I don’t pay attention to the news anymore unless I click on something by accident. Even then, I ninja-swipe like a wasp hovering near my face, because—much like the mail—nothing good ever comes from it. It’s either a bill, bad news, or a letter from a Jehovah’s Witness begging me to please reconsider my eternal salvation.
But every once in a while, a word or phrase hooks me.
I clicked on something random in my “for you” page—the place where my phone thinks it has me figured out. The headline said: “Museum Going Out of Business. Life-Sized Dinosaurs for Sale.”
Now, I’m not a dinosaur person. I don’t remember ever Googling anything close to that. And yet suddenly this felt personal. Why would this be recommended to me? How much does a life-sized dinosaur even cost? Are we talking movie quality or a sad six-foot foam thing?
The descriptions had me wheezing. One said the dinos offered “movement for realistic entertainment and child petting.” The listings were on Facebook Marketplace, right next to someone selling a stained sofa described as “pet-free” and their particle-board bookshelf labeled “probably real wood.”
And once I started reading, I couldn’t stop. Then a photo of a massive T-rex appeared. Not six feet. Thirty-nine feet of pure ridiculousness. Price: under three grand. Fine print: buyer responsible for shipping.
That sent me down a whole trail of questions: How does someone move a 39-foot T-rex under bridges? Where do you park it? Who makes a collar that size so I can put a giant dog tag on him labeled “Burt Reynolds”?
Naturally, after processing the idea for a solid thirty seconds, I called my best friend.
“How big is your husband’s flatbed,” I asked, “and how willing would you be to talk him into a drive to New Jersey?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why? Do you need to bury somebody?”
“Not exactly. I need to convince Rob that buying a 39-foot T-rex is a great idea.”
She snorted. “Why would you want one?”
“How badly do you want to help me make the neighbors and the Amazon delivery driver lose their minds?”
“That is hilarious.”
“Think about it,” I said. “We could put a fence around him, give him a giant tennis ball, and add one of those church signs that says, ‘I identify as a German Shepherd.’ For Halloween, we could add fake blood and drape ourselves over his tiny arms. Christmas? Giant Santa hat. Easter? Big dinosaur eggs. The possibilities are endless.”
“Did Rob say yes?”
“I haven’t called him yet.”
“I’m in,” she said immediately.
A few minutes later my son wandered in to find me on my bed, giggling like I’d lost it, scrolling Etsy for vintage Christmas lights and over-sized pastel-dyed eggs.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked.
“How would you like a T-rex for a brother?”
“WHAT!?”
So I explained the entire saga, and he was instantly on board.
“We have to convince Dad,” he said. “This is epic.”
So the two of us approached Rob together.
“WHY would you want that?” he asked. “And what would you even do with it during the day?”
“I’d raise my teacup and say, ‘Good morning, Burt.’”
“And how would we even get it home?”
“Obviously, Tasha would help.”
“We are not getting a 39-foot T-rex.”
Our joy died right there.
Then—one month later—the same listing popped up on his feed. He called me sounding thrilled.
“Hey! You’ll probably say no, but I want a life-sized dinosaur.”
My son and I stared at the phone with rage in our souls.
“Burt already sold,” I said.
“Mom literally asked you for that a month ago,” my son added. “She wanted the 39-footer.”
“I don’t remember that,” Rob said. “Anyway, I want the flying one.”
“You’re right,” I told him. “We’re not buying it.”
Rob left for work at six. I woke up with a migraine roaring between my temples and brain fog thick enough to swim through. Getting out of bed felt impossible. So I didn’t. Not right away. I started with my one-small-step rule.
Before tea can be earned, the mug has to be clean. Before that—the dishwasher needs loading.
—
Round 1: One Small Step, One Clean Kingdom
I loaded the dishwasher just to clear a spot for my cup, and before I knew it, the whole kitchen counter had been cleared too. With a quick wipe down, I was staring at the abyss of pots in the sink, realizing it would be easier not to look at them anymore—and to have a spot for my dirty teacup when I finished drinking my morning tea. So, the pots were scrubbed, and since the kitchen was basically clean, I swept the floor to polish it off. But then I needed a quiet place to sit, which led to a clean living room—all because of one lonely mug. Sometimes, momentum smells like steeping lavender London fog.
