Author: singlebusymommy

I know I’m going to get worked up writing this, but I have to get it out of my system. I saw this clip recently on Tik Tok showing a woman described as having ADHD as she goes about her day doing housework, bouncing from task to task. Like, entering the dreaded laundry room, pet bowls in-hand fresh from the dishwasher, only to find wet clothes needing to go into the dryer and dry clothes (in the dryer) that need to go into a basket, folded, and put away (laundry is a cycle of hell), and eh, the water dishes are empty and there is a piece of cat cigar on the floor. Water bowl? Dang. When did I change that last? No wonder they are slurping from the toilet.

Is this you? It is most certainly me. And I take offense to the ADHD remark, as this is the only way to get everything done. And still go to bed with clothes hanging out of drawers and cat toss on the landing.

This is how busy they have made us. This is how we live our lives if you still have kids at home, pets, work, and do a dozen other things like cook, distill water, grow tomatoes from seed, take out the trash, download photos from the phone, pay bills, walk dog, change password, put out the trash (when you realize you forgot and hear the collector coming down the alley) … and the beat goes on.

You see, all of these things are compounded by technology that ultimately lied to us and lured us in with “make you more efficient” and “save you time” nonsense, BS propaganda. Technology has made us 10 times busier and it continues to diminish our quality of life. This is what we spend our waking hours doing. Figuring all these apps out, why can’t I just buy the ticket there with cash?

Think about how much time you spend dealing with apps, software issues due to continuous upgrades that make you do something tried/true/and easy another way, or trying to get someone on the phone, learning new apps for everything, with their un-intuitive names that have no connection to what they do. No, no, no, not “sticky,” rather pointlessly desperate to be unique in the most annoying way possible. You shouldn’t have to be told that this “Chicksliide” (with two “i’s”) app is a way to do calendaring. What is the connection? Why call it something that’s not only random and unrelated to what it does, but not even clever, just a blend of works and extra letters for the sake of being um, what, you call this unique? I call it annoying.  

Yep this, how we live our lives 2022. Learning what Chicksliide is and how it has to do with keeping your calendar.   

Can I please toss everything, as I run as fast as I can to the ocean, dropping apps, clothing articles, cell phones, devices, headphones, and not look back… ever, splashing into the surf, where the water is warm and supportive, intuitive, and reasonable. Who’s with me?

Today, I cancelled some health coverage again (I switched) and yet, although I had already thought I had done this, the charge appeared—again—on my credit card. I called, then was placed on hold, then bad connection, then lost connection. I called again. This time the recording said something or other about the call cannot go through and to call again later. What? Really? I tried again. Same. I waited, called again, and then, just got that repetitive zzz zzz zzz. I am not talking about sleep, come on, you know that sound that means: your eff’d.

So, I called another number, this time I got a human being—remember those? A live person answered the phone. What? “Is this a real person,” I said? “Yes,” he said. Okay, I had a live one, so I explained my situation and he went on to say how I had “not” actually cancelled my coverage. I said I called and cancelled last month and he said, I canceled just one part, but the other part was another company and I need to call that WTF company. WTF?

He mumbled the name, so I said, “Can you tell me that again?” and he did. I took notes like a Mad Men 60tys shorthand secretary on speed. I asked him again (I got smart and said, “you broke up there, can you repeat that?” and he did.) I think, had I asked again, (not saying he “broke up”), the line might have gone to zzz zzz zzz … Hello? HELLO? Hell Ohhhhhh?

I told him again (for the record and to let him know I was on to his freakin’ schtick) that I had cancelled and, “Oh, what went wrong?,” I said. “I was charged again even though I had cancelled!”

He said (again), you didn’t call the other company and this time, when he said it, his words lit the fuse of my rocket, shuttle, whatever the eff you want to call it, and I was one second from lift off, on the way to the moon (as the first human there, you go figure that one out).

But I kept my cool. Had I exploded into spray of expletives and rocket fuel that sent a lot of saliva into the phone, I figured, I’d piss him off get charged again next month.

So, guess what I did?

