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 |  Because I am the most interesting person I know |
| I lead the most boring life. I have challenged myself to write about my life so that it seems interesting. |
Today's prompt over at "The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week"  is: The bakery where the birthday cake you'd ordered weeks ago just burned down. This evening fifty people are coming to wish your one-hundred-year-old daddy "Happy Birthday." What are you going to do? (No, you don't even know how to boil water, so don't even suggest baking the cake yourself!)Well, I can boil water and I can bake, but the prompt reminded me of a story I posted in my cooking blog about a birthday cake that went terribly wrong: Bonnie Butter Cake with French Silk Frosting Long, long ago when I was a young woman, the mother of the man I was then dating came to visit him. Not only were we serious enough that he wanted to introduce me to his mother, but since it was also her birthday, he wanted to show off my culinary talents and asked me to bake her a cake. I wanted to impress her but there was no internet back then and I only owned one cookbook, my trusty Betty Crocker cookbook. I found a recipe in it for a three layer cake. Three layers! French frosting! At that time, I impressed easily. I also was blissfully unaware of the old adage that you should never make a brand new recipe for company. Betty Crocker never lets me down. The cake came out perfectly. Too perfectly. His mother refused to believe that I had baked it. She accused me of buying a cake at a bakery and trying to pass it off as my own. My then boyfriend tried to defend me. He had witnessed me make it but she was adamant. I was a liar and a cheat. My relationship with her son did not survive very long after she left. But I still bake that cake! It’s easy and delicious. Two things to bear in mind when you are making it. Don’t skimp on the time beating it or it will be dense and heavy. Go the full five minutes for a light airy texture. And double the frosting recipe. I’m sorry. Betty lies. As you can see from the picture, it does not make enough to fill and frost three 8-inch layers. |
| Hurricane Earl was a bust. At least here in NJ. I’m looking out the window at 7:00 pm. There are supposed to be howling winds and torrential rain. Instead, there are bands of clouds, light breezes and no rain. I’m so glad that I didn’t go through my usual pre-hurricane ritual of moving garbage can and recycling containers into the shed, followed by the lowering of storm windows and then closing all the windows in the house. I don’t have air conditioning. It gets very stuffy in the house during those rare hurricanes that brave the guidos and pollution found in this state. The smallest state in the nation, we have the most superfund sites. Other states pay us to take their garbage. I don’t know where we put it. Perhaps I don’t want to know where we put it. I thought Hurricane Floyd in 1999 was going to be the wake-up call we needed. It courageously waded ashore, lashing us with winds and rain as if it were determined to wash the state clean. Instead, thanks to the overdevelopment of the previous two decades, hundred-year floods occurred. Whole towns disappeared underwater. Infrastructure was destroyed. We were thrown back into the pre-Industrial era with no electricity and no potable water. New Jersey’s motto is “The Garden State”. That was once true. It was filled with farms and produce stands. But as large-scale industrial farms became the norm, the small family farms of NJ were unable to stay profitable and gradually began selling their acreage to developers. Many people complain about the “condo-ing” of NJ but what stands out to me are the malls. The roads are lined with strip malls. Regional malls dot the landscape surrounded by acres of parking. So when Floyd paid his visit, there was no open ground to soak up the rain. The water could only run downhill on the paved roads and parking lots and collect in low-lying areas. The nearby baseball stadium was filled up to the first tier of seats. Worst of all for me personally, the local water treatment plant was flooded and had to be shut down. I had electricity, but no water. Correction, water came out of the taps, but it could neither be drunk nor used in cooking. I began a grueling week of leaving the office each day at lunchtime, lining up behind the municipal buildings to collect my water ration, dropping it off at home and then heading back to the office. I made a sign for my desk that said: “Will Work For Water”. I learned to use and re-use water. I learned to hate sponge baths. I learned that I really can’t not wash my hair every day. And I learned to love the National Guard as they trailered in the precious water tanks from which I filled my allotted five 1-gallon containers. Despite all the hardships and economic disruptions, nothing was done after Floyd to prevent it from happening again. The developers continued building, if anything, more frantically than before. The State continued paving more miles of highways. Even with all the Green Spaces and rain gardens created since then, there is even less open ground to absorb moisture than back in 1999. Each hurricane season now, I keep a close eye on the storm tracks. If a hurricane appears to be headed in this direction, I start filling containers with water. |
