Tag: Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory

Always the Chorus Girl

Never the star

By Cassie Bustamante

Some of my favorite childhood memories are rooted within the walls of my local Blockbuster, where my older brother, Dana, and I would cruise through the aisles, hoping the hot new release we wanted would be waiting on its shelf. When it wasn’t, I’d hit my second-favorite section: musicals. My mom had me hooked on the classics — My Fair Lady, A Chorus Line and anything with the adorably-dimpled Shirley Temple. One of my favorites was Gigi, starring the exquisite Leslie Caron. Of course, I now realize it’s a highly problematic story about grooming a coltish teenage girl to become a much older man’s mistress. French accents can make anything seem romantic. An avid musical theater fan, I imagined I’d one day be a star, as elegant as Caron or Audrey Hepburn.

Dear reader, I did not become that girl. Not even close. Over the years, I’ve had to admit that I will never be a star of stage, screen or television. Nor a chanteuse, though I can carry a tune. But, just before high school, my mother introduces me to Bye Bye Birdie, a film in which the beautiful Ann-Margret stars as Kim McAfee. Kim is a high school senior who’s just been pinned by Hugo but is randomly chosen to plant “One Last Kiss” on Elvis-inspired rocker Conrad Birdie before he deploys with the Army. In that film, I finally see the role I was born for.

I know what you’re thinking — “She’s no Kim McAfee.” And you’re right. But her hyper-enthusiastic brunette of a best friend, Ursula Merkle? That’s more like it.

It just so happens that the summer before my freshman year of high school, we spy a casting call in our small-town paper for a local theater production of, you guessed it, Bye Bye Birdie, just a couple towns over. For days, I practice Ursula’s lines in my bedroom mirror and work on the vocals to “We Go Together” from Grease because the music has a similar vibe. Plus, I already know that song well. So well, in fact, that I’m feeling cocky and even sprinkle in a little movement. It’s no Jennifer Beals Flashdance moment, but it’ll do.

Audition day arrives and my mom and I are piled into a room with all the other hopeful stage actors. We’ll all be trying out in front of everyone else. A little nerve-racking, for sure, but if you can’t do that, what business do you have performing for a packed house?

While I wait for my name to be called, I watch and cheer politely for everyone else as anticipation builds, my heart racing and my hands clammy.

“Tricia,” the director, Mark, calls. A young woman (and, yes, she’s over 18) walks confidently to the stage, waving at the director with a glint in her dark-brown eyes. It’s clear that she’s worked with this director before — their exchange of glances seems just a little chummy to me. “And what role are you auditioning for?

“Ursula,” she says. Her chestnut tresses bounce with the cocky bob of her head. She already knows this part is hers. And, truly, she’s really good. My palms start sweating something fierce as uncertainty creeps in. I take a deep, calming breath.

My turn arrives. I introduce myself and am given the same lines that Tricia has already read. The scene is one where Ursula is fan-girling for all she’s worth to Conrad Birdie. I begin, reciting the lines I know so well, then drop to my knees, clutching my heart as I say, “Speak to us, oh beautiful one, tell us how you make that glorious sound, that even now an anticipation of it has reduced me to a snarling, raging, panting, jungle beast!”

In that brief moment, I am Ursula. I have just owned that part. Mark exchanges knowing looks with his colleagues. My mom is beaming in her seat, her hazel eyes gleaming.

Someone else notices, too — Tricia. She stalks over to the director’s table and leans in toward Mark, whispering. His head, covered in dark-brown curls, nods along. And before I can say, “We love you Conrad,” Tricia is back on stage, having been given a second chance and reading yet another Ursula scene.

I look at my mom and panic: “What do I do? Do I ask if I can go again, too?” No, I decide. I know that I’ve given my best. And, at 14, I’ve already dealt with my fair share of mean girls. My mom has taught me exactly how to handle them: Do not let them get under your skin. Well, more like, don’t let them see that they’ve gotten under your skin. And never stoop to their level.

A few days later, back at home, our hunter-green kitchen telephone rings and Mom picks up. She hands it to me while putting her hand over the receiver: “It’s Mark!”

Still holding onto hope, I stretch the cord as far as I can and lean on the hallway wall, out of my family’s earshot.

“Your audition was really something,” Mark says, “and we’d love to have you in the chorus. In fact, we want to give you several speaking lines.”

Holding back tears, I accept the small part. I show up at the first rehearsal, head held high, knowing that I made a fully-grown woman sweat it out and worry that she was going to lose her part to a child. Over the course of the next several weeks, I shimmy, shake and belt out tunes along with a handful of other chorus teens who become close friends. Tricia, with an air of her “you-know-what doesn’t stink,” keeps her distance from our lowly chorus crew.

Sure, she got to play Ursula, but I learned something that’s stuck with me: Sometimes, it’s not about who you know, but how well you know yourself. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

Chaos Theory

Time on Our Hands

From dimples to wrinkles, it’s the best gift of all

Cassie Bustamante

Earlier this year, we jumped on the social media trend of sharing baby and childhood photos of our team, each with a unique cutline. Mine? “This is who overthinks every comma.” (Never has a truer word been uttered.) In the photo, 2-year-old me is sporting a pink gingham dress with smocking, my blonde hair is in that toddler mullet that results from uneven growth, and my baby-soft face screams exasperation. One of our contributors emailed me the following morning to tell me she’d looked at the photos several times. “Your little fingers and thoughtful expression in that frozen moment just slay me.” She went on to write, “That is the most touching thing — who knew those same fingers would be pounding the keys as they do?”

