Month: September 2012

Draw, You Varmint!

Warms the cockles of your heart, doesn’t it?

This is the sign currently posted outside the elevator doors in my building. Welcome Home!

How unfortunate that these Pest have been disturbed, I sure am glad it isn’t my fault. At first I thought it was the magic pipe I’ve been playing. It’s the darned construction. Except there isn’t any unusual construction going on our block. There’s some, but no more than usual. No water main break, no gas line being replaced, no new high rise.

The memo is titled “Vermin.” What kind of vermin? Roaches–already knew about that increase– bedbugs again?, mice, rats, coyotes? Should I trade the dogs in for a feral cat? Shotgun? And what is the wanted pest activity? I want no pests.

Hmm, perhaps those chicken bones I’ve been seeing around aren’t chicken bones.

In the past year, we’ve had two fires and a significant flood. Maybe the pests are the locusts I’ve been waiting for.

New York is much, much cleaner than it used to be, I see it as the trade off for the Disnification of Times Square. If we’re going backwards, with vermin taking over the streets, basements, and subway tunnels; can we get rid of the big box stores and see significant rent reductions?

Banksy Rat Mural: Let them Eat Crack on Broadway & Howard, SoHo, New York (Photo credit: caruba)

Ch ch ch ch

…gonna have to be a different man.

English: David Bowie in the early 1970s (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Or a different woman, as the case may be. Continuing to think about my scheduling challenges, and how so much of that blasted to-do list is bullshit. Yeah, yeah the laundry has to be done. But for the love of God, I need…something. A change that’s more than a new coif–though I could use that, too.

A friend advised me to focus in on a specific goal. Logical. But what? And where is the line between reality and excuses? I love the idea, the fantasy, of reinventing myself. But it feels squishy, new age-y. Not to mention suspiciously like the 21st century equivalent of a middle aged man buying a convertible. Impractical. Yes, circumstances have changed. Man Child and Nerd Child each have a foot out the door. Husband has an AARP card. But the nest isn’t empty and isn’t likely to be. I don’t have degrees or the freedom to commit set hours each week to an entry level job.

And the ghosts of old choices, born of circumstance and poor judgement.

Der Poltergeist (Photo credit: Lab604)

More than ghosts, they’re poltergeists. I think, I ramble, I do laundry, I time seizures, I write, I walk dogs. I excel at navel gazing. Which of these are likely to be capitalized upon? That’s what I thought.

I wasn’t born with a silver spoon; I wasn’t raised in a war torn and poverty filled hovel where I never saw anything different. Somehow, along with too many others of my generation, I’ve been caught in a spiral of downward mobility. I don’t want to be stuck. I don’t want to be desperate. I also don’t want to be hungry. But right now, I am. Starving for something.

I know how to get by, stretch a budget, do what needs to be done. What I don’t know is how to make major changes, how to truly divert my trajectory while still taking care of my current and forever responsibilities, the human beings in my little fringe world that give my life value. Because while I want to feel there is a “me,” it isn’t all about me, and I don’t want it to be. How lonely, how boring, how bitter.

I’m sitting on my little terrace right now, looking at the herbs and flowers I planted with Flower Child back in May. And I’m wondering, worrying. If I figure out a focus, replant myself; will my roots take hold in new soil? Or are they already too brittle; like the first basil plant we tried, attacked by the pigeons before it could adjust.

Dead Basil (Photo credit: olaeinang)

Wake Up!…Your Early Morning Call

Kate Bush – Hounds Of Love (Photo credit: Piano Piano!)

A little Kate Bush playing on the iPod in an attempt to prod myself along. Not sure what today’s sin is, but it feels appropriate to have that background voice proclaiming “guilty, guilty, guilty!”

I’m about 5 hours late for my usual blogging time. On a good day, I have 1 to 1 and 1/2 hours to myself before anyone else wakes up. My most productive time of day since I had children, though I’m not a morning person by nature.

English: Alarm clock Polski: Budzik (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s my time to work out, check my (non-Mrs Fringe) Facebook acct, read and answer emails, and now blog. Hmm, either I’m over-scheduled for that time slot, or there’s something very wrong with my time management skills cause I haven’t been getting half of those things done since Man Child and Nerd Child left, and Flower Child began school.

It used to be two hours of focused time, but Flower Child’s new school is further away than the old one, so we need to leave the house earlier. For those who don’t live in NY, getting kiddos off to school is different than most of the rest of the country (if you’re an at home mom, different again if you’re getting yourself off to a paying job no matter where you are). Yes, we NY mamas also get up, get the kids up and fed, make lunch, meds for the med needs kiddo (s), and all that other fun morning trauma, but we have to get ourselves dressed, no waving to the school bus driver in our pj’s. Somewhere in here I also walk the beasts.

A man and his son dancing to the band in Times Square station (Photo credit: wwward0)

Then walk to the train, down and down the subway steps, catch the train, ride a few stops, up and up the train steps, walk from the train to the school, and then get ourselves home; to be repeated at pick up time. Most days, I’m grateful my days of carrying a stroller up and down those steps are over. When Flower Child isn’t well and needs assistance, I’m wishing I still had it.