—
Round 2: Pee-to-Power Cleaning Routine
I felt that familiar nudge to pee and thought, not yet. Instead, I cleaned the bathroom like I was racing my own bladder. Counters—sparkling. Toilet—gleaming. Trash—gone. When I finally sat down, I did so in a sanctuary of my own making. Strategy. Timing. Dignity, with a splash of Clorox.
—
With the house now oddly presentable, I finally sat with my tea and coaxed Nikolai into movement. That’s when Rob came home before our appointment for a “quick nap,” which usually meant I had time to spare—not a lot, but enough.
His alarm went off, and he mumbled something about two more minutes. He thought he still had the lead on the morning.
He didn’t.
—
Two-Minute Blitz
I showered. Shaved my legs like a ninja. Deodorant. Real clothes. Product through my red hair like I had all the time in the world. (I didn’t, but I acted like it.)
Bag—snatched. Laptop—grabbed. Hair clip—locked and loaded.
By the time Rob stumbled toward the door, dazed and struggling to put on his second shoe, I was already sliding into the car. Cool. Calm. Composed.
In the car, I brushed my teeth, styled my hair, and did my makeup in the mirror like a woman who’d slept through the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty—instead of a five-minute mama power snooze.
—
Boss-Mode Toolkit: How I Pull This Off
None of it’s luck. It’s systems disguised as chaos.
Spare hair clip lives on my purse handle like a faithful sidekick.
Toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste hide in my makeup bag.
I don’t lug a glam case—just the essentials: foundation, blush, lipstick, mascara.
Dollar-Tree hand-wipe pouches are worth their weight in gold—yogurt spill, sticky kid fingers, all handled.
Add a travel facial-cleanser pouch too. It tucks in like it was meant to be there.
And always keep a folding hairbrush in your purse. You don’t want to meet somebody looking like you just chased your ass and lost a war with an electric fence.
—
When we pulled into the parking lot, I looked like I’d had an hour to get ready. Rob looked like he was still wondering what century it was.
That’s farm-mom magic. That’s brain-fog who? energy. That’s I may not have slept, but I drink my power like some people drink energy drinks—with a teacup in my hand.
I didn’t just leave the house—I wrangled disaster into order like a gardener who rips the weeds out of her dahlia bed.
In the early hours before dawn, I stumbled to the sofa in my pink bathrobe—my eyes squinting under fluorescent lights as I yawned and stretched in my pajamas and green fuzzy socks. I listened for the microwave to ping, signaling that my water had boiled—just in time to drop in a fresh bag of tea to wake up my brain.
I snatched my phone to scroll the news—a habit of selecting uplifting articles I might enjoy.
That’s when I came across a botanical mystery I’d never heard of—unusual and completely enchanting.
I gasped—just as Nikolai walked in with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a missing shoe on the loose. His forever-curious mind couldn’t help but plop down beside me, a hand strangling a dangling sock, to see what I was staring at. There on my screen was a picture of a rare thing more lovely than many of the flowers we had grown over the years.
While planning this year’s growing season, I couldn’t help imagining what next year might hold. After three years of waiting, the Everglass House would be finished. I’d finally be able to garden through the winter.
Being a lover of the unusual, I pictured a garden gate tangled with poisonous blooms—demanding respect and distance from the garden while increasing my knowledge of the strange. A farm full of furry faces and a boy to protect put that idea on a shelf.
So instead, I dreamed up a moon garden—just for me. With flowers that only opened at night when the frustrations of insomnia would strike. As a night owl at heart anyway, I enjoy the sounds of the widows and whippoorwills. It’s often hard to sleep in new places (like vacation hotel rooms) that don’t have an opera of tree frogs or the throaty rhythm and twang of Southern leopard frogs adding to the ambiance. When I’m not home, I’m thinking up ways to bottle them up.
The music of the night and the magic of unusual flora embracing the glow of moonlight kissing petals, in my mind, was a recipe of things imagined coming to life—because why not?
What’s more romantic than tiptoeing through starlit grass, hoping you don’t step on a copperhead, just to admire blooms no one else would even notice—much less adore?
So when that strange apparition appeared on my screen, desire bloomed right alongside it—wild, irrational, and entirely out of reach.
As Nikolai and I went down the rabbit hole of facts, it quickly became clear—finding one without falling for a scam was like digging for gold in a silver mine.
