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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. |
| Living in a tiny, polluted (most Super Fund sites in the nation), over-populated state, I have made it my mission to make my yard as wildlife friendly as possible. There are no tiny warning flags on my lawn, I garden organically. There are no loud, foul-smelling machines cutting and trimming my lawn, my mower and weed whacker are electric. In fact, there is no “lawn” as understood by most suburbanites. In place of the usual emerald green monoculture is a collection of plants, often called “weeds” with a generous helping of grass. Flower beds are planted with flowers that are either scented, historical, attract beneficial insects, or some combination thereof. My backyard boasts five different bird feeding stations: perching, woodpecker, ground-feeder, hummingbird and suet. The all-important source of water is also provided in the form of a birdbath. Most so-called “experts” will tell you that a birdbath should be sited in an open area, where predators can’t creep up on it unseen by its avian occupants. I have chosen to place my birdbath in an aesthetic location, a corner of my backyard that sits in deep shade all day. It is surrounded by tall ferns, large hostas, and hellebores whose foliage provides a lovely groundcover. The birds don’t seem to mind. Not only is it in daily use during the summer, but they line the top of the fence waiting for their turn to splash in its cool waters. Interestingly, there is a pecking order for who gets to use the birdbath and when. The larger birds, like grackles, blue jays and robins use it first, followed by the smaller sparrows and chickadees. In the very hottest weather, the hierarchy breaks down and birds of all sizes crowd the wide bowl while others line the fence loudly demanding that the bathers finish so that they can have their turn. A bird will occasionally have the birdbath all to itself. If I am lucky, I can sit quietly nearby and watch. Once it was a robin. After splashing around, he hopped out and perching on the rim, carefully began preening his feathers. When he hopped back in, I thought “Missed a spot!” He hopped out and preened. And hopped back in a second time. I laughed, thinking that he must be a very fastidious bird. He hopped out and preened again. When he hopped back in a third time, I was thinking that he must have a problem similar to people, suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, who wash their hands over and over. I stopped counting his washing and preening episodes after five. He returned every day, washing and preening obsessively. I began to call him the OCD Robin. When he disappeared in the fall, I wasn’t concerned. Robins don’t migrate south in the winter, they change their diet. Winter freezes the soil so that they cannot dig up the worms and larvae that live in the ground. During the colder seasons, robins retreat to the woods and subsist on berries until the warm air of spring lures them back out to your lawn with its succulent collection of worms. Alas, the OCD robin didn’t return the following spring. I wondered if his OCD contributed to his demise. I don’t fill my birdbath during the winter months because I have no way of keeping the water from freezing. Perhaps he had been forced to use naturally occurring sources of water in wild places where his obsessive washing and preening left him exposed to predators. To see what else is going on in my garden, check out "Memoirs of a Garden Goddess"  |
| This morning, after washing dishes and cleaning my kitchen, I went down into the basement to throw in a load of laundry. I heard water. Not discreet individual little drips. No, I heard a steady stream of water. A quick glance in the direction from which the sound was coming revealed a veritable waterfall descending from the ceiling which on the floor above translated into the space beneath my kitchen sink. My first thought was that I had been wrong on Sunday evening when I had spotted water on the basement floor and attributed it to seepage from the intense thunderstorms that had passed through during the afternoon. My second thought was “Oh s***, not again!!” This marks the third time in fifteen years that I have had to call in a plumber to repair/replace the plumbing accoutrements under my kitchen sink. I have also repaired/replaced the plumbing attached to my bathroom sink and tub three times. When I first moved into this house and had to call in a plumber/electrician/telephone repair tech, I chalked it up to the fact that the previous owners had been do-it-yourselfers who were long on enthusiasm but short on skill. Once everything had been properly installed/replaced, I thought that I wouldn’t have to worry about it again. After all, I had previously lived for ten years in a house that was over one hundred years old and the only repairs that I had had to make during that time were to replace the roof and rebuild the chimneys. This house is half that age and so should require a lot less maintenance. Wrong. It seems that something is always leaking/sparking/falling to pieces. I am probably the only person who was glad to have been laid off in the wake of 9/11. Glad, because when the sewer line broke, I had a generous severance package that paid for the excavation of my front yard from the foundation to the street, a new pipe and then the re-grading and reseeding of the front yard after replacing the crumbling walk and steps to the front door that had been destroyed during the excavation. Perhaps when my realtor came to see my house for the first time and was shocked to find original cabinets and floors, I shouldn’t have been so embarrassed about my many years of poverty. Instead, I should have pulled out fifteen years of receipts and asked her how I could possibly afford granite countertops and Pergo flooring after paying out tens of thousands of dollars in my desperate attempts to prop up the crumbling infrastructure of the House From Hell. To see what else I've been ranting about, check out "It's All About Me!!" |
| Written for the "The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week" Prompt: "You discover someone has stolen your identity. Tell about the discovery and impact." "Invalid Item" See what else I've written for contests: "Pick me! Pick me!" |
