In praise of ...

... well, me. I kept my head Tuesday night.

I wanted a midnight snack. I popped a frozen, breaded chicken breast in the microwave. I buy these by the bag from Trader Joe's, so I know the drill: Microwave-safe plate for four minutes.

Well, Tuesday night, my microwave went rogue. Before the four minutes was up, the chicken breast melted onto the plate and started smoking. It wasn't a fire, exactly. But it certainly smelled like one. And once I opened the microwave door, smoke flooded the kitchen ... and dining room ... and living room.

I unplugged it. I felt the sides to make sure they were cool. So was the socket plate, so I deduced there was no danger of fire. I opened the windows and got out a pair of fans. I turned on the air purifier. I farted around on the internet for a while, just killing time until I was sure everything was safe.

I did not lose my head. I did not freak out.

When you're alone, it's good to know you can count on yourself.

The microwave is about seven years old, and it was less than $100 new, so this weekend it will be retired and replaced. I'm relieved, actually. So many of my unexpected outlays lately -- refrigerator, dental work -- have been expensive. I see a trip to Kohl's or Sears in my future.

October Challenge -- Day 3

I'm joining Ms. Kwiz for her October blogging challenge.

Day 3: Most recent creative pursuit. Nanowrimo. Aka National Novel Writing Month. According to Wikipedia: National Novel Writing Month, is an annual, Internet-based creative writing project that takes place during the month of November. Participants attempt to write a 50,000-word manuscript between November 1 and November 30. Well-known authors write "pep-talks" to keep them motivated throughout the process.

 
Yes, I know the meter doesn't officially drop until November 1, but I've already set up my page @ nanowrimo.org and my story is taking shape. It's the tale of a trial that captivates a small town. I haven't decided which woman will be at the center of the saga: Frankie, the 50+ heiress whose body is found at the foot of the stairs, or Tracy, the 20-something trophy wife of a big-city lawyer who comes to town to defend Frankie's ne'er do well husband against murder charges. Will I become more interested in flashbacks of Frankie's life, or in Tracy's fish-out-of-water story?

Just for contrast: at the office these days I've been working on a project called BVL (bank vehicle loan). My client has a predictive model that indicates when a customer who financed their current ride with us will be likely to buy a new one, and it's up to me to remind them of how smooth the loan process was with us.

I like what I do. My client appreciates my efforts. They are an honest company that delivers on what I promise. I feel good about being a compensated cog in their Fortune 500 wheel. But writing fiction can be liberating and fun.