I was not well prepared to live solo in my own house. My mom saw my older sister as her primary pupil when she began teaching the ins and outs of domestic life. I was given instruction by my dad in the care of cars and how to use power tools. Unfortunately, I was, at best, a distracted student of his efforts.

My first moment of feeling inadequate to maintain my own household arrived when I decided that a vacuum cleaner would be a worthwhile tool to own. The house had hardwood floors throughout except for tile in the kitchen and that I soon found out it could all be kept reasonably clean with the broom that came with the house. However, every room was also furnished with a huge rug, and a broom wasn’t sufficient on its own to keep them from getting dirty.

I had a vague idea in my head of what I’d seen my mom and my older sister use when growing up and drove off to the local department store to search for a vacuum cleaner. The wide range of choices was perplexing, and the cost ranged widely, too.

I located an employee and asked her for assistance. She smiled at me with big eyes and raked her fingers through her long brown hair. Then she leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve never used one before.”

Sighing, I said, “Maybe I should just go to another store.” In my head, I hated that idea, because I didn’t know a place that would be any better. I was still new to the city.

She raised her hand with the palm facing me and said, “Oh, no, don’t do that. Let me get Velma. I’m sure she knows something about these.”

Velma was a large woman with gray hair, big round glasses and one of the most friendly smiles I’ve ever seen. She asked, “Well, what kind of messes do you need to clean up, honey?”

It was such an easy question, but I couldn’t think of the easy answer. I tilted my head slightly to the right and said, “I don’t think of myself as a very messy person.”

Then she asked, “Solo? Pets? Kids? Messy roommate?” in quick succession.

I said, “Yes, No, No, and No” in response. Then I breathed a sigh of relief when she directed me to a machine that cost less than $100.

The next little domestic difficulty occurred when I didn’t realize that not all detergent is created equal. I bought little tablets to use in the dishwasher when I made my first visit to the grocery store about a mile away from my house.

Then I ran out. I looked at the half-full bottle of dish detergent by the sink. It was soap, and it was designed for dishes. I assumed it would work in the dishwasher, too. I squirted a teaspoon or so into the soap dispenser inside the dishwasher and turned it on.

Later, when I headed back to the kitchen to grab something to drink from the fridge, I thought I had walked into a sitcom episode. Big white waves of soap bubbles were spilling from the dishwasher and spreading across the floor.

That was my prompt for returning to the department store to pick out and purchase a mop. This time Velma recognized me and asked, “A different kind of mess?”

We laughed, and I wished that I could take her home with me to avoid any more minor disasters.

Solo home life had one more surprise in store. A major thunderstorm swept into the city. The warnings swept across the TV while I was watching a sports broadcast. I enjoy the flash of the lightning and the crack of the thunder. Instead of worrying about the severe storm on the way, I just sat on the couch, pulled a blanket closer up around me and flipped the channels on the TV.

Then the lights went out. Because of the ever-present glow of the street lights, it never really gets dark in the city until the lights go out. I sat quietly and expected the lights would be back on within a few minutes. When that didn’t happen, I tried to figure out what to do to find my way around. It was already 9:00 p.m. I decided going to bed might be the best option, but the bed was upstairs, and I was downstairs in the living room in inky blackness. I could barely see my hand in front of my face.

After a few more minutes of calm waiting, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and engaged the flashlight. When a friend of mine first showed me how it worked, I knew that sooner or later it would come in handy.

While I found my way to the staircase, light suddenly streamed into the house through windows. It was still weak, but it cast enough of a glow to let me find my way around without the assistance of my phone. I walked over to the window and looked in the direction of Ian’s house. His lights were on. I could see the glow from his living room.

I tried the switches in my house, and still nothing was happening. I hurried to the windows on the other side of the house, and it looked like the electricity had returned to all of my neighbors. Do the electricity people know that I don’t have lights?

While I was trying to figure out what to do next, my phone rang. It was Ian. I breathed a sigh of relief. He asked, “Are your lights still out, Blake?”

Ten minutes later we were both staring at my circuit breaker box in the basement. I received a quick lesson on how to troubleshoot electrical circuits in the house with a healthy dose of pointing and, “Never touch that,” comments.

“How do you know all of this?” I asked.

He said, “I’m an only child. One day my mom typed up a page of ‘survival skills.’ She consulted with my dad and circuit breakers were on the list. I received solid training in a wide range of little household emergencies.”

“Vacuum cleaners?” I asked.

“Check,” said Ian.

“Dishwashers?” I asked.

“Check,” said Ian.

I said, “Then you’re ready for everything.”

