How the Cookie Crumbles

Life and scribbles on the far side of SIXTY-FIVE


100-Word Challenge for Grownups – Week 154

This week the prompt is: …please let me sleep…+ 100 words

Come join in the fun. Click below to learn how:


What’s in a Name?

Sue-Ellen’s nose itched. She mashed a fist into it and rolled over. A muffled thud shook the foot of the bed. She snuggled deeper into the covers and sighed. Something wormed its way beneath the comforter and tapped her cheek. “No.” she turned over.

Thump. A weight dropped on her shoulder. “Please let me sleep.” She unglued an eyelid and peeked out through a crack. The cat purred loud and large,  and jumped off. He slipped a paw in again and tapped her face. “Cinnamon?”

“Where is Kil—?”

Smash. Crash. The cat tore off the bed. Sue-Ellen followed

“Killer! You’re a demon cat!”

The End

© 2015 Tess and How the Cookie Crumbles. All Rights Reserved.



Roses (part 2)

Click here for Part 1 (one week ago)

Wikimedia Commons

Wikimedia Commons


April gazed at the flowers, sightless. Caramel somersaulted across the floor like an orange tumbleweed when the tissue kissed the floor. April woke from her reverie and regarded the cat at play. She held the box away. “What shall I do with you? Too pretty to throw away—who sent you?”

The cat gave up on the shredded paper mess. Meow? Eyes luminous black slits, he stared up into her face. An ear twitched and he cocked his head. Meow?

April blinked and squinted at the cat with recognition this time. “How late is it? Haven’t I fed you yet?” Still gripping the box at arm’s length, she spun toward the kitchen. “Come on.” He galloped ahead and pitched into his empty bowl by the fridge. April waved the box back and forth as if glued to it. At last she dropped it on the table with a kerplunk, then rubbed palms on her trousers. The cat wove back and forth around her feet as she filled his dish.

Hands on hips, April studied the table again and nodded.

She arranged the roses in a crystal vase Henry had given her long ago. With the tip of her forefinger, she caressed a stem. Oh, Henry, I—

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony interrupted Caramel’s vigorous crunching. April jumped and retrieved her cell. Leaning against the black granite counter, she pursed her lips. I don’t know who this is. She put it down in a rush as if it had seared her hand.

The cell resounded again fifteen minutes later. Jittery, she picked it up. The same number flashed on the screen. As well, there was a message from her lawyer she hadn’t noticed before.

Part 3 Next Time


© 2015 Tess and How the Cookie Crumbles. All Rights Reserved



Happy and Sad

Serious planning has begun. My packing list expands and contracts now and again. The clock is ticking and I feel a rush of excitement.

The past two weeks, my cat, Lady Gaga, has been especially needy. She demands hugs and cuddles in a loud, urgent meow. Never has she looked as tall as these times when she stretches on her hind legs and taps my hip, as if I cannot hear her complain. She looks so mournful, I wonder if she knows about my travel plans. I have been careful not to pull out the suitcase yet. Can you believe that I plan to be so well-organized I’ll only unzip my luggage while she is sleeping and close to my departure date? I’ll throw everything into my suitcase, re-zip and store it upstairs in my daughter’s house until I leave.

I live downstairs

I live downstairs

The sad thing is, I will miss her. I’ve been dreading leaving her. I worry what she’ll feel when I disappear for more than a few hours. True, she will be in her own house. Although she sleeps most of her day away, she wakes on occasion and searches me out like a two-year old. I give her a pat on the head and off she goes to find another spot to sleep again.

During this same time frame, Lady G. has decided walking all over my dining-room table while I sit at my laptop is her right. For a year-and-a-half since we met she didn’t have this habit. She now insists on sitting at my elbow waiting for a pat on the head, a rub under her chin or behind her ear. I can no longer leave my laptop open when I get up for another coffee, a snack or a bathroom break because my furry friend has somehow learned to be indispensable. What gave her the idea to sit on my keyboard? Does she think she’s saving my place?

These helpful sitting sessions have skewed the images on my screen, frozen my mouse as well as the screen, the keypad refused to cooperate and powering off didn’t work. One morning I dashed to get dressed, desperate to race to Best Buy for help. On second thought, I pulled the battery and the normal settings reappeared. Whew. Saved some dollars too. One function I learned about is the f11 function key. It talked beneath Lady Gaga’s tail on one occasion. Must make time to investigate that.

I am home all day and she knows I’ll be back soon if I disappear. No-one will be home as they will be at work and at school. As well, she has scheduled mealtimes. Her caretakers, although they promise she’ll be loved and fed, do not keep to a timetable. Their animals often must remind them the food dish needs refilling.

This is my spoiled furry friend.

photo (2)

This is Barbie the neighbour upstairs with whom Lady G. has a on again / off again relationship. The other cat is older and fussier it seems, but they get along.

photo (1)

This is Max, who sometimes kisses and other times terrorizes Lady G, but she has been known to instigate some of these plays. ( have no idea why this picture turned out so small.)