I tucked my disappointment into my pocket, saved the screenshot like a secret, and walked out into the drizzle with Nikolai, dodging mud puddles in the thick morning air. We dashed through a downpour over to Natasha’s house to wait for the bus. Niki—the walking encyclopedia—started spilling facts about the phantom we encountered from the moment we shook the water clinging to our clothing.
“They have to see it, Mom!” I smiled at his need to share—and sure enough, their eyes were wide with disbelief, just as mine had been.
“You need that plant, LaShelle,” said my habit-enabling bestie—the same woman who loads up her car with mystery greens and tells my husband she has no idea how those plants ended up at my house. Thank goodness for her and my other bestie, who basically deals in perennials like it’s contraband and I’m the willing addict. I’d be nowhere close to the garden of my dreams without them.
“I mean… it’s a cactus. I don’t do cacti. Or succulents (moss rose excluded). They’re like the introverts of the plant world, and I’m not a fan of the desert.”
Natasha narrowed her eyes. “LaShelle. It. Has. All the things you love. You literally collect them like trophies. Don’t even pretend.”
“Yeah, I know… but it’s not like I can make a centerpiece out of it.” I gave a helpless shrug. She rolled her eyes, and we moved on. I mentally tucked the specter away where it belonged.
A few months later found us in Arizona, juggling a family visit while Rob was off on his annual motorcycle trip. Nikolai and I were fitting it all in—sun, relatives, and a whirlwind schedule while shaking off jet lag—when I stumbled into the vibrant chaos of a desert farmers market, wild vivid color, dust, and distraction.
A birthday extravaganza for my mom, my brother, his fiancée, and my wonderful husband—all in the same month—left me snagging homemade non-GMO bagels for everyone and balancing motherhood.
I bobbed and weaved past vendors peddling chaos, handing out the universal phrase for “no thanks”: “Maybe later!” I zeroed in on the coffee and tea stand like it was a safe house—matcha never questions my choices, and lavender never asks about family reunions.
Rob was most likely still tearing down some canyon road like a cowboy in a helmet. He was supposed to meet up, but I was sure he wouldn’t make it.
I wasn’t there for the trinkets—but I had every intention of adopting a few. Not because I needed them, but because retail therapy speaks fluent serotonin. And unlike actual therapy, it doesn’t ask hard questions or bring up my childhood.
Then I saw it—a quaint little plant stand filled with things I hadn’t seen before. And one stopped me in my tracks.
A bizarre cactus—the very kind I said I didn’t want—with a white flower blooming at the top. As far as trinkets go, the living ones trump the rest.
“Umm, excuse me, sir? How much is this?” I attempted to ask the guy behind the counter.
A tall brunette was doing her best to melt the pavement—long legs, dramatic flat-ironed hair tosses, chic sunglasses perched across her nose. The kind of laugh that comes rehearsed—while the plant seller’s wife looked like she was counting to ten in three languages.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I rolled my eyes so hard someone probably heard them hit the back of my skull. Still, I wasn’t giving up—because like a kid holding their pee too long, I had to go… to the car with the thing I told my best friend I didn’t want.
The plant seller’s wife stepped in to tell me she had no idea what it was, but she mentioned the cost. I told her I’d think about it—not because it was unreasonable, but because I was tired of waiting for answers to questions I wasn’t going to get. As I turned to leave—bam—that vision hit me. The one I saw on that rainy morning before Nikolai left for school…
“Do you happen to have this bizarre plant I’m looking for? You probably have no idea what I’m talking about, but if I leave without asking and find out you did… I’ll never forgive myself.”
She looked caught off guard, and I figured I was correct. She had no clue.
Clutching my wallet, juggling bags, and hanging onto matcha for dear life, I turned again to walk away—until the keeper of the plant tables finally spoke to stop me.
“What did you ask for?” His eyes lit up, voice suddenly curious—as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “That’s my favorite plant of all time. It constantly gets overlooked because people have no idea what it can become.”
I could relate.
“I actually do have one. I rarely bring them to market because nobody buys them, but… I brought one with me today. Just in case.”
I nearly gasped. Swooned. Needed a defibrillator. I called Rob right away—he had miraculously pulled over and answered. I didn’t cry, but I may have proposed all over again right there in the middle of a dusty parking lot with cactus fever in my voice. “If you love me,” I said, “you’ll buy me this weird and wonderful plant, and I’ll never ask for anything else ever again—until next week.”