| Deer are taking over New Jersey. Some might argue that it is Canadian Geese who are taking over or that Black Bears are making a run at the title of “Biggest Pest” in this tiny, overcrowded state, but one look at the highways and byways of the Garden State tells you that it is the deer who are the biggest threat to the human inhabitants. New Jersey’s highways are littered with the bloated corpses of deer who have lost their round in the unending contest of Car vs Deer. Wreckers do a brisk business hauling away the mangled remains of autos. Private companies contract with the state to remove the dead deer but there are so many miles of roads and so many deer, that they cannot keep up, especially during mating season when the bucks are so consumed with lust that they fail to see the bright lights of two tons of steel bearing down on them. So while in some places it may be common to track the progress of the renovation or construction of buildings along the route of your daily commute, here in New Jersey we play the game of “How Many Days Has That Deer Been Laying on the Shoulder?” One memorable December, my entire department was transfixed by the saga of Rudolph, a deer who met his demise in Marlboro. Someone with a sick sense of humor had placed a piece of red cloth on his nose, hence the moniker Rudolph. Every morning we eagerly questioned our coworkers who passed him on their daily commute to see if he was still there. The company that had the contract for that stretch of road was either terribly busy or enjoyed the same sick sense of humor, because Rudolph was not picked up until Christmas Eve. Last week on my way to work, I passed another gruesome reminder that deer and cars are rarely able to successfully share the road. A smear of blood and fur stretched along the center line between the two lanes of eastbound Rt 22. What made it particularly grisly was that there was no body, just blood, fur and the top of the deer’s head with two blood-spattered ears attached. To see what else I'm ranting about, check out "It's All About Me!!" |
| As I was dressing for work today, I was surprised to see Bandit sitting in the middle of the rug in my bedroom. A semi feral cat, he normally leaves a room when I enter it so the fact that he was voluntarily occupying the same space as I could only mean one thing: Wet Food Time. A glance into the hallway, revealed Rory, also in a seated posture, impatiently waiting for me to start opening cans. A few steps down the hall (I have a very small house) found Furball, resolutely settled by the food bowls. Two things came to mind. 1.) All three cats were reminding me to feed them before I left for work. 2.) They were working together to herd me towards their food. For more cat tales, check out "Tails of the Fur Patrol" |
| WARNING!! This post is for women only. Children under the age of 18 and men of all ages should read no further. I had my annual mammogram today. Mammograms are difficult for every woman, but especially for those of us with very sensitive breasts. “Sensitive” is not usually the word that comes to mind the first time you see me. I stand 5’7” tall with an addiction to high heels which pushes my height up to 5’10”. And I have big bones. No, I’m not fat, I have BIG bones. Broad shoulders, long arms, large rib cage, proportionate waist, all resting on tiny hips. My nickname as a child was “Snake Hips”. Men’s clothing fits me better than women’s clothing. Sleeves are long enough, shoulders are not so tight that I can’t raise my arms and I can take normal breaths without worrying about popping any buttons. Too bad, other than jeans, I can’t wear men’s pants all the time. Women’s pants are designed for Barbies with hourglass figures: tiny waists and big hips. I have tiny hips and a big waist. Like a man. I’ve never been accused of being delicate and feminine. Yet I am surprisingly sensitive. Most soaps and lotions make my skin break out. And mammograms are torture. The harder the machine compresses, the greater the agony and the louder I scream. Four times, two views each, I have to endure the unendurable. My breasts ache for hours afterwards. Today began like previous years. The tech placed my right breast in the machine. It squeezed, I screamed. We changed positions, squeezed and screamed again. Then we switched breasts. Squeeze. I felt nothing. A little pressure. We changed positions, squeezed and . . . silence. The tech assured me that “we all have one side that is more sensitive than the other.” Not me. I am (usually) sensitive on both sides. It’s been hours and while my right breast is still throbbing painfully, my left breast feels nothing. I think it’s dead. To see what else I'm ranting about, check out "It's All About Me!!" |
| About a decade ago, my best friend gave me a butterfly bush. I like to grow plants in my garden that are reminders of the people in my life. The butterfly bush was especially meaningful to me because she had given it to me while she was fighting a losing battle with breast cancer in hopes of cheering me up during some very dark days in my own life. That was so typical of her, always reaching out to help other people. By the following year, she was gone but the butterfly bush flourished. Other than my rosebushes, I’m not good at pruning, especially the drastic annual pruning required by lilacs and butterfly bushes. My lilac and my butterfly bush have both grown into enormous specimens. In past years, the butterfly bush has been literally covered with butterflies. Lately though, the decline of the butterfly population has become obvious. Last year I saw very few butterflies. This year, only two. Both swallowtails, no monarchs. I was distressed a few years ago to learn that butterfly bushes are considered an invasive species in New Jersey. Planting them is frowned upon. I couldn’t very well dig mine up and discard it, so I decided to make amends by planting a butterfly garden with native and non-invasive species. Along with the usual zinnias, cosmos and salvias, I planted milkweed for monarchs and fennel for the swallowtails. I use bronze fennel in my butterfly