I said, “Okay, thank you, Bye Bye,” and then I slammed the phone down like I wanted to break it into a zillion plastic shards (phones have a lot of resilience) and, I . . .knew I would get worked up writing this.

—Sketch

At our most desperate state, we become physically vulnerable. As the body responds to mental and emotion strain, we may find ourselves with a stomach in knots, a headache, lack of an appetite (never a bad thing), and possibly a less than ideal night’s sleep due to a wandering mind contemplating the many unpleasant “what ifs” that are always more dire at night. 

But how does one explain (what turned out to be scalding hot) soup that in a split pea moment fell from your hands and tipped over, pouring all over the inside of the car as you sat in the driver’s seat (the “pandemic” table for one), burning your leg and causing blisters on your left middle finger (a Freudian choice of digits). How is it that, on that same day at dinner time, Weasles the cat bites your right hand as you tried to push him away from the other cat to avoid a fight between the two snarling brothers? The following day, food poisoning hits and your stomach in knots joins ranks with a gut in knots. What did I eat? The soup spilled, remember? 

Two wounded hands, obstructing my ability to easily type or write, suddenly the left side of head starts throbbing all of the sudden, a migraine headache, I later learn. I had to WebMD it, because I hardly ever have headaches and couldn’t explain the sudden weirdo pressure in my head. All I could come up with was brain cancer. Alas no, this time the internet calmed me down and told me to turn off the lights, lay down, since what I was experiencing was a migraine headache. Day two of the headache, I learned my credit card was stolen: $19.99, $19.99, $19.99, $19.99 … unknown charges. 

There are times when everything in your life comes down to one string. If pulled, it unravels everything about your reality you knew and nothing will be the same once unstrung. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but when it is put upon you—not of your own doing—and someone, not you, is holding the end of that string, it is disconcerting to the point of stomach knots and spilled soup and unknown Apple $19.99 charges. Again, this is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes someone else simply has to pull the string because you can’t, for one reason or another, including that you do not even realize that the string needs to be pulled. 

You may not know it, but maybe you have gone as far as you can go with this ball of string and it simply needs to unravel to set you free.

Be brave.

—Sketch

I am often told I have the best cats. Sweet, interesting, jump on your lap and stare into your face kinds of cats. While I may not be doing anything on purpose to make them this way, maybe, inadvertently, come to think of it, I do a few things that produce these affectionate cats that run to the door when you get home and look deeply into your eyes at the dinner table like a date. 

Here’s what I do with all my cats (except for the one in the house I can’t touch because she is mental, a feral Japanese Bobtail that has never gotten over her fear of humans, but don’t give up on ferals, they are not all this way):

First, always talk to them like they are humans. Come up with unique expressions, tones, and names for them and use them often. Constantly give them new nicknames. Use these all the time. 

Make sure they mind their manners. If they don’t, they get time out just like a kid. Put them in a separate space (like the bathroom or laundry room), tell them to think about their behavior and shut the door. Several minutes later as you open the door and ask them if they are going to behave they will do one of two things: push through your legs to get out as quickly as possible or they will saunter out slowly, ignoring you the entire time. Don’t worry, they got the message, you’ve successfully redirected. But you have to be consistent about this: sassy + mean behavior = doing time in the bathroom. It’s that simple. 

And expect them to behave. None of this naughty biting and chasing the other cats under the couch business. No, no, no. That is going to result in: scared cat peeing on couch cushion. Or hiding in the closet. Use a firm “No” and look him squarely in the eye. He knows you mean business. (A side note about cat pee and the question of how to get rid of the smell. If they pee on anything in your house, immediately burn your house down and rebuild—works every time.)

Don’t shock them when they are sleeping ever. If they are so cute in their little cozy bed all curled up that you can’t stand it, pet them gently (but not too much; cats seem to like it if you give them a little tiny pet and then leave. Don’t linger. I think this builds trust when they are in the vulnerable state of sleeping). 