Meanwhile, my brother and his fiancée were staring at me like I’d lost my mind. His sweet fiancée nodded enthusiastically—probably trying to understand my sanity.
Hands trembling, I whipped out my debit card, swiped—and in the blink of a flirty brunette, the floral drug deal was done. No need to call the DEA—I was high on chlorophyll.
We finished shopping while I rode a cloud—floating over oceans of giddy elation.
I wrapped my arms around her to skate through the market aisles, surrounded by floods of colorful items I no longer gave a crap about. The bite of spicy peppers and fresh-cut onions lingering from street-side taco trucks wafted behind as I neared the car. I shielded her sacred limbs with my umbrella fingers—terrified someone might bump me and snap her limb. Those nubs were the precious jewels in the Queen’s crown.
And then my mother spotted me and laughed. “That’s what you bought? Fifty dollars?”
I refused to let her rain on my excitement. “Absolutely,” I said proudly. “And she’ll need her own seat in the car.”
I nodded like I was punctuating a sentence. Thankfully, Niki was once again spewing facts about this incredible marvel people underestimate and look at with concern. I tucked her into a throne of my possessions, and we set off from one destination to the next—until we finally made our way to meet my wonderful husband.
I was beaming endlessly, like the sun does in the Mojave Desert—still trying to call Rob to prepare him for her arrival. Our car pulled into the parking lot of a run-down fast food joint—its neon sign half-lit, half-dead, and falling off-kilter. Rob’s motorcycle looked well-weathered, with a rogue tumbleweed clinging beneath the wheel well. Parked side-by-side with the bike his best friend John rides, battered with raindrops.
I held my breath, squared my shoulders, and walked with purpose.
Smiling as I entered and slid into a broken plastic orange seat next to my husband, I bit my cheek nervously as I began to explain myself.
“Hey babe! I missed you! Listen… about that plant you let me buy—yep, the fifty-dollar one. Um… I need to warn you before you actually meet her, okay? A little pre-introduction, if you will.”
His eyes were already suspicious. His hair a mess from the helmet and exhaustion clearly etched.
“What did you do?”
“I bought it like you said I could! Rob approved, I even asked first, so you can’t be mad at me,” I said with a tilt in my voice.
Now he’s really concerned.
“I don’t think I want to see it,” he said.
I could tell he was nervous—and I laughed hesitantly. That plant was traveling first-class—from the Arizona desert to the humid jungles of North Georgia—and he had no idea what he was in for.
“Look… she’s different, okay? It’s not about what she looks like—it’s about what she’ll become.”
Just… come meet her, but understand I warned you first. Smiling, I led the three of us—plus my mom—toward the vehicle, doing my best to keep the giggles at bay. I led them to where I’d put her. Holding her out in my hands, as an offering of my delight, I said, “Rob, meet the Queen.” And then I saw it—the horror. The color draining from his face.
“You spent fifty dollars on a stick?!” he cried, exasperated.
And honestly… I get it. Kinda.
“She’s not a stick!” I fired back protectively. “She’s the Queen of ALL Sticks!”
John was dying—full wheeze-laughing, side-clutching.
I scrambled to set her down gently—Queen of the Sticks—and pulled up a photo on my phone to show him the wonder she would one day become.
“It’s a stick! Planted in sand! You can’t be serious. Are you sure you didn’t get scammed?” he retorted.
“No, I know what I’m talking about here. It’s not a scam. She’s magnificent… you just don’t know her yet.”
He sighed—the sound of a defeated man shaking his head because he loved me, and the drug deal had been done.
On the way home, she sat front and center with a full view of the open road—Rob held her steady, shielding her from launching through the windshield or being smacked by Niki’s sleep-flailing feet in the back. Not because he liked her, but because he adores me. A true knight… reluctantly sworn into the Order of Botanical Nonsense. Like a reluctant midwife to a cactus baby.
I couldn’t resist. I snapped a few pictures and sent them to Natasha—and before I could even blink, my phone lit up with judgment.
“What is that?” “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen! That can’t be the same thing.”
I leaned in close to the stick and whispered, “Shhh. You’re beautiful on the inside.”
When we made it back to Georgia, she didn’t just come home—she arrived.