garden for its gorgeous foliage. Last year I was rewarded with the sighting of a caterpillar on one of my plants. This year, I happened upon a swallowtail as she was laying her eggs on the feathery foliage. She alighted on the underside of a frond, bent her abdomen up to the foliage and deposited a milky egg sac. Then it was off to another frond to repeat the process. I bragged about this to everyone who I thought might be interested. A fellow photographer asked if I had gotten any pictures, adding that butterflies are notoriously difficult to photograph. I have to admit that the thought did cross my mind at the time. I fleetingly wondered if I had enough time to run into the house, grab my camera and run back out while she was still laying her eggs. But I dismissed the thought because it seemed like an invasion of her privacy. I know that I wouldn’t have wanted someone taking pictures when I was giving birth. Hell, I didn’t even want the idiot that knocked me up to be there (it should come as no surprise that the marriage failed). I don’t understand “birthing rooms” filled with crowds of people, male and female, and even children. Since when has birth become a spectator sport? Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked. That is a rant for another day. Today, I’m discussing butterflies. Every day since, I have visited my butterfly garden but I haven’t seen other butterflies laying eggs. I have seen more egg sacs, though. Now that I know what to look for, I seem to see them everywhere. I’m hoping to see caterpillars in a few weeks. While I wait, I am gathering seeds from my fennel plants to bring with me when I move and start a new garden. To find out what else goes on in my garden, check out "Memoirs of a Garden Goddess" |
| (Inspired by "Procrastination" post in "Invalid Item" . Check out her port. Really great stuff.) I only go to the doctor when I’m at death’s door. Anything minor and I can either take care of it myself or get by until it stops hurting/swelling/bleeding. I never saw much sense in annual physicals. Why should I pay someone to tell me what I already know: aside from being a year older, everything is the same as last year. For years, even my weight didn’t vary. I was always proud of the fact that I wore the same size as I did in college. Middle age has brought a few unwelcome changes. Despite eating less and eating healthier, I’ve gained enough weight to wear one size larger than I did in my twenties. My (bad) cholesterol has increased, another normal part of the aging process. Again, despite improvement in my diet. It’s a good thing that I like to cook. Have you eaten in a so-called casual dining restaurant lately? Everything is fried and/or smothered in thick cream sauces or cheese. My arteries clog up just reading the menu. The portion sizes are stupefying. Each over-sized plate holds the equivalent of three days of food. For me, at least. In my own kitchen, vegetables are steamed, stir-fried or, best of all, eaten raw with a (very) little oil and vinegar. Meats are roasted, stewed or also stir-fried. I can’t remember the last time that I ate anything deep fried. Even French fries are baked in my house. The last time I was at the doctor, he shook his head over my increasing cholesterol numbers and lectured me (again) about modifying my diet. I was told to cut down on fried and fatty foods. I protested that I didn’t eat any of that stuff and reminded him that if you don’t eat enough cholesterol, your body manufactures it. The look on his face plainly told me that he thought I was secretly bingeing on deep fried candy bars. His other advice to help reduce my cholesterol was to exercise. I found this a little puzzling because the reason for my visit that day was that I had sprained my wrist at the gym. Sprained it so badly that my left hand was useless. An x-ray had been ordered to make sure that I hadn’t broken my wrist. Assured that I had injured only muscle, not bone, I was told to not exercise my wrist until it healed and to lessen the intensity of my workouts to avoid future injuries. So let’s re-cap, shall we? My doctor wants me to cut down on the fried and fatty foods that I am not eating and exercise more to reduce my cholesterol while exercising less to avoid injury. For more rants about my life, check out "It's All About Me!!" |
| Of course, seemingly the moment I put my non-air-conditioned house on the market in May, the heat waves started to roll in. A week or more of 90°+ heat followed by a day or two of normal temperatures followed by another week or more of 90°+ heat. It has been relentless, like the tides. Most nights the temperatures fall back into the 70’s, but it takes hours for the house to cool down. I can only sleep during those few brief hours before sunrise when the temperature inside is the same as the temperature outside. Work in an air-conditioned office is my only respite from the merciless heat. The Fur Patrol gets no such respite. Each member copes with the heat in his own unique fashion. At first, Furball spent his days lolling in the bathtub. I learned not to be surprised to see his furry face pop out from behind the shower curtain while I was using the bathroom. Rory staked out the basement as his personal “cooling center”. He was not happy when I did the laundry and turned on the dryer. Bandit, for reasons known only to himself, began napping under the beds upstairs, rather than on top of them. Recently, it was announced that the first six months of this year have been the hottest on record. The unrelenting heat has taken its toll on The Fur Patrol. Furball can no longer muster the energy to climb into the tub. Now he sprawls on the plastic mat under my computer chair. Rory can’t seem to manage the trip to the basement, so he is sprawled on the linoleum floor in the kitchen. And Bandit, poor Bandit who only comes downstairs at mealtime. I found him sprawled at the top of the stairs as if he had collapsed in a last ditch effort to make it to the cooler first floor. Visitors to my home these days might think that something had exploded and left cats strewn all over the house. For more cat tales, check out "Tails of the Fur Patrol" |
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