Her comment got me thinking about the hands of my own children. This month, I’ll turn 48 on the very same day my oldest child, if I can still call Sawyer a child, reaches our nation’s legal drinking age. When he was just a toddler, I’d stare at his dimpled hands in wonder as he clutched his apple juice cup, thinking about how the passage of time would mark itself on those little hands in a myriad of ways. The saddest of which, I knew, would be the emergence of bony knuckles and the disappearance of those adorable, squishy dimples. It would happen so slowly that I wouldn’t notice, until one day I’d just realize that they were gone.

When I was a child, my mom’s hands were always soft, amazingly so since she was constantly using them — crafting, sewing, gardening, DIY-ing, cooking, cleaning or serving up dishes at a local Italian restaurant. It might have been thanks to the Crabtree & Evelyn Gardeners Hand Therapy cream that was a permanent fixture by the kitchen sink of our Western Massachusetts Colonial home. She took care of her hands, her fingernails always gleaming in some shade of rose or mauve. At 70, her hands, still meticulously manicured, continue to keep her busy and can often be found holding a book.

Debbie, my mom’s younger sister who missed being her Irish twin by just a couple weeks, had bony, vascular hands. She rode her bike everywhere, swam in her pool regularly and worked in a demanding job as a nurse, thus constantly scrubbing her hands. She’d sometimes whisk me away for a weekend of shopping in Boston, or perusing charming New England storefronts, peeking into the Norman Rockwell Museum and dining at the Red Lion Inn in the Berkshires. I remember those sturdy, ropy hands gripping the steering wheel and popping Gloria Estefan’s Into the Light into the cassette player as we careened down the Massachusetts Turnpike. I hope my hands end up like Mom’s, I thought to myself. My senior year of high school, Debbie used her hands in one final act, taking her own life.

Now, my hands more strongly resemble hers than my mother’s. For starters, I don’t use hand lotion regularly — sorry, Mom! My fingers have always been long and slender, but now the veins and tendons protrude like Debbie’s did. Her hands remain frozen in time, locked away safely in my memory. They never saw age spots or arthritic knuckles. As of now, my hands already have nine years on hers. And I sure hope they still have miles to go.

Yes, these days, my hands spend hours clacking away at my laptop. But they also lift weights so that I can carry my youngest, 8-year-old Wilder, when he’s sleepy, or schlep the many decorations down from our attic each Christmas. They leash up my dogs, 10-year-old Snowball and 4-year-old Cider, so we can go for our morning walks together. They hold my phone so I can FaceTime my daughter when she’s away at college. They sink into the perfect combination of homemade sourdough starter, flour and water plus a dash of sugar so that I can make the family bagels each weekend.

Later this month, my husband, Chris, and I will likely hit a local pub with Sawyer to celebrate his milestone birthday. As our son’s slender fingers curve around a tall, cool beverage, I’ll be picturing those same hands, once tiny and dimpled, holding his juice cup tightly. And I will try not to cry about the passage of time — because time may be a thief, but it is also a gift. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Home Is Where the Dogs Are

And the more the merrier

By Cassie Bustamante

Years ago after our beagle, Charlie, died at the age of 13, I remember my much more practical husband, Chris, saying to me, “Now, we will be a one-dog family.” I nodded in agreement as I, fingers crossed, scratched behind the long, tan, velvety ears of Charlie’s younger “brother” — 10-year-old basset-beagle mix, Jake.

Months later, as the ninth birthday of our son, Sawyer, rolls around, I broach the subject. “What do you think we should get Sawyer this year?” I ask, before blurting out, “He really misses Charlie. What if we found him a rescue — maybe a retriever who can play fetch?”

Scouring local rescue listings, filter set to “retrievers,” my heart does a little flip when I see one puppy’s photo. I make a preliminary visit to his foster home and know this dog is zero part retriever. Even though his litter mates are all mutts, two puppies look exactly like Weimaraners with short, grayish fur and blue eyes, and a couple others clearly resemble Australian shepherds in tan, brown and white. But this little guy? He has a look all his own, a perfect, unique combo of the two. Retriever or not, I’m already head-over-heels in puppy love.

Before long, Chris, Sawyer and Sawyer’s little sister, Emmy, meet — and fall for — the tiny, fuzzy, greige puppy with smiling hazel eyes and white-tipped paws. Even before the pup comes home, Sawyer selects a Jabba-the-Hut stuffed toy, chewy (as in texture, not as in Chewbacca) teething treats and a turquoise-and-red gingham collar. He names him Catcher, excited to toss a ball with his new pal.

A blend of two anxious breeds, Catcher is anything but a retrieving kind of playmate. He’s a velcro dog, meaning he’s always under our feet and won’t explore the backyard — not even with Jake — unless his people are with him. When we walk him, he takes his shepherding job very seriously, barking loudly at all other dogs we come across, clearly an order to fall in line. While gruff-sounding, he absolutely refuses to step in wet grass and will avoid a puddle at all costs, earning him the nickname “Prissy Paws.”