First plant in the Everglass House, obviously. She’s already claimed a shelf like it’s a throne and demands filtered light like it’s a spotlight.
Rob still walks by now and then, muttering, “It’s a stick.”
And I just smile, sipping my tea like I’m not about to win an award for Best Supporting Plant Parent.
Because one day, she’ll bloom. And on that glorious, fragrant day— I will demand an apology in writing. Notarized. Possibly framed.
Rob had a plan. A frugal, muscled, manure-laced plan. “Why would we pay for compost,” he asked with a straight face, “when we have tons of it sitting right there in Caspian’s pasture?”
He gestured toward the rolling expanse of the donkey kingdom like it was brimming with untapped riches. “It’s free!” he said. “Just a little labor.”
A little labor.
What Rob failed to mention was that this “free” manure came with a multi-step gauntlet of trials. First, you had to fill a wheelbarrow with the sacred poo—three full loads just to make a dent. Then came the real test: shoving it over the unforgiving lip of the gate, a move that required either brute force or a rotting shiplap ramp built out of splinters and one good heave.
Or, if you wanted to get fancy, you could slingshot it from the far side—right up against our Alcatraz-grade fence—and pray Caspian didn’t make a break for freedom.
And if by some miracle you managed not to baptize yourself in donkey droppings and drag your prize all the way up the gravel driveway to The Monet Garden—well, you could consider yourself divinely chosen. Blessed by heaven and flora.
Naturally, when Rob left on a work trip to Miami to fix helicopters (a much cleaner endeavor than air-frying manure), I took matters into my own dirt-smeared hands.
I added bags of pre-composted equine nuggets to the grocery list. At just over $2 a bag, it was practically a spa treatment—with no donkey braying in the background and no threat of slipping on hockey pucks.
I drove the car right up to the garden gate, lifted each blessed bag out like it was a newborn calf swaddled in black gold, and dropped it like it was fresh. No shovel wrestling. No donkey surveillance. No uphill martyrdom.
And the best part? I didn’t smell like a barn for three days afterward.
So yes, I technically committed a compost crime. But in the eyes of tired arms, overburdened wheelbarrows, and delicate nostrils everywhere… I am the hero this garden needed.
Let him think it came from the pasture. Let him believe I earned every shovel’s worth with biceps and glutes. I’ll never tell.
I am woman. I am gardener. I am compost criminal— and I have no regrets.
Everything’s bigger in Texas—including the regret.
Somewhere in the middle of BFE Texas, it happened. Two miles down the road from a dusty gas station, the betrayal hit me like a freight train: gas station hard-boiled eggs. They sat there, all innocent in their little plastic container, whispering promises of protein and convenience—but they were traitors.
The Texas sun was doing its best to cook me alive—hot as Hades, the kind of heat where your sweat sweats. And let me tell you something: when they say there’s no humidity in Texas? They lie.The air clung to me like judgment in a Baptist church on a Sunday, while the sun hovered above like a personal heat lamp, daring me to breathe.
Rob was waiting in the car, tapping his foot, muttering, “Hurry up, we don’t have all day.”
Oh, Rob. You sweet, clueless man. I wanted to yell back, There’s no stopping this train! It’s already left the station! But I had no strength left to explain.
I stumbled into the bathroom, hoping for relief. Instead, I found a Texas nightmare. Half-stalls that offered views instead of privacy. Walls that stopped halfway up, like they gave up on the concept of dignity. A wide-open skyline view of BFE Texas—because who doesn’t want to see the sunset while they’re fighting for their life?
Flies were mating on my drumsticks. Mating. I sat there, trapped, sweat pouring, stomach cramping, the scent of dust, cheap soap, and my own slow demise wafting in on the breeze.
And then, the sound—clink, clink, clink—the jingle of a dog’s tags outside, and a couple talking softly, like they were out for a leisurely afternoon stroll. Their voices drifted in like a gentle breeze. I sat there in the stall, dying, praying they didn’t hear me, praying the wind didn’t deliver a sample of my suffering. And if it did… maybe they’d think their precious poodle ate roadkill.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a Hispanic woman sat in the stall next to me… FaceTiming her kid. Like she was in a coffee shop, just chatting away, smiling, letting her child see the bathroom sky and stained brick wall behind her.