He said, “Almost,” and then he winked at me.

I blushed slightly when I felt a response below the waist. I hoped that he didn’t notice. I managed a stuttering, “Th…thank you” before saying goodnight.

---

Two days later I was standing out on my porch staring at the boring. lifeless yard of just grass and some ancient bushes that were tall and scraggly by one end of the porch. Ian was crouched down low over his blooming flowers tugging at little weeds, and I even thought I saw him say something to the plants.

He had been nothing but helpful since I moved in, and I decided that I should do something to thank him for being such a good neighbor and even a friend. I couldn’t think of any kind of cute gift, so I decided to invite him over for dinner.

Ian looked up from his flower tending when I walked up from behind. He asked, “How are you, Blake? Remember we’ve got practice on Thursday night. That’s just two days away.”

I shoved my hands in my jeans pockets and said, “I’m looking forward to it.” Then I said, “Um, Ian, I wanted to say thank you for everything that you’ve done for me.”

That amazing smile spread across his face, and he stood up brushing himself off. He said, “You’re a neighbor, and now, I hope, a friend. I just want to help out.”

I said, “Well, would you like to come over for dinner? As sort of a thank you?” I winced. It wasn’t sort of a thank you. It was a thank you. I was incredibly awkward in that kind of situation.

Ian said, “Oh, I would love to. Should I bring something in particular?”

In that moment, I sort of hoped that he would bring the entire dinner. I wasn’t quite sure what I would cook. I could do basic cooking, but multiple things getting finished all at the same time…it sounded stressful. Instead, I asked for something that seemed obvious. “Flowers for the table?”

I got to see that smile again. He said, “Of course, I can do that. When do you want me to come over?”

“Tomorrow night? Would that work?” I figured if the dinner was a disaster, at least I could redeem myself at softball practice the next day.

“What time?” he asked.

I pulled the time out of the air and asked, “Would 6:00 p.m. work?”

“I’ll be there, and thank you, Blake. I can’t wait.”

---

My preparations for dinner all started out pretty well. I went to the grocery store with a list based on recipes I found on the Internet. I was planning a chicken and rice casserole with vegetables on the side and brownies for dessert. It sounded easy, and it sounded good to eat.

I was still trying to find my way around the local grocery store, but at last I hit the checkout with everything checked off from my list. The man at the cash register was good looking, and he flirted briefly with me. When I told him the groceries were for dinner with my boyfriend, he backed off. My plans were off to a good start.

The kitchen in my house was fairly large. It even had an island to give me more space for my cooking. I followed the suggestions of the recipes and lined up all of my ingredients, cleaned and chopped, before I started to cook anything. To make things even easier, the brownies and the casserole required the same baking temperature in the oven.

After lining up all of the ingredients for the casserole, brownies, and my vegetables, I decided to stir up the brownie batter first. When it was nice and chocolaty brown, I stuck a finger in and tasted. I could have eaten the batter raw. After spreading it out in a square baking pan, I pushed it into the oven and turned my attention to the casserole.

It was easy to mix together, too, and I layered chicken, rice and vegetables into the pan. The entire kitchen smelled like chocolate brownies when I opened the oven to add the casserole.

I wanted someone to high-five after everything was in the oven, until I realized that I forgot to set a timer. I didn’t really know how long anything had been in the oven. Trying to tell myself that I had a good idea, I guessed at how time had elapsed, set a timer with the stopwatch on my phone, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and nervously made my way to the couch in the living room. With two more nervous glances back to the kitchen, I picked up the remote control and surfed channels until I landed on ESPN.

Just after a roundup of the top baseball games to watch for the evening, I smelled something bad. It wasn’t just chocolaty brownies anymore. Wrinkling my nose, I tried to place it, and then I realized something smelled burnt.

I shouted, “Damn!” out loud even though no one was around to hear, and I raced to the kitchen. A light puff of dark smoke belched out of the oven when I pulled the door open. Grabbing a large oven mitt, I pulled the brownie pan out.

What looked like chocolate not long before was now mostly black. I stabbed at the brownies and the surface crumbled in a charcoal-colored mess. Sighing heavily, I tossed the brownie pan into the sink and decided to turn my attention to the casserole. The chopped up vegetables remain on the island awaiting their cooking fate.

Then the doorbell rang. It was Ian. As I pulled the door open, he smiled and held out a bottle of wine in one hand and a small vase with a bouquet of flowers in the other. Then he wrinkled up his nose.

My face blanched white. I stared back at Ian, reached for the wine, and, in a whisper, I asked, “Pizza?”