Eventually, we adopt yet a third dog, a small, deaf miniature schnoodle pup named Snowball who follows Catcher around, just as Catcher once did to Jake. And then, at the age of 13, Jake, riddled with spinal arthritis, takes his final walk. Catcher steps into the role of alpha.

Catcher shamelessly does become a sort of retriever, but only of food and ice cubes. When the freezer door opens, he comes running, Snowball following his lead since she can’t hear the action herself. He stands watch as Snowball chows down each morning just in case she leaves any morsel of kibble behind.

We learn to keep all food off the kitchen counters — except for that one very full tray of holiday cookies my mom lovingly baked for us. Headed out in various directions, we accidentally left the dogs alone in the house, tantalized by the smell of butter and sugar wafting out from under its Saran Wrap seal. We return home to empty muffin-pan liners that once housed cookies strewn everywhere, scarcely a crumb in sight. Snowball, who doesn’t hear the car pull up, is gleefully licking the floor when the front door opens. Meanwhile, Catcher hides under the dining table with a look that I assume is guilt but soon discover is intense gastrointestinal distress. One soiled and discarded area rug later, he’s absolutely fine and, I assure Chris, “He will learn nothing from this.”

And so, it seems to us that he will live forever — or at least until 13 like Charlie and Jake. But, just a couple months after his 11th birthday, he falls ill suddenly and there’s nothing we can do. On another hot, late-July day, Chris, Sawyer, Emmy and I once again surround him as we did the day we brought him home. “You are a good boy,” I choke out through tears. We all tell him how loved he is as we stroke his ears, his back, his muzzle. And then we let him go.

Back at home, that afternoon, a bright-white gardenia blooms outside the window where I work. The bush had dropped its last blossom of the season a couple weeks earlier. I point it out to Chris, certain that Catcher is letting us know he’s at peace. I can tell by the look on his face he’s not buying it.

Snowball mopes around the house, grieving, too, but we give her extra treats and snuggles. Chris strokes her fluffy ears, sighs, and says to her, but more to me, “Well, I guess we will be a one-dog family now.”

While I know I need time to process my own feelings, I also know that we are solidly, forever a two-dog kind of family. Or three.

Months later when I begin to put together our bi-annual O.Henry pet issue, the one in your paws right now, I am treading dangerous waters. Of all things, I decide to write about a local monk whose new best friend was just adopted from Guilford County Animal Services (see page 42), which involves emailing shelter employees, researching their rescue services and watching videos they’ve posted on social media. The algorithms do their thing and suddenly my Facebook feed is nothing but sweet snouts in need of new homes. Cue Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” and grab some tissues.

A video of a timid, rust-and-black hound mix catches my eye. I show Chris, fully aware of his soft spot for hounds. A smile spreads across his face and I can tell he’s in — that is, until his logical brain takes over. He sighs. “Do we really need another dog, Cassie?”

“It’s not about what we need,” I answer.

Just a few days later, the morning after Emmy returns home from her first year of college, Cider, our brown-eyed hound, comes home, too. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

The Stuff of Dreams

Walking, talking and laughing in our sleep

By Cassie Bustamante

Illustration by Miranda Glyder

From a very young age, I’ve been a very heavy sleeper. My mom has gleefully recounted tales of my sleepwalking as a small child through our little raised ranch, making it back to the safety of my bed, thanks to her guidance. In college once, a friend called me just before midnight and we had a long and soulful chat. At least, according to her. The next day when she recalled our conversation, I had no idea what she was talking about. Apparently, I’d just picked up the receiver in my sleep and gabbed coherently enough to pass for awake. (I’m not sure what that says about my real-life conversational skills.)

And so, many years later when my husband, Chris, and I had kids, they were quickly trained to go to Dad with their middle-of-the-night wake-ups. Mom? Out cold, oblivious. But Dad? He’s sure to hear their pleas. Otherwise, our poor kiddos would be battling nightmares on their own.

In my deep state of sleep, I often have wild, vivid dreams, which I sometimes recount in detail to Chris in the morning. “But what do you think this one means?” I’ll ask.

His response? Typically, a shake of the head, an amused smirk, followed by ”I don’t pretend to know what goes on in that head of yours.” And, unlike me, he doesn’t give his dreams — or mine, for that matter — a second thought.

As a light sleeper, he doesn’t tend to have the intense dreams that I do. I’m no sleep scientist, so that could be a theory of my own making, but it works for me. At any rate, one morning, I found out that he, too, is actually capable of memorable dreams.

It’s 4 a.m. and I’m suddenly wide awake, a solid hour before my alarm is due to go off, something that happens often in my middle agedness. I slip off the satin eye mask I wear to prevent wrinkles from worsening and stare into the darkness, considering all of my productive options — writing, brainstorming, meditating — and instead reach for my phone. Mindlessly scrolling, I squint at its tiny screen. So much for anything that satin mask may have done for my skin.

A few moments later, a giggle, followed by a contented sigh, escapes Chris’ lips. I know this laugh well and it’s one he delivers with love — for me. But, it’s the middle of the night and my anxious, exhausted brain races with “what if” scenarios. Is he dreaming about me? And, If not, then WHO? Mind you, Chris is totally trustworthy. There is no rational reason for me to doubt him. But who ever said I was rational, especially at 4 a.m.? As far as I’m concerned, he’s guilty until proven innocent.