| It seems whenever I work on my book, I stop writing other things. It crowds all other ideas out of my mind. It takes over my life. I keep checking around WDC for prompts to inspire me, but haven't found any. I'm not sure whether that is because I am not inspired right now or because it's just one of those periods when everyone is writing about stuff that doesn't interest me. Maybe a little of both. I made a commitment to myself to write 500 words a day, 5 days a week for the book. I give myself weekends off but I still think about things to write or how I want to write them come Monday. So far, I have been pretty good about meeting my word count goal. One thing that has helped is that I am not trying to write the book in order from chapter one. I work on whatever chapter I have an idea for on that day. It has been working really well. I'm finding that I have more to say than I realized. And when I get stuck and can't write, I start reading and editing other chapters. Those little breaks are very helpful. After a few edits, I feel refreshed and ready to go back to what I was working on so that I can make my 500 word goal. Maybe Hurricane Earl will provide me with something exciting to write about tomorrow. |
| In an interesting reversal, "The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week" seems to be getting their prompts from my blog instead of me using their prompts for my blog posts. Yesterday, I mentioned that I had intended to write about feeding a friend’s cats. Today’s prompt on The Writer’s Cramp is: Write a story or poem about taking care of a friend's cats while he or she is away - and one day you come by to find something unexpected... For a complete cast of characters, please read "Invalid Item" . A new character, Miss Mu, is actually not new. She is the “pretty, little tortie” who showed me where her dish should go. I learned after I wrote “Feeding the Herd” that her name is Musette.When Carla assembled her team of Feeders/Scoopers to care for her cats during her annual vacation this year, I was assigned the Saturday morning and evening shifts, Sunday morning and Monday morning*. Mornings are difficult for me. Thanks to my job, I am accustomed to being up most of the night and sleeping most of the morning. The Herd neither knows nor cares about my work schedule. They were quite adamant Saturday morning that showing up at 11 am to serve breakfast was not acceptable. There was much yowling and milling about when I let myself in. Cheddar was so frantic to eat that he leapt onto the counter and knocked a can of food out of my hand before I even had a chance to open it. He willingly followed the unopened can to his cage and allowed himself to be locked in. One of the changes this year involved “pilling” Miss Mu. Carla had helpfully preloaded pill pockets with her medication. Miss Mu daintily ate her pill pocket out of my hand but made it clear that she considered it merely an appetizer and that I should get a move on and serve the main course. I obligingly went back into the kitchen and started dishing out canned food. But as fast as I dished it out, Fluffy Lee, who seems to be learning bad habits from Cheddar and jumping up on counters, was eating it. I’m not accustomed to The Fluffster having much of an appetite. I hurriedly opened a can of her special Prescription Diet food and set it out in a dish for her. I’ve fed The Herd a few times now and have a regular routine. I feed the cats in cages first, then put out dishes of wet food for everyone else. While they are eating, I begin scooping litterboxes. With 14 cats, there are a lot of litterboxes. When the wet food is finished, I refill the bowls with dry and then finish scooping litterboxes. Not this time. The wet food was practically inhaled. No sooner had I set out the dishes than they were licked cleaned followed by demands for kibble. I refilled the dishes with the dry food and started scooping. Then silence descended on the house. Their bellies full, the cats were sleeping on couches, grooming in corners and checking out the clean litterboxes. I gathered up the dishes and washed them. Fluffy Lee had stationed herself by my purse. She gave me a parting headbutt when I left. The cats were much calmer when I returned at 6 pm to serve dinner. I think that they had panicked in the morning. They knew that Carla was away and when no one showed up early in the morning to feed them breakfast, they thought that they had been abandoned. By the time I had showed up at 11 am, they were completely freaked out. Dinner was more normal. I was ready with a dish of Prescription Diet food for The Fluffster when she leaped up on to the counter. I noticed that Cheetah has a new bad habit. He tries to steal food from the caged cats, reaching through the bars to swipe pawfuls of wet food. I told him if he kept doing that, I wouldn’t let him out while I was there. He headed for the kitchen, leaped up on to the counter and muscled Fluffy Lee away from her bowl of food. Meanwhile, Cheddar was howling about the unfairness of Cheetah being allowed out to eat other cats’ food while he had to remain imprisoned. Cheetah was returned to his cage. Peace was restored. Wet food was served. They ate, I scooped. Dry food was doled out. Again, they ate, I scooped. Dishes were washed, goodbyes were said and I drove off into the sunset. Sunday morning was just as quiet. The Herd had resigned themselves to brunch instead of breakfast. *Carla returned home from her vacation early because of a family emergency, so I didn’t have to feed The Herd Monday morning. |