Flash in the Pan – Delusional

MorgueFile free photos

MorgueFile free photos

Roy cracked the whip. A perfect razor thin slash snaked out and back. Glassy-eyed, he advanced on the tomcats cornering a tabby.

“Stop right there, young man.” Julia pounced forward, flame-red hair radiant in the intense sunlight.

He raised the whip, weight over one hip. She kicked his calf. He dropped and choked on dust as she wrenched the cowhide.

“You’re not my boss-lady. I’m telling my Daddy.”

“You’re delusional if you think I give a crap.” She forked middle and forefinger at her eyes. “Focus, Roy. And Daddy’s going to hear you’re back to your old habits again.”


* * *

The word limit for Delusional is 100 words. I used all 100.

The new quarter of Flash in the Pan has begun. To join and for the rules, click:


It’s About Time!

I gave in a week ago, casting all doubts to the cosmos. For the life of me, I can’t
understand what took me this long. Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised after
all these years, yet I’m still baffled why I hold back on many decisions, especially at this stage of my life. (Might this also clarify my shortcomings?

For years I’ve been freezing my heinie off in this place, and yearning for warmth like a cat craving a heat-generating sunbeam during afternoon sunlight.

I want to shout to anyone who will listen: I OWN AN ELECTRIC BLANKET NOW. In the past week, I’ve played with all its buttons to determine my best comfort zone. Seems to me, levels one to four work only half-heartedly. The last button, high, works like a charm. Oh my goodnessreal warmth.

Robin of asked me recently ‘if the cold weather was making me randy’ (due to another post, tee hee). Sad to confess, in the past week since this purchase, I can’t wait to get into bed. Don’t jump to conclusions—listen. I watch the clock, yawn, peek at the clock again, dive into the covers and giggle. So easy am I!

Note to self: Turn on electric blankie 15 minutes before bedtime.


My kitty, Lady Gaga, has liked me well enough since we met last summer. She’s like a little kid, lively for a bit once I  engage her in play, but when I’m out of sight, she comes running for a hug to confirm she’s still loved. Another notable hint about her is she naps like a kid from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. (breakfast having been served at 7:00 a.m.).

From the first time I plugged in the blankie and introduced Lady Gaga. to its wonders, this is the closest to I love you I’ve ever seen on any cat’s secret face.

Naptime the day after the new reveal with no glorious heat as she expected now, Lady Gaga looked quizzical, eyebrows knit together tightly. I saw the what’s-wrong-with-our-new-special-blankie look.

“Sorry, Lady G. It only works from dark until dawn,” I said aloud if only to convince myself.

So, her look said,  you’re saving this one for good again—or,  does this only mean I’m not good enough?

“Don’t be like that, Lady G. It’s not cold enough yet.”

She peered at me, her eyes half-slits, “Have you considered you might be cheap, or maybe I’m not good enough?”

“Rules, Lady Gaga, rules. We must both wait until dark. Electricity’s a bitch.”


Flash in the Pan – Paranoid

The party was a success. Ursula scans the wreckage and shudders.

MH900444437“This is the last time I’m feeding my free-loading friends,” she mutters. Her cat slinks out from underneath the sofa.

“Meow,” Sputnik complains arching her back.

“Come to Mama, pretty girl. What’s this on your tail?”

‘You’re dead meat, Urs,’ the scrawled note reads.

Ursula remembers locking the door. Paranoid, she checks again.

But Spider wasn’t here…

~ * ~

The word limit for Paranoid is 75 words. I used 68 today. Check out for rules and contributions.



When a lady takes to her bed, she wears feminine nightwear and smells like an angel. She arms herself with bonbons, Puffs tissues for her sniffles, something entertaining to read and a nice cup of tea. And lots and lots of pillows to add to her snoozing comfort.

Or so I’ve heard—someplace. Maybe I’m confused and lost in the wrong era.

If this is remotely true, I am no lady. The Puffs have been useless because I blew a hole through like I’d fired a cannon—and had to wash my face afterwards. Cheap paper towels were more up my alley. Bonbons, you ask? My taste buds went on a metallic vacation so I couldn’t enjoy them. Nightwear? Good old flannel-type PJs for me. Something to read, you wonder? My eyes have been much too heavy for reading; my sinuses are still under attack, and my face hurts like it’s been a punching bag.


A sore throat is what started me down this road. Next came fits of coughing so deep, I’m surprised my lungs aren’t shredded to ribbons. My ears are still plugged and my eyes don’t care to focus for longer than it takes to grab my adult sippy cup. To do anything takes more energy than I can muster and I still sweat like a construction worker.

I’ve clocked more hours sleeping in this New Year than awake. I’ve no idea what’s been happening out in the real world for the past ten days.

Five days I’ve lolled in bed, but I’m getting fleeting thoughts about joining the human race again. However, I have a short attention span. It’s possible all that sleep has made me lazy . . . and my sinuses are still messed up.

Happy 2013 to me.

On the bright side, I had first-rate company assessing my every move. I drank gallons of water to quench my thirst and made a million trips to the bathroom, always escorted from and to bed. No amount of hacking or tossing dissuaded my protector from leaving my side. My Lady Gaga slept hanging over my shoulder to keep an eye on me.  For four days! Such patience and loyalty—from my kitty? Wow.