Play with them and chase them, most every cat wants to play with you, at least when they are young. And at any time pick them up—regardless of their mood—and kiss their face a bunch of times in a row. Do this all the time and I promise you they will be following you all over the house, sleeping on your bed. Fighting with each other for your attention. 

Sometimes, when they are on chair, or looking at you, gently stroke them once, just for a second. One little scratch behind the ear or on top of the head kind of thing. You’re letting them know that you know they are there and you are not crazy. Well, maybe you are.

Sometimes pick them up and then very gently set them back down like they’re a fragile little lily whose petal is going to easily tear or bruise. Believe me, setting them down gently . . . seriously, who does that with a critter that has nine lives and is known for landing on all fours no matter what? Sometimes you just have to give them the opportunity to not have to engage their James Bond-like tool set. You know every cat has the same basket of survival goodies at their disposal. Hence the nine lives.

Let them sleep where they want. No rules. No “no cat zones.” But I hear you. If you want a room or sofa cordoned off, just do it in a way your more-intelligent-than-you-most-likely cat doesn’t notice. Be consistent about it. Remember the main objective here is not having to burn your house down to get rid of the cat pee smell. 

And throw cat beds around the house like candy. They’ll use them. Make sure they complement their fur color, it’s great for photo opps and their self esteem. 

And when you go to the vet, be there, never leave their side. Ever. Insist.  

After a while you will have a cat (or cats) who grab hold of your hand after you finished petting them on the bed and purr into your neck. 

It’s that easy.

—Sketch

Let me tell you something about your friends. You hardly have any. I don’t care how long you’ve been friends or how long you have known each other, this so-called friend of yours could be described as a “temporary acquaintance.” They will hang around you as long as life is sunny and easy, but the second the weather turns, maybe even just uncomfortable and sweaty temperatures, everything could change and send your so-called friend packing, in spite of efforts made to mend the situation. Oddly, these rescue attempts often seem to only dig the hole deeper, making harder and harder to climb out and reach common ground.

You see, they can’t take it, these types of friends. And more importantly? They don’t want to take it. Once they discover you are (and here’s the kicker) not the way they want you to be, when it is no longer easy, fun, and entertaining for them—or whatever it is they like about you (just fill in the blank, honey)—they are out. Poof, gone, yep.  

I have a friend—not even a close friend—but a buddy, I’d say, Otto. I can argue with him like a husband. We yell at each other, argue, disagree, call each other idiots, with expletives flying around the room like rockets, but they never hit land and blow anything up. Otto, you see, is a true friend and an extremely rare find. We don’t have to agree and we both know it. We see things very differently at times. Yet we have a bond that is unbreakable and enjoyable regardless of how much we may not see eye to eye. We don’t talk about many things, in fact he doesn’t know a lot about me, frankly. Bits and pieces about each others lives unintentionally spill during conversations about politics and what kind of couch to get for the house and maybe just one remark, he’ll say, lets me know more about who he is, but the thing is I don’t really have to. The wind blows between us, far and wide. We have separate lives and we are out of touch at times for months. But when we reconnect, we are back where we were instantly.  

Temporary acquaintances, on the other hand—not Otto—are another breed entirely and although you and he (or she) may not realize it, with this type of friend the other shoe is eventually going to drop and then that’s it. Your done and the relationship fizzles, and these people will disappear from your life faster than you could imagine.  

You may have known a temporary acquaintance friend all of your life, gone to college with him or her. They may know all of your family and old boyfriend/girlfriend stuff, your issues—whatever you got—and you know all their crap. You may have years of memories and laughs between you and still they may drop you like a used candy wrapper the second you disagree with something they feel strongly about. They may stop to talking to you because you changed your political party leanings, see a situation differently than they do, or made a post on social media about your views. Then they ice you. They don’t come around any more. No more dinners, no more texts. They tell themselves, “We’ve grown apart.” No . . . no, that is not what is happening here.  

