brought classic cars there. Inside the bag was:

·         A bottle of water

·         Random trinkets

·         And… A car air freshener meant to go under your seat. It was not wrapped.

Roger left the bag in the car on a hot summer day. With the air freshener marinating with the bottle, in the heat like a potpourri crockpot. Then he came home and put the water in our fridge…

Hot car + plastic bottle + car air freshener = Eau de Car Show Water

 A fragrance nobody should infuse with anything ingestible. I don't blame him though, he didn't know. Hell, I didn't even know this could happen.

Sometimes I swear Fiasco's like this.... only happen to me.

 

THE TAIL END

Many moons ago, back when I lived in NJ, my kitchen had one of those double‑door pantry setups built into the cabinetry. The drawers slid out, and at the very top of the double doors was that cabinet - you know the one - the “over‑the‑refrigerator height” cabinet that no human being has ever used on purpose. The cabinet reserved for things like holiday platters used once a year, or junk we no longer use but couldn’t bring ourselves to throw it out.

THAT type of cabinet!

However, I used it as the place I hid sugary treats from my kids, so they wouldn’t run around like little caffeinated monsters.

One night, after the kids were asleep and the house was finally quiet, I was sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine. That’s when I heard it - a noise coming from the pantry. A suspicious, rustling sound like, “someone is trying to move in without paying rent” noise.

Wintertime. Pantry. Noise.

I knew exactly what that meant.

A mouse was trying to claim squatter’s rights!

I opened every drawer like a detective searching for evidence. But I found nothing. No droppings, no crumbs, no tiny mouse graffiti. Zilch! Then I remembered the top cabinet - the snack vault.

I dragged out the step stool, opened the cabinet, and saw something scurry to the back.

Aha!

A mouse. I was right!

A pantry‑raiding, cookie‑nibbling, sugar‑seeking mouse.

Sure enough, the cookie bag had been chewed open like it was the mouse’s personal subscription box. I threw the cookies out, removed everything else, but saved one cookie in a sandwich bag to use as bait later. If I was going to catch this mouse the next day, I was going to do it with dignity and dessert.

The next morning, I bought a humane trap - the kind with a little door that closes behind the mouse so you can release it back into the wild to live its tiny mouse life in another part of town. That evening after dinner, I broke off a piece of cookie, placed it inside, and waited.

The kids were in bed, so it was quiet again… Conditions were perfect for the mouses smorgasbord! I sat quietly, then I heard it- 

CLUNK!

That trap door closed like a pub at 2 am.

AH‑HA! GOT YOU!

It was snowing outside, so I left the mouse in the trap overnight. It had air holes and a cookie snack, so I don’t think the mouse minded too much- it was like it was in a hotel with room service.

The next day, I asked my oldest son (16) to take the trap down the block to the woods and release the mouse. He returned with the empty trap like a hero.

I reset it again the next night.

Nothing.

Checked again in the morning.

Nothing.

Checked every day for a week.

Nothing. So, I assumed the mouse was a lone ranger, and I stopped checking after that.

Weeks later when I came down to make coffee… a smell. A horrible odor. I tracked it to the pantry. Checked every drawer. Nothing rotten in it. Then it hit me:

THE TRAP!

Oh no... Ohhhhhh no!

 I climbed up, opened the cabinet, and there it was - with the door closed and the odor prominent. The mouse died in tiny mouse jail. My stomach turned. That poor thing had died because I stopped checking and forgot I set it.

I felt awful. It had its last meal and that was it. I took the trap to the bathroom, turned it upside down over the toilet…Nothing came out. I shook it. Still, nothing dropped out.

 Back to the kitchen. Thinking…

Trying to figure out how to remove a deceased mouse without turning my home into a biohazard zone. I didn’t want to throw it in the kitchen garbage because the smell would be biblical by morning. And if I tossed it in the outside can, raccoons or a bear would smell it and start rummaging for their midnight buffet. So, it definitely had to be flushed! I decided to pull it out by the tail to flush it.

Quick pull, clean flush, done, right?

I reached in, grabbed the tail… And the tail came off!!!