After sulking for a while, I lace up and put my anxious energy to use outside on the pavement with my dog. The dark stillness of the morning always helps to quiet my thoughts.

Back inside and a little less on the verge of lashing out at Chris for what his dream self may have done, I pour myself a mug of steaming black coffee while contemplating my next move. I keep my back to him as he works on his laptop at our dining table, blissfully unaware that I’m stewing over something he probably didn’t even do in his waking life.

“You know, I woke up at 4 a.m. and could not fall back asleep,” I say as calmly as I can. “Meanwhile, you were over there giggling like a schoolgirl in your sleep.”

I turn to face him, a challenge in my eyes.

He looks up from his computer and smiles at me. “Ah, yes. I was dreaming we were on a dinner date at Machete.”

My tight-lipped expression breaks into a giddy grin and I let out a laugh as every trace of doubt vanishes into thin air. It’s me! I am the girl of his dreams!

“We were having a good time,” he says.

“And I must have said something hilarious,” I retort.

He rolls his eyes because I’m well known around our house full of young adults — and a second-grader— for entertaining myself and no one else.

After a beat, he lets out that laugh, quietly, almost to himself — a soft echo of the one I heard just hours ago. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

Long Live . . .

All the magic and body art

By Cassie Bustamante

My mom wears a black-green, wide-leg jumpsuit, accented with a gold belt. She’s 70, but you’d never know it. Her hazel eyes smile in my direction. It’s a look I’ve seen through many softball games, high school drama productions and even at the birth of my oldest. She’s always cheered me on, and today is no different as I prepare to take the podium to introduce our two authors at our O.Henry Magazine Author Series.

As soon as I see her, I comment on her outfit. “Mom,” I say, “You look fabulous! I almost wore a sleeveless jumpsuit, too, but was afraid the tattoo on my arm would be too aggressive.” Instead, I’d opted for a black dress with sheer long sleeves, the whole thing glimmering with gold stars and my tattoo tucked away.

“Well, it’s one of those you can just wash off, right?” my mom asks.

“Uh, no,” I say. “It’s real. Emmy and I did it together this summer.”

“Oh,” Mom replies, her voice suddenly many octaves higher. I can tell she’s horrified that my 18-year-old daughter and I got inked together.

Mom and I have always bonded over books, passing them back and forth between us. Body art, not so much.

And this isn’t her first rodeo, nor mine. When I decided to get myself a tattoo for my 19th birthday, my mom retorted, “It’s your body, do what you want.”

That, followed by, “But remember, it’s going to be there forever.”

Forever, got it. To the tattoo parlor I went, returning home with a small daisy on my inner right ankle.

A few years later, I added another small-ish tattoo on my lower back — a graphic sun to pay homage to my zodiac sign, Leo. Yes, I fell victim to what was soon dubbed the “tramp stamp,” but, according to TikTok, they’re making a comeback. And, to be honest, I always forget it’s there until someone sees it and mentions it.

Almost 25 years later, when Emmy says to me that she’d like to get a tattoo, I jump on board.

“I want a new one, too! Can I come?” I ask. “What are you thinking?”

We spend the next couple of months deciding on designs. Emmy selects a small paper airplane followed by a trail of sparkling stars to put on her wrist. I find a design I like, but personalize it a bit to fit me. It’s an open book, a trail of stars, the moon and Saturn escaping its pages. At the very top, I add a four-leaf clover to honor my late business partner and friend who owned Sweet Clover, a vintage home store, with me. And below the book, it reads, “long live all the magic.”

While that quote is a line from my favorite Taylor Swift song, it’s also about writing my stories. May the memories and moments I capture live long after I am gone for my own kids to treasure. Or laugh at. Whichever, as long as it brings them joy.

We schedule an appointment with Taylor (yes, that’s her name!) at Dogwood Ink Tattoo. Emmy’s best friend, Kiah, joins us and in less than 90 minutes, we’re out of there, all with fresh body art on our forearms.

A few weeks later, it dawns on me that I don’t quite know why Emmy went with the paper airplane so I ask her about it.

“Remember when we went to the Eras concert, Mom?”

“Of course,” I say. How could I forget taking my only daughter to Taylor Swift’s epic show.

“Our bonus song was ‘Out of the Woods,’” she says, then quotes the song. “You know, ‘Two paper airplanes flying.’”

Wow, her tattoo is to commemorate a special moment with me? I feel myself choking up, grateful that Emmy and I, like my mom and I have books, have music. And now tattoos that, yes, Mom, will be there forever.

Suddenly, I wish I’d gotten a paper airplane, too.

I look down at my own right wrist, free of designs. Maybe one day.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

Why DIY today what you can DIY tomorrow?

Ceilings and other unfinished projects

By Cassie Bustamante

When it comes to house projects, my husband, Chris, and I have an unspoken motto: Why do today what you can put off until right before you need to sell your home?