| I was going to write about Feeding The Herd this weekend, my annual payment for free catsitting by catsitting for my girlfriend’s 14 cats. No, she’s not a “cat lady”. She runs a cat rescue and fosters a lot of the rescues herself. Hence the large number of cats. I take care of The Herd (her cats) during her annual vacation and she takes care of The Fur Patrol (my cats) when needed. My muse has deserted me. Another friend, a fellow volunteer at Rutgers Gardens, passed away after routine heart surgery. On Saturday, I was told that the surgery to implant a stent had gone well and that she was being released from the hospital. This morning I awoke to email from the Volunteer Coordinator that Pat had died. Pat ran the gift shop at Rutgers Gardens. She was a retired nurse who filled her days with volunteer work at her church and the Gardens. She was small in stature, but large in love. She didn’t wait for customers to come to the gift shop, she went outside and invited them in. She doled out maps and dog treats. She brought her own garden books into the shop to answer people’s questions. She purchased folk art decorations to liven up the shop, using money from her pension. I spent a lot of time with Pat this summer. Saturday afternoons, when no volunteers were working in the Gardens because of the heat, I weeded and watered and then escaped to the coolness of the gift shop. Pat always welcomed me with open arms and ice water. She would keep up a constant stream of chitchat with me while selling t-shirts, ice cream and soda. She was constantly darting in and out of the shop, helping visitors choose plants from the display in front of the shop. Weddings are held in the Sun & Shade Garden next to the gift shop every weekend. Even though it wasn’t part of her duties, she worked hard to make sure that each bride had the perfect wedding day. Pat made sure that cars were parked only along one side of the narrow access road so that traffic would not be blocked. She directed guests to the restrooms in the Log Cabin and made sure that they knew that they could find cold drinks and ice cream in the shop to keep cool while they were waiting for the bridal party to make their entrance. Pat had been looking forward to August all year. She was flying to California for a family event. This trip was so exciting for her that it was all she talked about. She was very concerned about who would run the gift shop in her absence. A volunteer stepped forward and spent several weekends shadowing her, learning the ropes. While Pat was away, I stopped by the gift shop each weekend to see how her student, Dianne, was doing. This past weekend, I was expecting Pat to be back at her post with tales of her adventures in California. Dianne was the one who told me that Pat had had her surgery and was doing well. I’m so glad that she had her surgery after her return. I’m happy that she was able to realize her dream. I wonder how long it will be before I stop looking for Pat to come out of the gift shop to sell a plant, direct a visitor or ask a wedding guest to move their car? How long before I step through the door and stop looking for her to reach into the freezer and pull out a much needed bottle of ice water? She was the heart and soul of the gift shop. She was small in stature, but large in love. |
| Posts in this blog may become few and far between. I’m working on The Book. Again. I had put it on the back burner when a literary agent rejected the book proposal that “Karen with a K” (myself being “Caren with a C”) and I had so laboriously put together. I wrote. She critiqued. I re-wrote. Rejection kind of took the wind out of my sails. But I am not one who is easily defeated. The Book and The Proposal were both put aside temporarily. I’m a big believer in Fate, coincidence, whatever you want to call it. Recently Newsweek did an entire issue on the fate of books and publishing. In that issue was a short article on self-publishing. The Book stirred. A few weeks later, I ran across a blogger who had self-published his book using the same P.O.D. (Print On Demand) publisher that was the subject of the Newsweek article. I thought that Fate was trying to tell me something. The Book whispered: maybe this is what we are looking for. I started researching the industry. With the right Desktop Publishing skills, one can upload a manuscript for free, paying only when books are actually printed (or eBook versions downloaded). No need for a literary agent or a regular publisher. For those of us who are not professional writers, the P.O.D. companies offer packages of varying prices and services to help us whip our manuscripts into shape. Followed