Just the tail.

In my hand!

I screamed! Dropped the trap, it hit the floor and the rotting mouse dislodged! My kids came running...

“What happened Mommy?”

I couldn’t speak. I just pointed down. My daughter: “EWWWW IT’S DEAD!”

My youngest son: “WHERE’S ITS TAIL?”

My oldest boy: “Gross.”

 And there I stood, holding the tail like it was some kind of deranged trophy. Then my oldest (bless this child), he ran and grabbed paper towels, picked up the whole mess, took the tail from me, bagged everything, and brought it outside.

At that point, I didn’t care if a bear tore open the garbage can and decorated my lawn with trash. Let the wildlife have at it. I was DONE.

I never put food in that top cabinet again. However, upon further inspection, I found a small crack where the back of the cabinet met the wall - the mouse’s secret entrance. I sealed it up with caulk like I was patching a submarine hull.

And that was -

The tail end!

 

 

MY FIASCO TRIP: The Travel Edition

What began as a simple trip to another State to see my son - mutated into a seven‑day obstacle course of disasters so relentless that even the universe screamed:

 “SERIOUSLY??”

And the worst part?

We didn’t see ANY of it coming. Not one red flag. Not one warning sign. Not even a fortune cookie whispering, “Girl… stay home.”

It All Started the Night Before Our Trip on June 10th:

My husband, Roger, is brushing his teeth like a normal person, and suddenly his tooth cap decides it’s had enough and resigns. Just pops off. No two‑week notice. No courtesy email.

Just “I’m out.”

He holds it up like Simba on Pride Rock to show me, and says, “I’ll bring it with us and we’ll find a dentist when we get there.”

Me: Sure, babe. We can add dental scavenger hunt to the itinerary, no problem.

The Airport- Where No Logic Lives:

I cannot say what airport or State this occurred in, because there's a lawsuit involved. 

After they x-rayed and rummaged through our luggage like we were known smugglers or something, we finally get to the gate and sit down. Suddenly there’s an announcement by a staff member at the gates desk about having to check one carry- on because there isn’t enough room in the overhead on the plane. I found out much later it’s called a “forced luggage check” which I had never heard of in my entire life.

 Apparently, it's like they're telling us:

 “You CAN have two carry-ons and a personal item, but also … no you can’t.”

 They tag our suitcases, hand us stubs with a number, and stated we can collect the suitcases as soon as we deplane. They loaded the luggage in a lower compartment on the plane. They herd us to our seats, that were close to the back of the plane.

 We land 30 minutes early, which I foolishly interpret as a good sign.

 Cute. I was adorable back then.

 The Jetway- The Scene of the Crime:

We let everyone exit first so we can grab our overhead stuff without elbowing strangers or making them wait for us. We exit the plane door. I’m walking through the jetway, holding my pocketbook in front of me so I don’t whack people with it as I walk by them,  because the people before us were lined up in the jetway waiting to get their luggage,  and then…

FACE PLANT!

There was an uneven incline that was unmarked, unannounced, un‑everything, and I fall down like the crash of 1929.

 My right-hand lands on top of my pocketbook and bends backwards with the right side of my body on top of it. My left hand hits the floor hard. To add insult to injury, I slide forward upon landing. My elbow hits the floor, and I skid along the carpeting like I’m auditioning for the airport Olympics.

People gasp.

Someone yells out- “Is she OK?”

Roger whimpers behind me “oh babe…” in the saddest little voice. He’s carrying both our backpacks and his C-pap machine, and I’m on the floor face down in front of him, with people behind him and to the right of us in a line waiting for luggage and there's only a wall to the left. There’s no place to set anything down- he physically cannot help me up. Jetways just aren’t that wide.

And the line of people next to me? Not one person moved.

No one offered a hand to help me up. I could’ve been a clown juggling meatballs and they wouldn’t have blinked twice.

Finally, one very elderly woman breaks formation, walks over, and says:

“Dear, I can’t help you up, but there’s a railing above you on the wall. If you can reach it, I think you can try to pull yourself up that way.”

Ma’am.

My guardian angel.