You didn’t “grow apart”. One of you grew and evolved with new ideas and perspectives to share and the other person wants you right back where you were. Nice and cozy in the controlled friendship in front of the fire with a hot chocolate. You see, these types of friends don’t really like you for who you are in the first place, I know, it’s shocking to hear that, right? Instead, they want you to fit in their life the way they want. As soon as you outgrew that space, like a cardboard puzzle piece that gets wet and swells and no longer fits like it used to in the puzzle, your friend is done. They only want a piece of you. Not the rest. They will be your friend as long as you agree with them and as long as you behave. That is the unwritten contract you have unknowingly signed. Get a lawyer, get out of the contract, let them go, and move on.  

Otto, on the other hand will call you crazy, stupid, may scream at you for your changing world views or dumb maneuvers, but he will still be your friend and pick you up, God damn it, what the hell were you thinking, when you have a flat tire after you just asked him what the light “on” in the car dash meant and he told you needed air in your tires. You will get yelled at when he arrives to pick you up and have to listen to him rant for a bit, but he might suggest you both get a martini on the way home, of course, you’re paying.

A disagreement with Otto doesn’t define your bond, it doesn’t soak through and ruin everything, it is just a: you see it this way, and I see it that way kind of thing and who cares. You’re a dumbass for not getting air in your tire and I told you so. 

Let the temporary acquaintance friends go. Invest in the Otto-bond. With friends like him you don’t have to do a thing. You have an unwritten contract between you that has very few stipulations except that for whatever happens, he will always your friend even though he may think you are an effing idiot at times.   

—Sketch

Dining out is over. I’ve have had my last dining experience during this nonsense of supposed “safe eating.” Going above and beyond to keep patrons and workers safe has reached an unsafe and toxic level. Forcing me to sit outside on a parking lot in a folding chair where it is cold and at times gusty, eliminating menus causing everyone to use their phone to view the menu, and watching people hanging their soiled mask under their chin with their ears serving as a laundry line while eating is $%^&* disgusting. Who wants to look at that while eating.  

Worse are those who leave their mask on while waiting for food or even worse (can it get really get worse?), pulling the mask down to take a bite and then putting it back into place. Yep, have seen that. Seriously? If the mask is “catching” all the viruses as you go about your day, wouldn’t you want that bastard clear away from your mouth while eating? Maybe in another county? Please acknowledge this paranoid behavior that is serving no purpose and actually placing you in harm’s way. 

Today as I sat in my last restaurant experience restaurant, I watched the bus service that consisted of spraying down a table top with I’m sure pink toxic chemicals after the guests left. Then he used the same towel to wipe down chairs and the salt and pepper shakers. Where is the logic in that situation? Spreading the supposed germs everywhere and on food containers the next guy sprinkles on his food?    

If one is so concerned about the dangers of dining out amongst others who are presumed to be germ carriers and spreaders—even though they have no symptoms (and keep the rampant asymptomatic spread concerns to yourself; are you really buying that logic filled to the brim with fear?)—please just stay home dude. Make your own meal. Eat it there. Wear your mask and be paranoid. Leave me out of it. Why are you in a restaurant at all? Think about that, long and hard.  

Did I say I am done? Yep, I am done until this obsessive paranoia that has collided with Stockholm syndrome dissipates.

 —Sketch

You know you are doing the right thing for Henry, but it still feels like you should not be the one to decide and the second you do, a weight descends on your chest almost like you can’t breathe. You look at your boy, who was a wandering feral kitten 14 years ago that you rescued, running out of your house throughout the night barely dressed to catch him as he meowed in a screeching panicky way until at last you were successful a little after 4 a.m. He bit you as you quickly grabbed him sitting—finally—in full view under the streetlight, shivering down there looking at you, scared, but willing to take a chance at anything else.

You fed him, bathed him, took him to the vet. You convinced your spouse to accept the fact that the cat is staying and his name is Henry, a name that came to you instantly, like you were struck by a shooting star.

It took him growing up from five weeks old—more or less, you were guessing—to stop hiding in the box springs mattress through a hole he clawed his way through when guests came over, to be brave enough to come out and say hello. This went on until a complete sense of safety and trust took him over and then he became the peacemaker and friend to all. He jumped on the table when you were typing, walked across the keyboard and you shooed him away. He slept by your feet as you worked, he stole your flip flops (just one) sending you all over the house looking for the missing one the next morning. He loved sleeping on anything you had worn. He loved sleeping on your pillows and right next to you.

