Let Them Eat Cake

10:29 AM August 29, 1983 I came into this world kicking and screaming, which should come as no surprise to some people. As I age, I have taken on the mind set that this is just a run-of-the-mill, everyday, ordinary day, much to the shagrin of my mother who was rather flabbergasted at even the thought. As of lately though I have come to the conclusion that my timing of life events is just a little off kelter. Yet even my arrival into this world was not quite on schedule as I was ripped from my mother's womb a whole 5 weeks premature. I suppose the aforementioned problem should come as no surprise when taking these things into consideration.

Despite my rather ho-hum attitude about my birthday, I decided that a cake might lighten my mood and thus on an outting with Mag I decided to purchase a cake mix and prepare myself the sweet treat. At first I was a bit hesitant feeling a little egotistical for wanting to bake myself a cake, and then I figured really the only resulting harm would be a much needed elevation on the scale. Thus I purchased the Funfetti cake mix with icing to boot.

Strange thing though, today being the official day and all, I have not had even a sliver of that cake. I suppose I feel in some way that it might taste better when the clock strikes midnight and the calendar reads August 30 and there are another 365 days postponing the event till next year. Besides, cake tastes better for breakfast anyways.

Rage Against The Machine

Not exactly what you would call a hard core machine. More like a can opener, literally. My alarm sounded at about 3:00 PM as scheduled. My inital plan was to awaken early so that I could whip up some potato cassarole to take with me to work for dinner. But really I didn't get much further than the can of cream of mushroom soup.

When I first signed the lease to my apartment I was stone broke. Thus I saved much money eating things like Spaghetti-O's and good ole fashioned Campbell's soup. Therefore, of course, I knew that one of the first things I should invest in would be a can opener. Rachel had raved about the one that she had gotten when her and Ronald tied the knot, and thus recommended that I purchase the same one. I was even more inclined to buy it when she told me that it was electric and fairly inexpensive. I had never had an electric can opener, let alone one of my very own and thus I jumped at the opportunity. When pay day rolled around I made sure to save enough money to buy my can opener. I made the trip to Wall-Mart and scoured the aisles up and down looking for this can opener. Rachel told me it was called Gizmo. Cute. After digging around and making a mess in three aisles I finally found one. Packaged in a little canister, it was cuter than I had imagined.

I arrived home with my new can opener. I was so excited that I could barely contain myself. I ripped the bag open and tore the tape off the canister. I then ever so gently lifted the can opener out of the box and admired it from the other side of the room. It was one of the best things I ever bought. I worked like a charm, until today.

Of course, when I was crunched for time, it would decide not to work. Frustrated and mumbling profanities I slammed around the kitchen trying to get this can of soup open. I'm quite surprised now, that there was even some soup left in the can after I was done messing with it. I even turned the dang thing upside down thinking that might do the trip. Nope. I even went so far as to get the razor blade out of my tool kit and attempted to cut the top off that way. I do not recommend this technique. Finally when all was said, and still not done, I decided that I might fair best if I just broke down and did things the old fashioned way. So I went out the local grocery store and bought a manual can opener.

After standing in line for about 10 minutes at the Bi-Lo, I arrive back home at about 4:30 PM. 1 hour to get the cassarole prepared and cooked, while also getting myself dressed for work. To make this already long story short, I was not successful in getting the cassarole finished before leaving for work. Praise the Lord for McDonald's. . . . .

Call Me Now!

Unfortunately for myself and those who have regular or immediate contact with me I do not have a crystal ball. Nor can I read minds or see into the future. The reason I have addressed such an issue is due in part to those anonymous commentors. I am all about meeting new people, especially those who enjoy my writing. But therein lies the dilemma. I cannot have the pleasure of meeting your accquaintance unless you make yourself known. Therefore, this is your first and final warning. Gimme a name, an e-mail adresss, anything! Or else, I may be forced into consulting Ms Cleo!

And How Should I Presume?

Thus was a line in one of my favorite poems, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. In essence I am not quite sure what to write about lately. There are some things that I really feel a strong desire to express. But for the sake of my own sanity and the awareness that there are certain readers who are likely to warp and twist my words, and inevitably scamper off and report them to other nameless, faceless figures, I have a unanimous vote to just keep it all to myself, which is really pretty pathetic when the only vote is your own. But I digress.

In an attempt to entertain myself and possibly yourself, I could relate the most recent occurances with my car. Of course as fate would have it Wanda choked and sputtered and kicked only 10 minutes from the Krupp's house. For those who are not quite up to date, I had retreated to South Carolina about a week ago for a friend's wedding. As I drifted toward the shoulder and onto the grass I echoed her mutterings with some of my own, which also shall remain private. Popping the hood open, I took a peek at my darlings entrails. Steaming hot, I was hit with a wave of heat, which shoved me backwards and away from the car. Feeling rather helpless, I grabbed my purse from the passenger's seat and headed up the road. About 5 yards up the road a rather normal and nonthreatening gentleman pulled over and offered to take a look at the car. Unfortunately he too could not pin point the problem except to accuse me of running out of gas, unawares. Rather insulted I continued walking up the road. Just because I am a female does not mean that I am so out of tune with life to allow myself to run out of gas. For those of you who have had such misfortune, I do not mean to insult your intelligence. Things happen. But for me, this was not happening.