Thank You.

I grab the railing like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic and I slowly haul myself upright.

My upper lip is throbbing. My elbow hurts and burns. My left wrist is screaming.

My dignity is somewhere back on the carpet being stepped on by useless people.

 The Manager and The Airport Medic:

Roger sits me down outside the jetway at the gate and reports the fall to a staff member at the desk. A manager arrives and asks me what happened. I tell him the story. Airport medics are called.

 A “medic” shows up, stands about five feet away from me with his hands on his hips like he’s posing for a magazine cover for GQ, and asks: “What happened?”

I tell the whole story again. He says: “Well, we’re limited on what we can do. Do you want to go to the hospital?”

I’m thinking: Sir… You didn’t look at my elbow. You didn’t examine my wrists. You didn’t offer so much as a Band‑Aid.

I don’t think you even know how to add 2 + 2.

At this point, a Witch from 1558 would’ve provided more medical care.

After I thought a moment, I opted to go to urgent care myself. My thought process was that although I was hurt... I didn’t think it was badly enough for an ambulance ride to a hospital. Insurance won’t cover it either, if I’m not admitted- So, I figured save that ER space for someone that is way more injured or ill. I could wiggle my fingers, so I didn’t think anything was broken. We just had to go get our rental car first. Then locate an urgent care facility to find out what was going on.

The Rental Car Olympics:

We walk through the airport to the tune of what feels like 19 miles to the rental car counter.  

Roger is now carrying both backpacks, a C‑PAP machine, my pocketbook, and wheeling his suitcase. He was packed up like the Beverly Hillbilly’s heading to their new mansion. I’m just wheeling my suitcase with the lesser of the three evils of injuries.

 We finally get to the car rental area, and the line is very long. My left wrist is now throbbing. My right-hand hurts, and my elbow is very sore. I guess the shock and adrenaline from the fall was wearing off at that point- because everything began to become evident. Roger sits me down in a nearby chair and plops all the luggage by me.…About 25 minutes later, he comes back, loads himself up with everything again and we begin to walk again. Then after looking at one of those "you are here" signs, We discover that the garage is back on the other side of the airport. So another 19 mile walk that now feels like 37 miles! Did no one ever look at the building plans in the very beginning and say- maybe we should put the car rental area near the garage?

 Apparently not.

We get to the garage and find the spot: L 21. But the car is not there!

 Of course it isn’t.

 There isn’t an attendant in sight either. Why would there be?

Roger hikes all the way back, while I stand in a 97‑degree garage with no benches to sit on, no mercy, and a bladder screaming for justice. I couldn’t even look for a bathroom, because I had ALL the luggage. Both my hands are yelling at me, throbbing and the elbow is already turning 50 shades of blue. 

 Eventually Roger comes back, we got a nicer car (small win), they upgraded us for the trouble we had and we head to the hotel.

 The Hotel:

We check in and get to our room.

I dash to the bathroom. The bathroom is gorgeous.

I come out- I check out the bed and it's a comfy king size. Nice.

The room is… small, but we can manage small. Then Roger says, “There’s no dresser or closet. Just those 6 pegs on the wall and this long bench.”

6 Pegs.

On a wall.

For two people staying an entire week?

 But fine, I need urgent care and I begin my search on my phone. I find one with great reviews and bonus: it’s only 7 minutes away.

 Urgent Care #1- The X‑Ray:  

I tell the girl at the check in what happened. Eventually they call me in. The nurse comes in, asks what happened. I tell the story AGAIN. She looked surprised about the airport medics not doing anything. She cleans and bandages my elbow and leaves.

The doctor comes in: “What happened?” I repeat the story yet again. Her eyes bulged regarding my fall and the airport medic story.

 They x‑ray my left wrist.

The technician asks what happened! I tell her the story too. That’s like the 6^th time… I’m beginning to see a pattern.

 The doctor returns and says: “You have a fracture in your wrist.”

Then she adds: “We don’t have the supplies to cast it.”