This morning I went grocery shopping after dropping her off (Trader Joe’s is my best friend). Husband even came to pick me up, so a morning that started off behind schedule picked up nicely. Started cooking the Doggie Gumbo for the week, unloading the groceries, and the phone rang. Mother in Law needed Husband to help her get Father in Law to the ER.

Just another morning in Fringe World. I really need to work on my schedule, but for now, I’m going to put Jig of Life on for the 8th time, and dance around the empty apartment.

“I put this moment…………………here.”

Steel Drowned (Photo credit: NeoGaboX)

Freakin’ Dog!

Doesn’t look like she could make so much trouble, does she?

In case I haven’t been clear, I call her Little Incredibly Dumb Dog for a reason. She is sweet and soft and smooshable, but wow. With all my doggie experience, she is the dumbest dog I’ve ever known, let alone owned.

Despite my best efforts, at over a year old she still isn’t completely housebroken. Every couple of months I’m lulled into thinking we have found success, “hey, it’s been two weeks since she had an accident!” Inevitably, the day comes where she forgets to wait and yuck, yuck, yuck. Let’s just say my floors have never been cleaned so regularly. Which sucks, because my floors aren’t actual hardwood, they’re a pressboard veneer so they can’t be refinished.

She also still loves to chew on things she shouldn’t. Mostly items that belong to Flower Child and me. I’m down to one clip for my hair. I am not an inexperienced dog owner, she has many toys of her own to chew on, treats, balls, regular walks, and Big Senile Dog to ~~pester~~ play with.

You can and do learn a lot about the neighborhood when walking dogs. One thing I’ve learned is that apparently we’ve got a huge number of folks practicing Voodoo.

Voodoo Altar, French Quarter, New Orleans (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s the only reason I can think of for the regular scattering of chicken bones on the curbs.

Well, there is that one guy who sits on the concrete fence with a styrofoam platter of chicharrones de pollo (Dominican fried chicken), but he’s always very helpful, pointing out the bones he’s tossing on the asphalt, so I can pull the dogs away. Thanks, buddy! Seriously New York, wtf are you doing? This isn’t the ’70s anymore, there’s a trash can on every corner. Chicken bones can choke a dog, puncture their intestines, and kill them. Skipping those extremes, the bones also cause puking and excessive pooping.

So, when I woke up this morning and saw a dark oblong object on the floor next to one of the dog beds, I assumed it was a Little Dumb Dog log. This was before I’d actually made it into the bathroom to squirt some contact lens solution into my eyes, everything is kinda fuzzy for me that early in the day.

I was happy to be wrong for about a tenth of a second. There on the floor was the chewed remnants of the bluetooth for my cell phone. I loved that thing. It made my life much easier and more convenient than Little Incredibly Dumb Dog does. Easily one of the top five gifts I’ve gotten, and it’s definitely not in the budget to replace it now.

To the moon, freakin fluffball!

Chicken Bone (Photo credit: goodiesfirst)

The Blues Had a Baby

and they named it rock-n-roll.

Muddy Waters, described as “the guiding light of the modern blues school” Dicaire (1999), p. 79 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Muddy Waters, always perfect.

But, I have a long playlist of “perfect” songs and artists. For someone without a hint of musical talent, I can’t imagine life without music.

The last concert Husband and I went to was Robert Cray in 2002. And that one was a last minute surprise; Husband asked Sister-In-Law to watch the kiddos. At the end of the evening I don’t think I was all the way through the door frame before Flower Child was back in my arms and Sister-In-Law was headed toward the elevator. Not easy to babysit a nursing baby without functional boobs.

When we were young, though…. Lots of live shows; blues, rock, jazz, fusion; not even sure how many times we saw Pat Metheny–though I surely remember one particular show in Radio City with seats right next to a speaker. Not even “American Garage” sounds good when your ear drum is splintering. I dragged Husband to a Grateful Dead concert way back when. He’s still grumbling, and I still smile when I hear Sugar Magnolia. Makes me think of an old friend, we would scrape two or three dollars together to put just enough gas in the tank of her VW Rabbit to get us to the beach, where her fingers would stumble on her guitar strings and my voice would crack under the background of the surf.

Forget Farmville and Words With Friends, my favorite game is through emails, exchanging links with friends to whatever song or artist we’re feeling in the moment.

When I was a kid I loved my little AM radio, would fall asleep on summer nights with it crackling the T0p 40, set up on a folding chair next to my bed, the thwak-swish-“fuck!” of the handball court across the street providing background. And albums, how could you not love the ceremony of carefully removing the vinyl from the sleeve, blowing off any residual dust, and setting that needle down to pop and spin. My very first records were old folk 45’s from my father, 33’s of musicals and big band jazz.

Handball (Photo credit: Brian Auer)

The morning routine was punctuated by Disco Freddy, a man who would roller skate past my house every day, boom box balanced on his bony shoulder, on his way to skate up and down the boardwalk all day, to be heard again as the sun was setting.

fixing the boom box (Photo credit: John Chevier™)

The soundtrack continues like most others of my generation; The Beatles, Rolling Stones, CCR, BTO, CSN&Y, Led Zeppelin, The Who, Supertramp, and on and on. For someone who proclaimed “disco sucks” along with the rest of the cool kids, I knew (and know) every word to every song played at the discos. Then came punk, so daring! And Frank Zappa, who will always have a place in my dysfunctional heart.