Walking, walking, walking. Sweating, sweating, sweating. I walked for about a mile and noticed a lack of sweating before I really became concerned. I soon approached a pasture only to find a group of donkeys saunter up to the fence. "Yes God, I hear you. I know I'm an @ss!" I continued walking. Not too far past the donkeys a cop rolled up along side of me. Scarlet faced and tear stained I answered his predictable question. "No, I'm not ok, and yes that is my car back a ways. Yes I would like a ride." I sat rather quietly in the trooper car for the 8 minutes ride up the road to the Krupp's house. Pulling into the drive Rachel and Lauren came running out to greet me, faces painted with concern. Point in case, Dean, Rachel's father had the car towed and had some diagnostics run only to find that the timing belt had broken. He authorized his mechanic to fix Wanda and I would repay him for the charges.

Mounting my not always faithful steed for the ride home I prayed to arrive safely and in my own vehicle. Then as indicated by my 6th sense, and only 70 miles from Chattanooga, she started stuttering and sputtering again. I did arrive home safely but rather jostled, only to find that something else was wrong with the car. More diagnostics were run and I was sorrowfully informed that another $400 would be required to repair the oil that had leaked into the spark plug valve, and the spark wires, and all the plugs, and a number of other things that have slipped my mind. Sigh.

Currently we are running up to par, but my bank account, that's another story. . . . . .

Ode To Clifford

It is with great sorrow that I must report the rather unexpected death of my darling Clifford. If I have not yet introduced you, my faithful reader, to Clifford, it is a bit too late. But for history's sake I'll start at the beginning.

It was my junior year of High School and I had just transferred to Souderton Area High School. I was the newbie and thus coming from 8 years of private schooling, I just did not fit it. To ease my loneliness and pain, I decided to get a pet of my very own. Of course there was the cat, Krukker, but he was not solely mine. Therefore I convinced my Mom to allow me to get some fish. I jumped in the car and headed to PetSmart in Montgomeryville. Upon my arrival I had determined not to leave the store empty handed, although I felt a little apprehensive at the thought of walking to the car with little water filled baggies in below freezing weather. Despite the weather I scoured the wall of fish tanks and decided on some goldfish, but these weren't just any goldfish. With long flowing fins and lumpy heads, they were called Lionheads.

And thus became our new family addition, Byron and Clifford, Byron being the larger of the 2. Swimming in their watery underworld I would gaze at them from my bedside. I had concluded that this was the best decision I had made and just like Mary, everywhere that Patti went the fish were sure to go. Bryon and Clifford survived numerous trips to Pennsylvania and back again to Southern. I only suffered my first loss the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore years. I awoke one morning to the precious floating carcass of Byron. Distraught and crying, I had Mom scoop him out of the tank and he was given a proper burial in the backyard. I soon recovered realizing that I still had Clifford and he was healthy and spry.

Clifford continued to travel with me between states. He never seemed to mind. He never complained. He even spent a few holidays at Thatcher Hall alone. Through it all, he cheered me with only minimal effort, which brings us to the present.

I had recently arrived home to TN from a wedding in South Carolina and immediately noticed something not quite right with Clifford. Now I am no veterinarian, nor do I claim to be one, let alone have even the slightest clue as to how the insides of a fish operate, but my nurse sense was telling me that something was really, really wrong. Clifford refused to eat, refused to move. No swimming to the top of the tank to greet me and nibble on some pellets. His color was distorted and faded. His spirit has faded as well. Silly as it seemed, I fetched my Bible and said a prayer for him to be healed. I kissed the side of the tank, turned his light off, and went to bed.

Next morning, still alive, but worse off than before. Now he was really not moving and barely breathing. I felt helpless and hopeless. What should I do? Then Mom suggested that I euthanize him and end his misery. The thought was disgusting and heart wrenching at the same time. How could I do such a thing? But the more I watched him the more I could see him suffer. And so I gathered together my supplies and his favorite coffee mug and scooped him up, for he would not even try to escape my capture of him. I slowly drained the water off his little body and waited for him to stop breathing. Suffocated with oxygen, he passed, and I cried like I had lost my best friend. With mug in hand I stumbled out to the grounds behind my apartment and dug a small hole with a teaspoon. I gently poured his remains into the hole and quickly recovered the site.

Thus I feel that it is only right to pay tribute to the creature who brought me so much joy and kept me company when at times I felt so alone. I can only hope that one day I might see him in Paradise. Laugh now, if you must, but remember your Creator and His care for even something as small as a goldfish.