 I stare at her like she just told me they ran out of oxygen. I can’t figure out why they have x-ray capabilities, if they can’t do anything regarding results like this? She gives me a carpal tunnel brace, a copy of the CD of my x-rays and another Urgent Care nearby that CAN cast it. But…

She said we can only go between 5:30 pm and 7 pm, because that’s when the orthopedics are there.

 What is that- a wrist casting happy hour???

 It was already past 7 pm. I told Roger, I have the brace to semi-immobilize it until we go there tomorrow. 

Finally got to see my son around 8 pm-ish.

Lawyer Visit- The CD:

We went to see a lawyer in the State we were visiting, since the fall occurred there, to see if we have a case regarding the fall at the airport. We get there and they sit us in their conference room and of course the lawyer asks what happened!

I tell the story AGAIN (#7 - yep, definitely a pattern).

 They open the CD and view the images. They try to download it, but if the CD could speak it would  say: “You can look but can’t touch.”

They try to copy it and save it. It’s basically a digital hostage situation. It can only be viewed! Thankfully the urgent care gave me the written report too, that confirms the fracture. So, they made a copy of that to proceed.

 We leave with the useless CD in hand, like it’s a cursed artifact. I said to Roger- We can go back to urgent care tomorrow for a different copy without the protection on it.

Urgent Care #2- The Weird Stuff:

We arrive on Friday, within that 5:30 – 7 pm window. Naturally the woman at the desk asks and…

 I tell the story AGAIN (this is getting on my last nerve/)

 The woman says: “We don’t do that during these hours, you have to come back during normal business hours.”

HUH??

Then a security guard sitting next to her, who apparently moonlights as a medical consultant chimes in: “They won’t cast you for three days anyway because of swelling.”

 Sir. Why are you even involved?

 They tell me to come back Monday, because they are closed all weekend. 

Of course they are.

Monday- The Breaking Point:

This time I walk in like I own the place. I’m thinking “We got this now”.

New woman at the desk. She asked why I’m there. I tell the story AGAIN, this time with the added part about what I was told by their staff member on Friday (is this #9?) At this point - just put me out to pasture.

She says: “I don’t know why she told you that on Friday. Do you have an appointment?”

 EXCUSE ME? FOR URGENT CARE??

 She says:  “I can try to get you in this week.” And starts fiddling in her computer.

 Wait- WHAT??

 She asks: “Do you have your insurance card?” I hand it to her… More computer fiddling. Then she says: “Your insurance requires a referral.”

 I said: "But this is URGENT CARE" 

She said not during these hours!

 Wait- What just happened?

 I said: "What do I do now? I was injured Thursday; this is now Monday and i still haven't been casted! She replies: “You can go to the Hospitals ER across the street!”

 If I could have climbed over that desk, I’d have been arrested.

The ER - Where Normal People Work:

In the beginning, I was trying to avoid a long wait for an ER visit, but at this point all I want is to get off this merry-go-round! I register at the desk. They asked what happened. (I swear... I can’t.) 

I gave them the Evelyn Wood speedy version.

 Surprise- No waiting. They took me in the back to the triage room immediately! A nurse took my vital signs and asks what happened! I said, "Listen, this is like the 11^th time I’ve had to tell the story since June 11th, and it is now the 15th. Isn’t this written down somewhere? Because I swear, I just told them out front!"

The nurse laughed.

He put me in an ER room. I thought OK, this.... THIS is where the wait will be.

Nope.

They bring the x‑ray machine to me right away! Technicians x-ray me (again) because they said they had to use their own images. sure. if you say so. This time both wrists were x-rayed. The doctor comes in a little while later- The right wrist is badly sprained; but they splint and soft‑cast my left wrist because it was indeed fractured.

 I almost cried from the shock of the actual competence I just experienced. But I was too busy kicking myself, because it was in THAT moment I realized I should have gone to the ER from the get-go. I thought I was doing the right thing on June 11th… saving a place in the ER for someone that was bleeding profusely or seriously sick. But noooooooo - I had to go to urgent care instead.

Lesson learned.

Back to Urgent Care #1 - A New CD:

 I explained and got a new CD that they claimed could now be downloaded and copied.