Her voice rang out, all bright and cheerful: “¡Hola, mija!”
And there I was, gripping the walls like a tornado was ripping through my intestines, thinking, Lady, now is not the time for a virtual family reunion. Meanwhile, I was fighting for my life in Stall Two, and she was catching up with her kindergartener like it was just another Tuesday.
But then… she fell silent. A pause. A breath that hitched. And I knew: the eggs had claimed another.
We were in this together now—two strangers, united by the betrayal of gas station eggs, the half-stalls of Texas, the humidity they swear doesn’t exist, and the absurd, silent prayers that maybe the breeze would pin blame on the dog instead.
Outside, Rob scowled. “Hurry up already,” he called.
But there was no hurrying. My stomach was still pissed off, rumbling like an angry storm that wasn’t done yet. This wasn’t a bathroom break—it was a full-blown survival saga.
When I finally emerged, pale, drenched, my legs shaking like I survived an earthquake—I made a silent vow to all the creatures who were impacted by my internal hell:
I survived. But let it be known: I will never eat gas station eggs again.
Because cooking is hard, Pinterest is a liar, and my microwave just died of natural causes.
I have a confession.
A sad, broken microwave has been sitting on my kitchen floor for at least a month now. I’ve seriously considered making funeral arrangements. There may already be a eulogy typed up and tucked away on my desktop in a folder labeled Upload to Facebook. Every morning, I pass it like a fallen comrade on my way to make tea in its replacement—an equally doomed soul I’ll probably kill in six months. I’m hard on microwaves. It’s a known issue.
I’d like to be one of those crunchy moms—you know, the ones who only feed their kids organic food, make their own baby purées and granola, and wear “earth mama” linen with pride. Truth is, someone once added me to a Facebook group like that just because I’m vegetarian. I had no idea what a crunchy mama even was. The moment I figured it out, it was unsubscribe, unsubscribe, unsubscribe! Not a shred of guilt was shed.
I’m sure there’s a kombucha-brewing, free-range-egg-loving, apron-wearing whole-foods chef reading this right now, silently judging me through his sprouted almond milk latte. If OpenAI ever creates an in-house chef who’ll look inside my fridge and magically transform forgotten veggies into gourmet meals, I will personally Venmo them my entire grocery budget. No shame. Just send that baby next-day delivery. I’ll be the one at the door, cash in hand, yelling, “TAKE MY MONEY!”
Back before the internet was a fast-twitch muscle and we all had to dial up with a chorus of beeps and static, I once asked my mom if I could microwave a potato—poke holes in it like we did for baking, only quicker. She told me no, because she said it wasn’t possible. Not because it was the truth, but because she didn’t like them that way. She wanted the full 45-minute oven bake. So I believed her. For years. Never questioned it.
Then, in my twenties, I was watching my grandmother’s twelve-year-old adopted daughter for the summer. We were chatting about dinner and I mentioned wanting a fully loaded baked potato—but complained about how long those took to make. She stared at me like I had six heads.
“You know you can just… put it in the microwave, right?”
She blew my entire mind.
I immediately called my mom, outraged. My culinary innocence had been manipulated. She just laughed. Laughed. “Why didn’t you Google it?” she said, completely unbothered.
And that, my friends, is where the story begins.
One day, Pinterest blessed me with a glorious photo of freshly baked bread—golden, buttery, heaven incarnate. I called my best friend. “We have to make this.” We gathered the ingredients, filled a cart, and headed to her kitchen. I was extremely helpful. I floured my hands occasionally and patted the dough like I used to pat my son’s back when I burped him as a baby.
We needed a DIY broiler. The internet said a pan inside another pan with a lid could work. She had a glass one and assured me we’d be fine—if we were very careful. We set the timer, slid the precious loaf inside, and checked on it regularly like doting new parents.
Then came the smell.
When the scent of burning reached tear-inducing intensity, she grabbed the oven mitts and barked something about boiling water. I missed the full instruction. The Pyrex shattered. Loudly. It exploded with such drama, it sprayed glass from her oven all the way into the living room around the corner. It sounded like a crime scene gunshot victim.
My husband loves to tease me about “hiring her as backup” so he gets decent food. She now waves from her porch with a muffin tin in hand whenever we pass—God bless her. She’s been adopted as family now.