by more packages of varying prices and services to market our books. The Book started chanting: You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. The Proposal also chimed in because thanks to all of the work I put into it, I already have a viable marketing plan and wouldn’t need to pay for a marketing package. Just an editorial package. There’s a reason that editors are being laid off and publishing companies are going out of business. Everyone is self-publishing these days. It’s just a question of money. One of the very few advantages to being single is that I don’t have anyone to rein in my spending. There is no one trying to convince me that I don’t need another pair of shoes, another kitchen gadget, or another plant for my garden. So if I want to spend my money publishing my own book, I can. Now I just have to finish writing The Book. Because, as usual, I have gone through the process backwards. Normal people write their book, choose their P.O.D. and then come up with a marketing plan. I wrote the marketing plan THEN found a P.O.D. THEN wrote my book. Just think of it as one of those cute things about me. |
| Monday night I came home to a terrible smell. Sort of a combination of burning and metallic. I “sniffed” all over the house and determined that it was emanating from my kitchen, specifically from my refrigerator. I also noticed that the motor (compressor?) was having difficulty running. At 1 in the morning, there was nothing I could do about the situation. I eventually went to bed with my fingers crossed that the refrigerator would remain cold until I could find a repair person in the morning. I awoke Tuesday morning to a smelly house and a running refrigerator. A quick peek into the freezer told me that at some point while I was sleeping, the refrigerator had stopped running completely for as long as it took for all of the ice in the bin to melt. Since the water was now frozen again, I thought it was safe to assume that the refrigerator was now running fine. After my nightmare experience with Sears Appliance Repair in May, I didn’t bother calling them despite the fact that my Kenmore refrigerator is under the same repair contract as my Kenmore washer and dryer. I called the appliance repair company that was finally able to repair my washer to now come and repair my refrigerator. I had one of those typically “female” conversations that comedians love: Me: “The motor on my refrigerator doesn’t sound right and there’s this terrible smell”. Male Tech: “What kind of a noise is it making?” Me: “It tries to turn on and then kinda dies away. Kinda VROOooom . . .errrrrrrr .” MT: (writing)”Claims refrigerator is making funny noise.” MT: “What’s this about a smell? Are you sure it’s the refrigerator?” Me: “Yes, I’m sure it’s the refrigerator, but I don’t know what’s making the smell.” MT: “What does it smell like?” Me. “Kind of burning and metallic.” MT: “Is it overheating?” Me: “I don’t know. That’s why I’m calling you.” MT: (writing) “Claims refrigerator is making funny smell." MT: “We can’t get anybody out there today. Someone will call you between 8:30 and 9:30 tomorrow morning and give you a two hour time window.” Me: “TOMORROW??” Of course by the time the repair guy showed up Wednesday morning, the smell was mostly gone and the refrigerator was running fine. It was the same guy who had worked on my washer. When he came to the door, we both burst out laughing. He listened to my story and not only believed me, but can actually imitate the sound of a struggling compressor better than I can. He determined that the refrigerator needs a new relay, which of course has to be ordered and will take a week. Just like the saga of my washer. Saga, you ask? Yes, saga. I was without a washing machine for 8 weeks. You try going two months without clean clothes. He says I should be careful. If the compressor starts making that noise again, I should turn off the refrigerator so as not to damage it. Turn it off? For a week? In August? It’s 90° to 100° and I have no air conditioning. The reason I can laugh is that I am ecstatic that my refrigerator needs to be fixed. I’m a bit superstitious and believe that bad things come in threes. First it was my washer, then the plumbing under my sink and now the refrigerator makes three and I’m done. |
| Like most people, I have a morning routine which includes a trip to the bathroom before tending to the Fur Patrol’s needs. The Fur Patrol, of course, feel that they should come first so they whine and scratch at the door despite reminders from me that I don’t bother them when they are using their litterboxes so I would appreciate the same courtesy when I am using mine. Having answered Nature’s call, I move on to getting treats for Furball, scooping kibble into the empty bowls for Rory and then refilling the water bowl. Only then am I allowed to start my coffee and toast my English muffin. Peace generally descends until I am in the final stages of getting ready for work in the afternoon. Then the Fur Patrol begins milling around and meowing urgently, eager for their wet food. I should know by now that cats are creatures of habit and when they are acting out of character, then something is very wrong. So the