Now I face 600+ e-mails in my Inbox and am overwhelmed simply thinking about a catch up. Please bear with me. I’ll do the best I can, but my mojo is still broken and I cannot promise every single one will get answered.


Goodbye 2012

Here’s another year whistling by and thumbing its nose at us. I’m not going to bemoan something I have no control over. As well I’m not making any New Year’s resolutions either. What I am going to do is break more rules. A couple of weeks ago, I had a stern discussion with myself.

Why am I getting up at 7:00 a.m., seven days a week? When is my retirement going to kick in? It’s been six years. Sure, sure, the cat needs to be fed, but, which one of us is more important? Hm?

I’m happy to say Lady Gaga, is trained not to bother me until her cat alarm clock goes off. Her inner clock is spot on. She becomes antsy about ten minutes before the alarm goes off. I’ve choked laughing when I’ve caught her many times, studying the large red numbers on the bedside alarm clock. When the buzzer goes off she flies straight into the air. Every morning. To tick her off, I sometimes go to the bathroom  before I feed her.

For the first time in a-g-e-s, I’ve collapsed back into bed and slept till ungodly hours afterwards. I hang my head in shame, but I promise myself more of the same in the New Year.


What’s Ticked Me off This Year

Why is there no magic potion for crepe chest? I’ve most likely had it for twenty-five years but it’s bothering me now. What took me so long? I wonder if sleeping on one’s side contributes or accelerates this condition. I’ve tried flinging an arm behind my back. Pfft. I refuse to wear scarves or closed neck tops.


As you know, I don’t have a partner. I noticed a new development in my kitchen this past year. If I’m feeding only one person breakfast, lunch and dinner, where the heck are all the dirty dishes in my sink coming from? Loads of them and every day.


For years I’ve enjoyed highlights in my hair. I hate the dark colour against my blah-tinted mature skin. In November, I made an appointment for a trim two weeks before Christmas My hairdresser asked, “Are you sure you don’t want a colour?” I was so sure I didn’t but it was a big mistake. After my cut, what a rude awakening. I have grey hair? Where the heck did it come from? And all at once? Ugh.


Another rip-off came to my attention. I love spiral notebooks. I have trouble scratching anything onto the paper because I have arthritis in two fingers, but I like having one handy. How much thinner can the paper be made? At this rate, I can’t write on both sides of the page and anyway, I seem to scribble right through it and rip the paper.

Other than these few constraints on my valuable time, I’m hunky-dory and ready for the New Year.

MH900440952 Wishing you and yours a healthy, happy and prosperous New Year.


Flash in the Pan – Lightening

Slim ran a three-finger hand through his hair; his chin dropped to his chest. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to,” he said.

Moose shook his head. “Big Sam was having a barbeque, you say?

“Yeah, last Saturday. I never seen a kid so broken up. Poor Jackie.”

“That Big Sam’s kid?”

“Yeah, small for his age—only nine years old. He’s the one found it.” Slim looked away; his shoulders sagged.

Moose cleared his throat. “Geez—no way.” He closed his eyes.

“Kid can’t get it—his new dog is dead. Had the pup but two months,” Slim said in a gruff voice.

“They know who done it?”

“Nope, but it was white lightening in the water dish.

“Ah, stupid. Stupid waste.”

~ o ~

Lightning was inspired by M3 Flash Fiction challenge. DO check it out and play!

The word limit for dinner was 125 words; this post is a mere 124 words.


Curious Meets Crazy

I hate cold coffee and am forever reheating a cup in the microwave. Why does the mug handle end up in the back even when I place it facing out, or, no matter how long it spins to reheat?

My old washing machine ate socks; I became used to losing them and expected the loss. What changed? The new machine hasn’t gobbled any—even once—in four years. What gives?

When are you officially a senior? 50? 55? 60? 65? Businesses used to offer discounts on a wide range of products and services for customers age fifty and over. Once the demographic reports on baby boomers came out, perks dwindled, an inch at a time. Too many seniors are approaching age sixty-five. Why is this information a surprise?

McDonald’s offers seniors a coffee discount—size small only. Some ‘franchises’ don’t offer any reduction at all. Others give you the same price cut whether you order a small or a large cup. Why the differences?

Why do meteors fall through the atmosphere but don’t hit anything? I’m pleased not to hear of catastrophic damages, but why is it they never hit any cities or tall buildings? Why are burned remnants always found in remote areas? How lucky are we?

Why do I always want to do something else when I’m in the middle of any particular project? Even when I’m half-way into an absorbing book, another one catches my eye; I’m impatient to get into the new one no matter how exciting the current one I’m reading.

Why is my cat driving me crazy? I threw drop-sheets on my sofa to discourage her from playing Tarzan. She found an opening no matter how I draped, tucked or arranged the sheets to drag on the floor. She discovered a new game called ‘run under the drop-sheets and hang on the sofa underneath’. Alright! W-e-e-e-e. Will my sofa last until next Monday morning and her manicure appointment?