The other day, my son looked at me, serious as ever, and asked, “Do all moms cook for their husbands when the husbands are perfectly capable of doing it themselves?”
I laughed. “I’m not all moms. Don’t hold them to my standards.”
Which is exactly why, when the microwave died, I just stood there. Defeated. Nikolai looked up at me and whispered, “Are we going to die of starvation if Daddy doesn’t replace it?”
On our wedding night—yes, we slept inside the church—Rob and I woke up ravenous. We padded barefoot into the church kitchen and peeked inside the fridge.
Milk. Eggs. Bread.
“That’s it. We’re doomed,” I said, already grieving.
Rob laughed and made French toast. I was floored. French toast was something I believed only IHOP was licensed to make. He thought I was kidding—until the nervous laughter gave me away. He married a woman who could not cook. Not even toast. And I’ve defiantly burned water more than once.
But I learned. Eventually.
I still hate cooking, and Rob still asks if I’m making dinner every time he hears the smoke detector. But my kid will brag that I make better food than his dad. I’ve got a mean vinaigrette game, killer soups, heavenly desserts, and I can build a sandwich like an artist. As long as it takes under thirty minutes? I’m golden.
So no, I’m not the crunchy mom. I’m the tofu-nugget, splash-pad, microwave-eulogizing mama. I love salads because they’re refreshingly easy and taste delicious—not because someone told me they’re holy. And when I bring home a new microwave, I bless it with more hope than Pope Francis at Easter Mass.
Lord, give me the strength to endure when Nikolai comes running into the room to tell me he accidentally started a small fire inside it.
May this one outlive its ancestor regardless. May its spirit be strong. And may it heat my tea until kingdom come.
For everyone who’s ever faked a smile and steeped strong opinions.
Let’s get this out of the way. I don’t just dislike coffee. I loathe it—with the fiery passion of a thousand scorched taste buds.
I can already hear the gasps from behind porcelain cups. I’m sure those of you who are reading this are reeling in horror, clutching your chest or gasping dramatically. But let me explain—before I’m cast out of brunch circles and removed from every beverage-related gift card list.
I remember the delectable scent of it drifting from the kitchen counter when I was young. That forbidden drink my mother’s fingers curled around every morning, her mug cradled like a sacred ritual. She’d pour herself more than one, and I’d watch, thinking: This is the answer to adulthood.
One day, she looked at me, eyes softening, and asked the question I’d longed for: “Would you like to try it?” I was elated. My heart skipped beats. It felt a little like swearing—something naughty, something only parents were allowed to do.
I shuffled over, inhaled deeply, and took a drink. My nose wrinkled. My eyes scrunched. My soul briefly packed a bag and left my body in betrayal. Once the flavor skipped past my taste buds, all that remained was bitterness.
She laughed and said, “You’ll grow to like it someday.” I’m almost 40 now. Still waiting.
My ride-or-die barista buddy tries to convert me every chance she gets. She pulls up to the coffee window and orders the sweetest, frothiest, most whipped-cream-laden brew they’ll allow. “You have got to taste this!” she says, eyes wild with caffeine. I give her a skeptical look. “I highly doubt I’ll enjoy it.”
But she’s determined to enroll me into a sorority I never wanted to join. Every once in a while, she convinces me and I discover one that doesn’t immediately attack my soul. Sometimes I even think, Huh… maybe that wasn’t too bad?
Then I sip again… and somehow, it leaves me contemplating ordering it for myself. I make a mental note to give it one more chance.
After the Boston Tea Party, when crates of precious sweetness were hurled into the sea (what did tea ever do to them?), drinking the leaf became un-American. A statement: We don’t need you for the crime of taxation without representation. You’d think tea would’ve earned a little respect. A symbol of our rebellion.
But no. It became a quiet protest against tyranny and deliciousness instead. And yet here I am—an above-29-year-old woman, trying desperately to uphold the dreams of my revolution-loving ancestors. Ordering tea in public, and still managing to make people think I’m betraying the founding fathers with every sip. Because—how could anyone not like coffee, right?
Still, I make another attempt. I order a drink I didn’t completely hate that I once sampled. I sit down with my laptop, take a few sips, pretending to be one of them. Not bad. Then a few more. And it hits me—this is still revolting.