Just before we moved to Greensboro, our project procrastination caught up with us. I kneel atop a 5-foot-tall, mint-green, vintage shelving unit in our kitchen, my neck craned toward the ceiling I’m painting. Tiny, white droplets fleck my dark-brown hair. Nearby, Chris feeds our infant son, Wilder, stuffing lukewarm spoonfuls of mushy, Gerber oatmeal with a touch of homemade applesauce into the little guy’s hungry, gummy, baby-bird maw.

In our house, painting is a tag-team endeavor. Chris is the roller, while I am the cutter-inner. After many years spent creating content for my DIY blog — mostly paint projects — and refinishing furniture for my vintage-furniture storefront, I’ve got a steady hand, one that requires no blue tape. Chris, on the other hand, is more like a bull in a paint-your-own-pottery shop — not so good with the details but great with the brute force required for rolling. So, as soon as I swipe paint on the last of the kitchen ceiling edges, I hop down and swap places with him. He douses a roller in white paint while I take over with Wilder.

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” I say, exasperated. “All of these projects we let pile up over the seven years we’ve lived here and now we’re cramming them into seven weeks!” Light fixtures to replace, countertops to update, a half-dead maple tree along the driveway to chop down and, obviously, ceilings to paint.

“And, you know,” says Chris, “none of these projects are that bad. It’s the getting them all done in rapid succession that’s killer.” He pauses and I can practically read the thought bubble that’s forming over his head. “Let’s not do this in our next house.”

I nod enthusiastically. “Let’s get things done over time so that we can actually enjoy the results of our own blood, sweat and tears,” I say, rubbing 6-month-old Wilder’s button nose with my own. “That’s right, Mommy and Daddy are not going to procrastinate in our new house!”

A couple short months later, we say goodbye to that home and its freshly-painted ceilings, and make our way to Greensboro, where a 1966 Starmount Forest ranch home waits for us. Sure, it needs some updating, but it ticks so many of our boxes as a family of five — four bedrooms, three bathrooms and a great location.

The kitchen, however, is never going to work for us. While I am a huge fan of reusing what you can, the original cabinetry only allows space for a 24-inch oven. A baking sheet full of dino-shaped chicken nuggets? Forget it. And I can stop fantasizing about hosting Thanksgiving with an oven like that. So, just months after moving in, we hire a contractor to renovate our kitchen, updating it with new cabinetry, new flooring and fixtures, a hammered-brass sink from locally-owned Thompson Traders, and, of course, new appliances, including a gorgeous, white-and-gold, 30-inch Café oven.

As the renovation crawls closer to its completion many months later, I tell the contractor, “We’ll take care of all the painting.” We just want our house back — no more workers tromping around, no more plastic sheeting, no more construction dust. “Trust me, we can handle that part.”

“OK, if you’re sure,” he says.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Once the contractor and his accoutrements have quite literally left the building, we spend a weekend coating the walls in white. I give the new built-in banquette and molding a touch of easy-to-clean sheen with semigloss in the same shade. And it looks fresh and finished — as long as you don’t look up. “We’ll save the ceiling for next weekend,” I say to Chris as I scrub my brush clean. “I’m too tired to think about it right now.”

Approximately 150 weekends — or three years — later, our ceiling finally has its moment with paint. While we’ve grown so tired of looking at the dull, drab ceiling in its primed state, apparently we haven’t been tired enough to actually push up our sleeves and do it ourselves. Nope, the first thing we do when I go back to work full-time is hire out the work. All I have to do is select the color: Sherwin Williams’ Romance at 75% saturation, a lovely, warm shade of blush. No argument from Chris, who’s just happy to have it done.

Well, almost done. You see, the painters arrive on a sweltering July day and our AC is working overtime. The two vents in the kitchen ceiling are dripping with condensation, making it impossible for paint to stick to them.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell the concerned painter as he shows me the issue. “We can easily get to it when the weather cools this fall.”

It’s been almost four years and, as I sit at my kitchen banquette writing, I steal an upwards glance at the vent closest to me, stark white against the soft-pink ceiling. Really, how hard could it be to just slap some paint on it when I’m done writing? Not hard at all, but we’re not ready to list our home anytime soon.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

Beans, Beans, Good for the Heart . . .

You know the rest

By Cassie Bustamante

When I first met my husband, Chris, his idea of eating veggies was to toss a couple tomato chunks in with romaine and then drown it in Caesar dressing. A strict vegetarian at the time, I was appalled. Plus, what woman hasn’t thought to herself, “I can change him.”

Challenge accepted. I started sneakily. I would make him a salad, chopping red pepper and tomato into small bits so he wouldn’t notice the intruders. Spinach leaves slowly made their appearance amidst the romaine. Maybe he noticed, but, since we were still in the “salad days” of our relationship, he said nothing. In fact, over time, he began to — dare I say — enjoy a whole rainbow of produce. Heck, he even likes Brussels sprouts now. But don’t ever put a pea on his plate.

So, when our kids were young, it came as no surprise that they inherited his picky palate. Our oldest, Sawyer, has somehow made it to 20 year of age on waffles and grilled-cheese and peanut-butter sandwiches (hold the jelly). We sometimes refer to our youngest, 7-year-old Wilder, as “Sawyer 2.0” because his mannerisms and, yes, finicky palate are eerily similar to his big brother’s. Their only veggie? Tomato sauce on pizza or pasta. Emmy, now 19, is our best eater, though that’s not saying much because Sawyer and Wilder have set the bar so low.