I loved those albums, loved the heft of them, the cover art, the scratches that became part of the rhythm, walking into the used record store with $20 and walking out with a stack I could barely balance. The excitement of eight-tracks (Paul McCartney and The Wings!), and then cassettes. Walkmans were liberation, forget burning bras. Now the iPod. Much as I feel nostalgia for the old vinyl, and splicing my tapes when they wore out, that iPod is a miracle, my joy and my peace. Even laundry is palatable with those earbuds in place and the volume cranked up.

My musical tastes haven’t matured, just expanded. More blues, some classical– even some opera.

What about you? Is your life catalogued by when you first listened to a particular song?

Old Vinyl (Photo credit: fensterbme)

Prosopon

Comedy and tragedy masks (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

According to Wikipedia, prosopon is the ancient Greek word for mask, and ancient Greece is where you’ll find the origins of this ubiquitous symbol of theater. A lead-in for a rambling post about how we all wear masks. Except that isn’t where I’m headed. A friend sent me this quote yesterday morning–perfect.

“For those who feel, life is a tragedy
For those who think, life is a comedy”
(Horace Walpole, 1717)

I spend a lot of time feeling, but I prefer to think. So much is out of our control, from minor annoyances to full scale tragedies, but how we respond is our choice. What we take away from these experiences is who we are.

Sometimes when you’re in the muck laughter is out of the equation, as its been the last few days, but I’m not wailing and crying out to the heavens, either. Besides, crying is so unpleasant. I never identify when people say they feel better after a “good” cry. Really? I guess I’ve only had bad cries, because all I feel afterwards is a snotty nose, swollen eyes, a headache, and usually a heaping dose of embarrassment. Very attractive in a middle aged broad, oh yes, I see the appeal.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I can be moved to tears, for lack of a better cliche, by a beautiful piece of music, poetry, lyrics, stellar prose, or an especially spiritual church. That’s different. Actually, I’m tempted to cry right now–I got up to pour a cup of coffee, and suddenly my font keeps changing, for no reason I can identify.

Laughter is better. No magical thinking, it doesn’t spray fairy dust along with spittle. It feels good, clears my mind and gives me perspective–even with my bad teeth, I look better with a residual smile than a residual sniffle. Tears feel isolating, but a joke, a smile, a chuckle; they connect me with others. The people in my life who become friends, who are there long enough and deep enough to become part of the weave of my fringe, are those who I can laugh with. People with their own dramas and traumas who recognize the need to find the humor, black though it sometimes is; at the same time recognizing the need to grieve what is, what was, what could have been.

I want to laugh. I like to have people in my life who make me laugh, who appreciate my oddball sense of humor–would ya believe not everyone does?

Life is a tragicomedy. It takes unexpected and sometimes unwanted turns. Now which way do we go?

Funny Signs (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Waiting For Godot

‘Waiting For Godot’ (Photo credit: dave lewis 88)

That’s me, waiting for Dr Big Shot, or the on-call working with him, to call back. Flower Child was not better this morning.

The last couple of hours, though, have brought some improvement. Mrs Fringe is a tired Mama.

Luckily I ran into a neighbor when I was on my way to the laundry room with the puked on blankets; she was quick to tell me of the evils that will surely befall me if I don’t sign the petition to block the increase of SROs in the neighborhood. Too beat to make much of a case, I just told her I think it’s a complicated issue, and the people in question need support. She was quick to agree, and told me it’s too expensive for them here, they should go somewhere else instead– somewhere less populated. Like Wisconsin. Or Brooklyn. Still shaking my head.

Shall I Toss You Off of the Terrace Now?

March0806 012 (Photo credit: ShellyS)

You would think that was the question when I asked Flower Child what she wanted for breakfast this morning. In Mrs. Fringe’s little world, this is a bad sign. She almost always wants breakfast, even if she has no intention of eating it, she likes to know it’s there at her spot; her morning routine no matter what the day brings.

Today she’s sick. We had our last beach hoorah yesterday, and it was a beautiful day. The waves weren’t too strong, just enough to make it fun. The sun was strong but the breeze was constant. She was listless within 45 seconds of heading home, asleep within 5 minutes once we arrived. This morning she’s my little puddle on the couch. The joys of medical needs parenting. Neuro crud, ptosis (connected to neuro crud), fever, that faint but definitive gray tinge to her skin, holding my breath to see if this is “just” a cold or virus.

I hope so, and sometimes it is. Other times, for no known reason, it turns into strange flus, pleurisy, pneumonia.

I’m a mom, first and foremost. I’m also a (wannabe) writer, wife, friend, dog walker, reefer, chief cook and bottle washer; human being.

Some moms will say all is well with their world when their kids are doing well. I’m not one of them, sometimes my world sucks even if all is well with the kiddos. But when all isn’t well with them, there’s no question. My heart is doing triple time up around my esophagus, and life sucks.