I stare into the abyss of my roasted brew and question every decision that led me here. I try to justify my life choices. To seem less like the unpatriotic oddball quietly carrying contraband in my purse. Americans don’t drink steeped blends— except Southerners. Where sweet tea is its own food group and doesn’t count.
So I do what any desperate, tea-loving imposter would do. I discreetly tiptoe past the mixologists of espresso—to take my brew to the empty bathroom. I make it inside without a single sideways glance, dump it like crime scene evidence, and crank the faucet. I scrub the aftermath off my hands, dragging my palms across a cold metal grate, and hang my head in shame.
But let me make something clear: I am very far from being un-American. In the suburbs outside Chicago, when all my friends listened to metal, goth, rock, or emo— I wore cowboy boots and listened to country music. Yet I was the one they all made fun of. While all the city kids were going to youth nightclubs, I was tackling farm chores in exchange for riding lessons. I married a soldier. And somehow, I’m the one who absolutely despises Java. But I do. I really, truly do.
So I got back in line inside the chapel of liquid syrups, trying not to look like someone who’d just flushed her last sin. The barista raised an eyebrow. “Did you drink the entire cup I gave you that quickly?” My eyes widened. “Ughhh—yes? I’m practically jolt-juice deficient.” She laughed. “I get that. I’m exhausted, too.” I smiled, then put on my big-girl panties and proudly ordered a hot, caffeinated tea latte— like a boss in farm attire. Not because I’m anti-American. But because coffee is a disgrace.
I love my infusion black—like how my heart feels when someone offers me a cup of that roasted regret. I swirl in cream like it’s a declaration of independence. With floral notes that sing my country’s national anthem. And sugar? That’s not optional. It’s Southern diplomacy in a cup.
I was determined to hang those flower boxes. I wanted to see the fruit of my labor blooming right outside my windows—colorful, wild, and just how I imagined them. It was the last thing I thought about before sleep and the first thing on my mind when I woke up. What to plant, what colors to pair, what joy they’d bring.
Relentless. On a mission.
So off we went—Izzy and I, in her SUV. The same SUV that, unbeknownst to us, would die in the parking lot before the trip was over.
As we pulled in, Izzy asked, “Do we need a cart?” I gave her a look. “Izzy. We’re here for me. I’m buying flowers. Have you met me?” “Cart,” she nodded. “Maybe two.”
We wandered toward the hardware section, me running through my mental list. Rob had taken the electric screwdriver to work. I didn’t trust myself with a nail gun. That left me with my old reliable: the hammer. And let’s be honest—some women walk into these places like warriors. I am not one of them.
She flagged down a bearded employee. “Excuse me, sir? Where’s the nail aisle?”
“Depends,” he said without missing a beat. “What size you lookin’ for?”
I, with full confidence and zero clarity, replied: “Big ones.”
He blinked. “There’s a lot of big ones. How big?”
“Really big ones.” I held up a finger like I was measuring some sacred relic.
Izzy started laughing quietly behind me.
“What are you planning to do with them?” he asked.
“Bang them in,” I said. “All the wood.”
Izzy snorted.
“How big is the wood?” he asked, still trying to hold it together.
“It’s big,” I said, realizing too late how far I’d gone. “There’s several of them… I’ve gotta bang ’em in deep.”
Izzy’s face was red. She had actual tears running down her cheeks. And there I was, a married woman, miming hammer motions in the middle of the aisle, while this poor employee tried to stay professional.
He cleared his throat. “So you need nails long enough to bang the wood in deep enough for your project.”
“Yes!” I said, too far in to turn back now. “Exactly. They gotta be hung right, you know?” I gasped. “The flower boxes!”
He chuckled. “Then maybe… start with something smaller than railroad spikes.”
Izzy leaned in, whispering, “You know, it’s not the size of the nails, LaShelle. It’s the motion of the ocean.”
I didn’t miss a beat: “Izzy, as a married woman, I can promise you—that’s a lie.”
We barely made it to the flower section without collapsing from laughter.
But the joke was on me. When I got home, I found out exactly why nails that size were a terrible idea. They were too long, too thick, too wrong for the project and my poor flower box paid the price.
To top it off, my best friend Natasha decided to christen my carpentry failure with the world’s smallest hammer as a Mother’s Day gift.
I’m keeping it forever. Every flower box has a backstory—and sometimes, it involves a lot of banging.
Everpine & Petal 