Pie to the rescue! Over 10 years ago, I came across Chocolate Covered Katie’s website and decided I’d try her deep-dish chocolate chip cookie pie. Gooey, fudgy and indulgent? Maybe, but it held a secret. This pie was comparatively healthy — a good source of fiber and protein. I’d once been able to sneak plants past Chris’ lips and I was hopeful this might do the trick for Sawyer especially.

As Sawyer and Emmy hop on the bus headed for elementary school, I dash to the grocery store for supplies. Garbanzo beans, check. Quick oats, check. Almond butter, check. Turbinado sugar, check. At home, I’ve got homemade applesauce, chocolate chips, vanilla extract, salt and baking soda. And let’s not forget the springform pan I registered for when Chris and I married that just needs some dusting off. Actually, it might still be in its original box.

Following Katie’s instructions, I measure, blend, fold and bake. Naturally, I “taste test” the batter. (Hey, no eggs means it’s safe, right?) Without a lick of butter, I’m shocked at just how much it resembles one of my favorite food groups, raw cookie dough, and have to stop myself from spooning it all in my mouth.

When the final product comes out of the oven, its golden-brown appearance looks like something on the cover of Southern Living, minus the dollop of whipped cream. As it cools, I remove the incriminating bean cans, taking out the trash before it tells on me. As the bus stop drop-off time approaches, I peer out the window, anxiously waiting Sawyer and Emmy’s arrival.

Finally, they walk in the kitchen door, their little noses twitching, sensing something sweet and slightly nutty in the air. Spying what appears to be a giant cookie sitting on the counter, Sawyer says, “Oooh, what is that?”

“Oh,” I say, trying to sound natural, “I found a new recipe for a deep-dish cookie pie and thought I’d try it. I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“I’ll try it!” exclaims Emmy, who loves freshly baked goods almost as much as her mama.

Sawyer’s big blue eyes grow even wider. “Wait, we can have it now?”

“Sure, I’ll let you both have a little pre-dinner treat this once,” I reply with a wink.

I cut into the pie, pulling out the very first wedge, followed by the second. The center is still soft and warm, the chocolate chips melty.

The kids take a seat at our kitchen island as I slide a plate loaded with a slice and a fork over to each of them. Sawyer lifts a forkful to his mouth as I stand nearby, trying my best to be nonchalant. But my energy is practically emanating off of my body — very chalant.

Sawyer’s eyes close as he savors his first bite. “Mom, this is so good! Can you pack this in my lunch for dessert tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I say casually, but inside my brain there are two little versions of me and they are jumping up and down, high-fiving each other. “We tricked the boy into eating beans!” they’re shouting.

Sawyer does, in fact, take a carefully wrapped piece of deep-dish cookie pie with him the next day, along with his usual, a PB&J, again, hold the jelly. And each day after that until nothing but crumbs are left of the pie.

On day four, as Chris and I sit in the living room watching Jeopardy!, Sawyer plops down on the sofa. He looks a little sheepish as he says, “I don’t know what my problem was in school today, but I couldn’t stop farting. Like, all day.”

I shrug. “Hmmm, no idea.” Meanwhile, I look over at Chris and give him the don’t-you-dare-say-a-word-about-beans look. “You feel OK otherwise?”

“Yeah, I feel fine,” he says. “Just gassy.”

“Well, then I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I’ve now made that recipe for years, eventually coming clean about what’s in it to Sawyer. Luckily, he was too far gone to turn back and still enjoys a slice, especially warm. As for any other vegetables? Well, I might just let that be his future partner’s problem. Maybe she can change him.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

By Cassie Bustamante

“Help! I need a furniture therapy!” Angelique texts me early one recent morning. Even earlier for her since she moved from Maryland to Colorado a year after our family jumped ship from the Old Line State to the Old North State. But we’re both early risers, especially now that we’re middle-aged, and those predawn conversations are frequent — focusing on anything from perimenopausal insomnia and parenting to what smutty books we’re currently reading. Or, as in this case, which Facebook marketplace chairs will look best at her dining table.

When Gail, a mutual friend of ours, got wind that I was packing up and heading to the rolling hills of rural Myersville, Md., she said, “You’ve got to meet Angelique! She has a vintage business, just like you. You two will hit it off.” Plus, I discovered, Angelique had three kids, two who were the same ages as mine — Sawyer and Emmy, just 6 and 4 at the time. It felt like a fated friendship. And yet, things didn’t simply fall into place.

Once our boxes were unpacked, I dialed the number Gail had given me and burbled on as I do when I’m nervous and unsure of myself. “Hi, I’m Cassie, and Gail has told me so much about you and I’d love to hang out sometime and our kids are the same age and . . .” Yep, oral diarrhea, technically diagnosed as logorrhea, and I just can’t make it stop. But I suppose that’s better than the actual kind.

As luck would have it, I discovered that Sawyer and Angelique’s middle daughter were on the same soccer team. And at practice one afternoon, Angelique was there on the sidelines — tall, goddess-like, striking with dark-chocolate hair and, although I don’t quite recall the outfit, I do remember thinking at the time, “that’s pretty chic for soccer practice.” Angelique, I began to realize, had impeccable style, both in fashion and, I learned as the months went by, in what had become increasingly an interest of mine, interiors.