He never hissed, he never scratched. It was not his nature. You always felt he was a bit of a lost boy who never really knew how he ended up where he did. You knew nothing about him except that he was abandoned on the street, alone, and was too tiny to care for himself. He needed lessons he never got. He never learned to climb a fence and so you never worried he’d climb up and wander out of the courtyard if you let him out. Instead he would find a comfy place, snuggle and fall asleep. Then wait at the door to come back in. He did not like doors that closed behind him, ever.

You figured all of the shots prescribed by the vet weren’t necessary for your boy who didn’t fight, didn’t threatened, and didn’t go looking for mischief. So you said no to them all. You bathed him weekly during the summer months when fleas were abundant, you crushed pumpkin seeds that you added to his food to get rid of parasites when the litter box beckoned.

He was your best buddy and needed nothing but to be near you.

And now, you stand above him on the silver table, having to make the decision you know you have to make that will take him out of his suffering because there is nothing more you can do but release him from this pain and fear he is feeling. It is the heaviest moment to decide to end a life. And then when it is about to happen, you insist you will not leave his side. It is the hardest experience but one you could not possibly not do. You had to be there for him so he knew you were there. You whispered things only he would find comforting, his nickname, the things you would always say to him, you’d tell him you love him and that you will see him again. And still, you feel like you are making the call you wish he could do for himself, but you know he can’t.

Afterward, it is quieter in your house and his absence is so present. You miss him, you feel the confusion of it all of how it is that you can spend his entire lifetime taking care of him, making sure he had everything he needed, along with the last need that is the hardest to fulfill and seems to contradict everything else you did to keep him healthy and safe.

This process will never get easier. So long for now, Mancini, never don’t forget me.

 —Sketch

There is no better cup of coffee you’ll make at home than with a percolator. Yes, that old school method your grandmother used and served with those other outdated items: coffee cake, sugar cubes, and the clear plastic table cloth (with the fabric underneath) and napkin holder, makes a cup of coffee you’ll be looking forward to every morning. Trust me, every other home coffee maker pale in comparison. The perc’ is the champ. Let me fill you in as to why.

The percolator spends time with the grounds, they bubble, they brew, that hang, they heat, they text, and the end result is a perfectly hot brewed cup of coffee. Then you add heavy whipping cream. Divine. And when you go back for another cup? Yep, hot and delicious like the first cup you poured because the percolator is plugged in and keeping that coffee second (and third cup) hot for you.  

But don’t let me tell you, you decide. Here are the coffee maker losers (I can’t really rate these because they are all about the same … except for “bum” coffee my father taught me how to make (at the end, a silver medal winner to the percolated cup).

French press

First if all, the damn press is hard to press down, let’s get that out of the way right now. And then, only the first cup of coffee is hot. The rest you have to reheat, come on, no, no. No! It sounds sophisticated but the French press, unless you are going to serve it all after “the press” not good unless you’re okay with warm coffee and constantly having to reheat your next cup.

Standard counter top coffee maker—who cares what the brand is

This commoner has evolved from producing average coffee to getting larger overall, and taking up more space on your countertop yet still producing the same average cup of coffee. You’d think after all of these years the taste would improve, but sadly no. Further who wants all of that hot water flowing through black plastic and into your cup?  Sorry Mr. Coffee.

Italian coffee stove-top Moka pot

While this one is a staple of Italian culture and I agree it makes a good pot of coffee, again, the second it is off the stove the coffee starts to cool. And these are typically made of aluminum and aluminum + food I eat or drink, not good. Have to pass to pass on this one. Arrivederci, honey.

Espresso maker

The sheer complicated process with this method, there’s just no way I’m doing that first thing in the morning. And the counter space it takes up? This is for people who want to impress their friends. Go to Italy and get your café there, leave this espresso maker nonsense at the store. I’m not impressed.