 Lawyer Visit #2:

We go back to the lawyer to give them the new CD.

 Guess What?

 This one doesn’t download or copy either. The Lawyer said it was fine- they can just use the written report. I throw my good arm up in the air –

"Good, it’s settled then" …and we walk out.

 My Own Orthopedic Back Home:

My orthopedic asks what happened. I thought I was going to scream, but I tell the ENTIRE story from the airport fall to the two urgent cares - all the way through to the last lawyer visit!

Every little detail... Everything. He was shocked.

He examines me based on my current symptoms and orders an MRI.

Surprise!

Turns out I actually have two fractures (not one), plus bad bone bruising, fluid buildup, swelling that’s compressing on the nerves. And at this point it was 15 days after my fall. Who knows if it was worse before and healed some within those two weeks, or if it got worse due to improper immobilization for 4 days? I’ll leave that thought with my lawyer!

And now I have a new appreciation for staying home! But wait, there’s more…

Of course there’s more! this is ME we are talking about- there's always more!

I called my insurance company to find out if that 2^nd urgent care actually ran my insurance that day. 

 Guess what?

They never ran my insurance at all (the first did, the hospital did) but not that one that gave me the run-a-round!  AND my insurance told me they do NOT require a referral for anything! So, the insurance company opened a case file (once I told them what happened and that I had a lawyer for my fall). Soon as I learned they didn’t even run my insurance, I decided to go into that urgent care website- 

Right in their own words, in black and white on their site it states: “No referrals required! Same day care.... orthopedics on hand.” Yadda-yadda-yadda…

So, that urgent care staff member lied right to my face, and she must have pretended to be typing in her computer the entire time! I screenshot it and then emailed it right to my lawyer! We shall see what transpires.

 This entire Fiasco is now officially the longest Forks & Fiascos story I have ever had to tell. It wasn’t fun when it happened, It delayed my being able to type for 6 weeks. but my writing style made it a bit humorous, didn't it? I am out of the splint, in a brace and have an appointment to begin physical therapy. Wish me luck, because I need it.

 

Pollinate Like a Doula

Last year was my very first attempt at planting a small herb garden — plus a couple of tomatoes and peppers (bell peppers and jalapeños) because apparently, I thought I was suddenly capable of running a miniature farm. I bought this four‑foot‑long, two‑foot‑wide wooden raised garden bed for the herbs and peppers, feeling very “look at me, I’m a gardener now.” The tomatoes got their own pots because I bought them already established and about a foot tall, and I didn’t want to be responsible for killing something that had clearly worked so hard to get that far without me.

Naturally, I placed the garden bed and pots inside my screened‑in porch on the back deck — because in my mind, the outside world was full of bugs, birds, squirrels, raccoons, and possibly tomato‑loving woodland creatures waiting to snatch my produce like it was a Black Friday sale. The herbs were thriving, and a few weeks later, little flowers started popping up on the tomatoes and peppers. I sat out there kvelling over them, sipping a glass of wine like I was admiring my firstborn children.

As I sat there, basking in my newfound plant‑mom glory, it hit me. OH NO. I put these tomatoes and peppers in the screened‑in porch… and now bees can’t pollinate them. I panicked. I thought, “Great. Now I have to move them outside and risk them being eaten alive by the entire cast of Bambi.”

But then — as I sipped my wine — I got a brainstorm. I ran inside, grabbed a tiny little paintbrush (the kind you’d find in a paint‑by‑numbers kit), and I lightly touched the inside of each flower. I went from one to the next like a busy little bee (pun absolutely intended), pollinating them myself. And honestly? I was proud. I got a lot of cherry tomatoes that year, one regular tomato, one small bell pepper, and one small jalapeño (but I planted those too late). Still, I was thrilled because clearly my idea worked.

Last year was my test garden, because I do not exactly have the greenest thumb. Every time I saw more flowers, I repeated the paintbrush routine. And I was happy to do it — I had results!

While I was talking on the phone to Coco — my book collaborator and blog partner — I mentioned that when I get back from vacation on June 18th, I’ll plant everything the same way and do the paintbrush trick again. Coco paused and said, “Paintbrush trick?”