I fought the immediate urge to run over and say hi. And I didn’t. In fact, we didn’t really become good friends for months after that. As I sat on a blanket with Emmy watching Sawyer run down the soccer field, I took one look at myself and the word that came to mind was “frumpy.” Ill-fitting jeans, a worn T-shirt and hair that had been plopped up on top of my head just to keep it out of my tired face. Ultrachic Angelique seemed clearly out of my leggings-count-as-pants league.

But, as the years trotted along in Myersville, our kids got to know each other in school. Soon, Emmy was asking to play with Angelique’s youngest daughter, Genevieve. The girls were too young to make those plans themselves but old enough to choose their own playmates. I can’t remember who broke the ice first, but once we started chipping away, the rest melted.

Slowly, Angelique and I got to know each other. What started as a mutual passion for design and fashion blossomed into a deep interest in what else we held dear and what terrified us. We are both dreamers who thrive on the creative back-and-forth more than the final product. But where I am all fire and have a “go” kind of energy, Angelique is a soft place to land, contemplative, compassionate and an incredible listener. Day by day, week by week, month by month, as we allowed ourselves to become more vulnerable and share our innermost trials, tribulation and triumphs, we became trusted confidantes through all of life’s beauty and messiness.

When she became caretaker for her elderly father, I listened as she navigated a new stage in life. And when I suffered several miscarriages, Angelique’s nonjudgmental, empathetic ear saw me through. In fact, so thrilled that baby Wilder was finally growing in my belly, she insisted on throwing me a baby shower. I assured her I didn’t need one and was met with, “But I want to do this for you, Cassie.” While it may have taken years, Gail was right. No, off the bat, we didn’t hit it off, but practice makes perfect and now we’re each others biggest cheerleaders.

One of our favorite outings was to make the hour-long trek to Ikea, lists in our hands and dreams of affordable Swedish-made furniture and decor in our heads. The drive offered the opportunity for coffee and conversation. On one occasion, as we glided south on I-95, the topic of women supporting women came up — after all, we both co-owned female-led businesses. I said something to the effect of, “Sometimes it’s a case of feeling mutually intimidated that can lead to two women missing out on what could actually be a great friendship.”

While I hadn’t actually been referring to us, Angelique, in the passenger seat, sheepishly peered at me out of the corner of her eye and quipped, “Yeah, let’s not let that happen again.”

That’s the moment it dawned on me. All that time I’d lost thinking I wasn’t worthy of Angelique, she had been intimidated by me. She saw me as smart, casually stylish and totally confident in who I was. Turns out, that intimidation was just mutual admiration.

I pick up my phone, press Angelique’s number and wait for her to pick up.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

From Sourdough to Salem

Making a list and checking things off

By Cassie Bustamante

The Roman god Janus, after whom January was named, had two faces, one that looked to the past and one that looked to the future, symbolizing his domain over beginnings and endings. Last fall, too many endings piled up suddenly. Within the span of one week, a friend’s brother died unexpectedly, we said goodbye to a book club pal’s husband, an integral part of the Greensboro community whose effervescent life was cut much too short by cancer, and another friend tragically lost her beloved dog — all of this a month after my own Aussie-Weimaraner sidekick crossed the rainbow bridge. This perfect storm of grief and loss left me stunned and looking inward, and, frankly, ready to forge my own new beginning.

Plus, I’d just read about Greensboro Public Library’s “One City, One Book” pick, My Father’s List, by Laura Carney. When Carney discovered her late father’s bucket list among his belongings, she decided to honor him by checking off the boxes left incomplete. Instead of pondering how I want to be remembered, hopefully decades from now, I thought about how I want to live.

Inspired by Carney and driven by the mission to make the most of my days, I texted one of my best friends: “It’s a few months away, but next year in January, instead of a big goal for the year, I am going to make a 2026 bucket list and fill it with things I want to do.” No lofty goals of writing my first book or finally having six-pack abs. (At 47, it might be time to toss in the gym towel on that one.)

In December 2024, this particular friend and I had together decided to tap into our creativity in 2025, meeting once a month for a craft night. We managed only a few, but those rare evenings were precious to me. Our young kids would play while we made denim bracelets, pounded flowers — zero stars for that one, a total fail — and caught up on each other’s lives.

Her reply came almost immediately: “Could one of our craft nights be to make a tangible bucket that we put these little notes into?”

A couple hours later, another text came — this time, an image of a Halloween-decorated porch featuring a little cauldron. “Also . . . cauldron for bucket list?”

It was a big ol’ “yes” from me. I love all things witch adjacent. After all, I was named after a witch, Cassandra, on the vampire-themed soap opera of the 1960s, Dark Shadows, and I grew up not far from where the infamous Salem witch trials took place. I’m just accepting my destiny. Crystals sit on my dresser, a manifestation candle on my nightstand. I do not own a Ouija board — that’s a portal too far for me.

In December, I took some time to jot down my very own “cauldron list.” The idea is that, upon completion, I drop the slip of paper featuring the written task into the cauldron:

Write a short piece of fiction. Some people say you should do something that scares you each day and this one definitely makes my knees quake.