Nespresso Coffee or Keurig coffee maker wasteful plastic landfill fillers, bastards!

First of all, I can’t get past the sheer plastic waste of this process. Until they can do this in a way that doesn’t make a laughing stock of the environment and piss on it at the same time, I’m not even going there. Who cares if the coffee is good when you are not even considering the impact on the environment. Go away little needless plastic pods of convenience.   

Bum coffee

Now, this is the method you need to know about. It makes the best coffee (right up there with my percolator) and all you need are coffee grounds, a saucepan, and water. My father from New York showed me how to make this simple and straightforward way from his days performing in the circus. Just add your cold water to saucepan, add grounds, bring to boil, simmer with cover, and serve. You will be surprised how good this rudimentary method works in making a great cup of coffee. Just don’t forget it is on the stove or it will bubble over and the grounds will get all over the stove and down into places you can’t reach.

Have I left anything out?

Oh, right, the coffee filter thing over a cup, pour the water in and hope. I haven’t tried this myself but it doesn’t sound like a good idea, though I could be wrong.

—Sketch

It was meant to be a get-away, a nice drive down the coast, a way to leave worries and the requirement to wear a piece of cloth over one’s mouth and nose behind. I thought the beach-goers of Santa Barbara would be chill on the mask wearing nonsense, which has, due to I can only presume a paranoid general public, evolved into wearing a mask at all times regardless of whether or not one is maintaining the required six feet clearance from others, which is a suspicious amount of space if you ask me.

The official “guidance”—which is not a law on the books anywhere—is that it is “advised” to protect others around you by wearing a face mask when one is outdoors and cannot maintain a distance of six feet from others. That’s it. The mask is there to catch your sneezes, spray when you cough or speak, or sing opera in public. I cannot recall ever being sneezed on by a stranger. However, in some warped interpretation that has no merit or, to be anally retentive “safe,” people believe that masks protect the wearer keeping virus particles out. This is an incorrect interpretation of what wearing a mask is for, but how else can you explain individuals driving in a car, alone, wearing a mask, when there is no one in the car to sneeze on.

My complaint for essentially muzzling myself up for extended periods of time is that among other things, it forces me to re-breathe my CO2 that my body is designed to exhale, it’s like re-breathing the smoke you just exhaled from a cigarette. Further, it hides my expression, it hides others’ expressions, but the sheer stupidity of requiring healthy people to walk around wearing a mask is my greatest frustration. When I see cloth masks bearing sports teams names, designer labels, and rhinestones, I want to go home and disconnect from humanity. I simply don’t belong here.

But I was wrong. Santa Barbara was full throttle into the hysteria and illusion of being “safe.” I was not only forced to wear a mask, in some stores I was required to wear plastic gloves, too, upon entry, and in one case I was chased down an aisle when I had said, with a smile to the glove-giving store person, “No thank you” (a smile she could not see since as it was hidden by my handkerchief “mask” —the only mask I will wear). 

The pressure to wear the gloves hit a nerve and since I was alone I challenged her. I do not need gloves I told her though she argued that they were required. I told her she was harassing me. She whipped out her cell phone to call the manager. “Call,” I said, nonchalantly.

Of course I could have left, but I needed what I was buying and there wasn’t another store around and who’s to say I would not have experienced the same irrational reasoning at another store. I grabbed the gloves like a raging bitch. I finished shopping, bought my items, and ripped off the gloves as I left making sure they missed the garbage can for “used gloves.” I imagine they used gloves and maybe a ten-foot pole to pick up my used gloves. 

I am unpopular and I could not care less. I would rather be talked about when I leave the room than conform to that which I do not believe or trust.

Which brings me to the pool. We were in instructed by the hotel to wear a mask while sitting around the pool in lounge chairs regardless if you were next to someone or not. Again, instruction that is completely devoid of common sense. We arrived and the cheerfully short perky woman handing out towels with a pixie cut was rolling up and stacking blue and white striped towels into nice pyramids like an Olympic athlete, sanitizing her hands constantly. The fool.