So I told her the entire story. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to pass out. When she finally calmed down, she said:

“Michele… tomatoes and peppers are self‑pollinating.”

As in… they do it themselves. As in… they don’t need bees. They don’t need butterflies. They don’t need my tiny paintbrush. They don’t even really need me. Except water. They do need water. So there’s that.

I went silent. Who knew? I didn’t. I was so quiet she had to ask if I was still there. I finally said:

“Yeah, I’m here. It’s just that this conversation suddenly turned into one of those moments where you realize you’ve been doing WAY too much for something that apparently never needed my help in the first place, ya know?!”

I mean, there I was all summer, meticulously pollinating my own tomatoes and peppers like a dedicated plant midwife. Gently touching each little flower like I was performing IVF and praying for results.

When I tell you, my dear readers, that I was seriously committed to this paintbrush thing every morning…

With a tiny paintbrush. Carefully. Proudly.

Then Coco says, “Oh stop, you’re not an idiot — it’s not like you grew up in the country farming! You lived in Brooklyn, New York.”

All they needed was a little vibration…

A breeze. A bump. A squirrel with an attitude problem.

But they certainly didn’t need me acting like a porch‑side fertility specialist, swirling my brush around like Bob Ross painting happy little trees. There I was, silently questioning every gardening decision I’ve ever made… which clearly wasn’t many.

So if you need me, I’ll be over here letting my plants handle their own business while I retire from my short‑lived career as a tomato and pepper doula.

 

Planter Rick

I know someone who, whenever they got drunk, did something so absurdly weird yet so unintentionally hilarious that you couldn’t even be mad. I won’t say who, so let’s call this person Rick.

Back when I lived in Brooklyn, a group of us would go out to the bars every weekend. And Rick? Rick was that friend. The one who laughed so hard he folded in half like a busted beach chair. The one who did random nonsense out of nowhere, like his brain had a “Surprise Me” button.

Living in Brooklyn, we walked everywhere unless it was more than half a mile away. So one night, after the bars closed at 4 AM (yes, FOUR — Brooklyn nightlife is built different), Rick decided to do something none of us saw coming.

Picture Bay Ridge: rows of private homes, each with a few steps leading up to a cement porch, and on top of those steps? Cement flowerpots. Heavy. Filled with dirt. Filled with plants. Filled with responsibility.

Rick took one.

Not like “picked it up to admire it.” No.

He stole the entire planter like he was auditioning for Ocean’s Eleven: The Gardening Edition.

The next morning, he woke up to find it sitting on the rug in front of his TV like a decorative hostage. He scratched his head, confused, because he didn’t remember taking it.

We told him:

“Rick… you took it home with you. Laughing the entire way. You were giggling like a cartoon villain.” He didn’t believe us, but he shrugged and said he was keeping it.

And then… It became a hobby.

Over the next few weeks, Rick collected planters like Pokémon. He had at least five. Five cement porch planters sitting in his living room like a botanical crime museum.

He watered them (sometimes), but they weren’t getting enough light on the floor of his apartment, so the plants slowly died like they were in witness protection. 

Then one day, Rick woke up and decided he was going to return them.

At 2 AM. Because of course.

He loaded them into his car like he was transporting illegal produce and drove back to the block he always walked down. One by one, he placed planters on porches that didn’t have any. He didn’t know if they were the right houses. He didn’t know if the planters matched. He didn’t know if he was restoring order or creating horticultural chaos.

He was basically the Reverse Porch Bandit.

When he finished, he started laughing hysterically — the silent, doubled‑over, no‑air-coming-out kind of laugh that makes you think someone needs medical attention.

We asked what was so funny, and he (through his laughter) said:

“Can you imagine waking up every day and your planters keep disappearing… and then one day you walk outside and they’re BACK? Like the universe said; my bad?”

We all lost it. Rick’s laughter was contagious - the kind that made you laugh even if you didn’t know what the joke was. And that was the saga of Planter Rick, the only man I’ve ever known who accidentally ran a one‑man planter redistribution program across Bay Ridge.