Learn to make sourdough bread. Yes, I’m six years late to this trend, but do you know what never goes out of style? Crusty, carby, sourdough bread. In fact, it’s been around for possibly more than 6,000 years. But, in my house, it only sticks around for a day or two.

Get a colonoscopy. Not nearly as appealing as some of my other items, but necessary. To ease my mind around this one, I just googled “what happens during a colonoscopy” and do not recommend you do the same.

Take Wilder on the challenging hike at Stone Mountain State Park. At just 7, he doesn’t know it, but he’s in training to hit up Yosemite, Yellowstone, Acadia and many more national parks with me and my husband, Chris.

Read Just Kids by Patti Smith. I bought this book five years ago and have yet to crack it open. My own editor even asked me recently if I’d read it. “Well, I own it. Does that count for something?” Nope.

Make an autumnal pilgrimage to Salem, Massachusetts. This trip has been on my mental bucket list for years and it’s time to pay homage to the witches who have gone before me.

And the list goes on — but not too much. The point is to embrace my life, not consume what little free time I already have. A year from now, I hope I can tell you that 2026 was the year that I learned to live each day like it was a new adventure, that my cauldron is full of tiny slips of paper. But if that isn’t the case, perhaps one of my own children will one day unearth my unfinished work and set about putting another drop in the bucket — or another slip in the cauldron, as it may be.

2026 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

Predictably Perfect

A Hallmark moment to remember forever

By Cassie Bustamante

Let’s face it, the market of cheesy holiday romance films — à la Hallmark — is oversaturated. But I recall when just one or two would be released each year, and you had to pay attention to when they aired, even if you recorded them with TiVo. My daughter, Emmy, and I would dive under the plush, down cover of my cozy bed and snuggle together as a string of lights twinkled on the wall above my headboard and a Christmas tree glimmered in the corner of the room. Emmy’s interest in watching holiday films while cuddling with her mom has inevitably declined. Anyhow, this year, she’s away at her first year of college, leaving me on my own while Netflix drops a barrage of Hallmark-adjacent films. And while I know within the first five minutes of viewing how the next 90 or so will unfold, I still adore these movies. The plot line is as comforting as my morning cup of coffee, filling me with a familiar, nostalgic warmth.

Each one goes something like this: Big-city lawyer Holly ventures to a small, snowy town named Hope Falls — with a gazebo in its town center, of course — to visit her newly widowed father for the holidays. There, she inevitably saves the local Christmas tree farm, owned by a flannel-wearing stud named Nick, by setting up a pop-up bake sale where she sells cookies using her late mom’s cherished, handwritten recipe. Naturally, Holly and Nick fall in love and open a bakery named “Pining for Sweets” on the farm property and live happily ever after, selling Christmas trees and confections.

And while Emmy’s no longer into the yearly ritual, last Thanksgiving I discovered that I need not watch the 32 Hallmark “Countdown-to-Christmas” films all by my lonesome self.

And so it was that one late November evening, we arrive home from my parents’ house, stuffed and sleepy. Our oldest, Sawyer, heads immediately to his lair to play video games. Emmy retreats to the warmth of her own bed. My husband, Chris, turns the family-room television on to whatever college football game is being played. Our youngest, 6-year-old Wilder, builds a Pokémon puzzle on the coffee table with Chris. Taking inventory of the situation, I decide I could use a quiet, little lie-down myself.

I turn on the Christmas lights already strung over my bed (confession — we keep them up year round because I love their glow), flop myself down and grab the remote. Netflix tells me that Lindsay Lohan’s latest, Our Little Secret, is today’s top film. I love a good comeback story and applaud Lohan for finding her way back to the screen in a healthy, wholesome manner. And, to be fair, this movie is a level up from Hallmark. Kristin Chenoweth, Tim Meadows and Ian Harding, the dude who played Ezra Fitz in Pretty Little Liars, a show that Emmy and I watched together in its entirety? Yes, please.

With 30 minutes left in the movie, Wilder, wearing his Super Mario pajamas and Santa hat that he hasn’t taken off all day, wanders in to ask if I’d like to watch a Peanuts movie with him and Dad.

“Of course, I’d love to,” I say. “But lemme just finish watching this first. OK?”

He peers curiously at the screen and spies glimmering Christmas decorations adorning a large, twinkling, light-covered home. Instead of leaving, he hops on the bed and nestles into me. While the movie is rated PG-13, I decide it’s tame enough for him to stay. Plus, a lot of the inappropriate content will fly right over his Santa-capped head.

As the ending draws close and the love interest makes his grand, sweeping gesture to finally win over Lohan, Wilder says, “This is making me feel like I am going to cry.”

After a moment, Lohan and her beau embrace and seal it with a kiss. “See,” I say to Wilder, “It’s a happy ending.”

He hugs me tighter as he says, “Yes, but it’s just so beautiful that I want to cry.”

So, this year, I’m ready. The lights are twinkling above the bed. Soon I’ll be cuddling up with my new romance-loving partner in crime. And when Emmy comes home for her Christmas break, we’ll just squeeze in tighter and make room for her, too. That is, if she wants to join us.

2025 Chaos Theory Department