We dropped our things on a couple of lounge chairs and immediately jumped into the pool when emerging from the water I coughed. Since one can’t be sick with anything but this coronavirus, the mask-wearing pool-side loungers immediately turned their attention to me, maskless in the pool, with a cough. They whispered to each other. When a couple strode in after getting towels from Perky, I was afraid they’d take the chairs next to ours. I told J I’d get rid of them and I let out another cough. As I suspected, they passed our towels and went down a few more chairs, settled in, and when I coughed again, they whispered and decided to leave (though they left their cooler behind so I figured they’d return).

Then someone else grabbed a chair a couple down from mine. This classic in shape dude in swimming trunks dropped off his towel and baseball cap and then walked away to sit at another chair on the other side of the pool. As he was walking to the chair J had a brief sneezing attack, which sent us into hysterics laughing alone in the pool. I presumed Other Chair Guy was waiting for us to leave but clearly a dip in the pool at this point in his world was probably way out of the question.  

This is isolation insanity.

To ensure the trip was a total disaster, I lost my wallet, cancelled all of my credit cards, and then discovered a good Samaritan had contacted me via Instagram (still don’t know how to get messages in this highly censored social media platform). We ran over to meet her, got the wallet and I was greatly relieved.

The cherry on top that would soon slide down the whip cream and onto the pavement was that we were not able to get my Santa Barbara famous McConnell’s Turkish Coffee ice cream since they, the bastards, did not accept cash. They were afraid my “cash” could have “the virus” on it, and, well, so much for the crazy ass beach scene at Santa Barbara.

Can’t wait to not go back.

—Sketch

I pack a lunch for the little one with a quesadilla that I had to summons every inch of my will power not to eat as I was making it. The dripping cheese is almost unbearable torture. How could something be so good. But I am strong. I remove it from the iron skillet, cut it up, and pack it in a container for her lunch that day.

Still thinking about it, I go upstairs and get dressed as I try not to think about the cheese, seeping out, as it heads to my mouth. . . . oil drop on my shirt on the way. Who cares.

But instead it goes into the lunch.

And then, get this: it comes back at the end of the day uneaten. Untouched, the cheese now fully married to the tortilla and hardened.

It is painful to see this and my jaw dropped. I pull it out of the container and sit there, vacillating between cheating on my diet to lose these ornery extra pounds that are ruining my life vs. being in a moment of full cheese quesadilla satisfaction, even if it is not melty like before, I’ll take it.

Pain. Reasoning with myself that tomorrow I will start, again, but I know tomorrow never comes.

No.

I toss it into the trash and walk out of the kitchen completely dissatisfied.

—Sketch

Dining out is getting on my nerves. As a patron, it is now very clear that I compete with DoorDash, Grubhub, Uber eats, and every other “to go” order and I wince to think this trend is only going to increase resulting in delay for you, for me, sitting at a table or waiting at a counter. They get theirs before you. What is this nonsense? I am here, I am paying, I am tipping, I am hungry, and yet I have to wait for these meals to be prepared and set on a shelf awaiting pick up—and I haven’t even ordered yet?

And it’s getting worse. At a counter they tell you “Just a moment,” or “I’ll be right with you,” as they start quickly reading orders spit out from the small printer and nervously packing cartons. I am standing there watching. Hungry. People behind me are on their phones seeming not to care or if they do, they are lost in their phone. No one on my side.

What’s the workaround here? Should I get everything to go now? What, and then eat in the car so I don’t have get frustrated waiting for these orders to be fulfilled before mine?

Life is becoming so “convenient” things end up taking longer, are at someone else’s expense, or are just the pain in the arse. Change your password lately? Upper, lower case, special characters, numbers, 10 to 12 characters to deter hackers. I can’t remember any of them anymore which means I can’t bank on my phone without figuring out a way to remember or store my esoteric passwords. So there, convenience replaced by needless complexity.

I guess someone is benefiting and don’t get me wrong, I want the restaurants to succeed, but must I be factored into the process?

Eh. Whatever. I guess I gotta get used to it.

—Sketch