morning that they nagged me continually for wet food, something they are normally willing to wait until afternoon for, should have told me that something wasn’t right. I don’t know about you, but coffee goes right through me. Those three luscious cups of coffee that I sipped as I ate breakfast and read my book, keep me visiting the litterbox bathroom all morning. And one morning, every time that I went into the bathroom, the Fur Patrol congregated outside the door and meowed for my attention. I would yell through the door that it wasn’t time for wet food yet so they should go away and leave me alone. And when I opened the door, surprisingly, they had obeyed. Furball was sprawling on my bed, Bandit was upstairs watching Cat TV* and Rory was nowhere in sight. Then the whole performance would be repeated the next time I visited the bathroom. I couldn’t understand why they were suddenly demanding wet food in the morning, nor could I figure out how they got so quickly from in front of the bathroom door to my bed and the second floor, respectively. After the third repetition, I stomped out of the bathroom shouting “okay, okay, I’ll feed you your wet food!” and dramatically threw open the door to the closet in the hall where the cat food is kept. Sitting on a shelf in the closet was Rory with a look on his face that clearly said “what took you so long? I’ve been in here all morning. Didn’t you hear me?” The hall closet is my linen closet. It has a small interior door opening into the bathroom making it easy to grab necessities like soap and toilet paper. It also made it easy to hear Rory asking not for wet food, but to be let out of the closet. To this day, I have no idea how he got in there. *I set up a bench under a window at the top of the stairs that looks out on my neighbor's oak tree. There's a squirrel's nest and lots of squirrels running around the tree. It's also where the birds perch while waiting to get at the feeder at the foot of the tree. There is always a lot of action going on. I love looking up the stairs and seeing the Fur Patrol sitting on the bench intently watching out the window while their tails twitch. |
| Saturday I was at PetSmart helping out at an Adoption Day. My role was to pose the cats and kittens so pictures could be taken of them to be posted on PetFinder. Posing cats is a lot like herding cats. They go everywhere and do everything that you don’t want them to do. Kittens are especially difficult. One cage had five kittens in it. Trying to get all of them to look at the camera at the same time was an exercise in futility. In desperation, I grabbed a feather toy and dangled it above the cage. All five heads snapped up in unison. Chuckling, I slowly lowered the toy to the front of the cage as the kittens raptly tracked its movement. Five pairs of eyes were now looking in the direction of the camera. They were so intent on the wondrous feathers and shiny streamers that I don’t think that they even noticed the flashes of the camera. The rest of the cats were transported one by one to a small room behind the adoption area. Once safely behind a locked door, the feather toy resumed its role of Photographer’s Aid and photos were snapped of cats jumping for the toy, batting at the toy, chasing it in circles and then laying exhausted in my lap. Two of the older, plumper cats took only a trifling interest in the feather toy. They seem to regard it as a mildly irritating distraction from their investigation of their new environment. Meanwhile, the PetSmart employees were giving us the Evil Eye for using a toy we hadn’t paid for. To appease them, when all of the needed photos were taken, I purchased the feather toy for the Fur Patrol. I thought that it might be a welcome change from their usual insect and field mouse “toys”. Back in his younger days, Furball used to love chasing dangly toys around the house. The members of the Fur Patrol are all entering middle age, somewhere between 7 and 8 years old. Except Rory who may be older or younger. The vet isn’t sure. Regardless, they all could use a little exercise. Upon my arrival home, I served dinner. The Fur Patrol were so absorbed in their wet food, that they didn’t seem to notice the new toy. When they had finished and I had had a little “wet food” of my own, I got out the feather toy. It has a small bell which makes a faint tinkling sound when the toy is shaken. I used this to draw their attention. Then I started the magical dance that had so fascinated the cats and kittens at PetSmart. They stared at it. They sniffed it. Then they all turned and walked away. They are like a bunch of old men, set in their ways and unwilling to try anything new. |
| "Invalid Item" Written for "The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week" Prompt: Tomorrow is the most exciting day! I just can’t wait. I’m ready. I’m willing. I’m pawing the ground . . . Tomorrow, according to my calendar, is: Ride the Wind Day I’m not sure how one does so. I’m not sure what I need to wear, but I shall lift my nose to the sky, unfold my arms, and . . . Your prompt is to write about Ride the Wind Day. I hope it’s a wondrous day for all of us! |
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