Month: February 2013

Itsnot Me, I Tell Ya

Must have been someone who looked like me.

IMG_0010 (Photo credit: RosieTulips)

Here we are, the evening of February 28th, and I’m so damned tired I don’t even feel human. I want to be positive, and happy tomorrow is Friday, but all I can think is whaddya mean it isn’t already Friday?

*Nothing to do with this post, but there was just a crash and thud outside. I’m wondering if someone lost a flowerpot from a terrace, or if I’m soon to hear sirens. Life in the big city, always an adventure*

So, tonight I’ve got boogers on the brain. Flower Child is still sick. Not bad, and able to go to school, but still sick. Lots of sniffling and snuffling and blowing. This makes me nervous. March is generally an iffy health month for her, and I was hoping she’d be back to baseline before it started. On the positive end, Parent Teacher conferences went very well. The adaptive technology she’s using has been incredibly helpful. The math teacher’s a little confused as to why she answers every question and interaction with him, “live long and prosper,” but hey.

Star Trek TOS Cutting Room Floor Clippings (Photo credit: The Rocketeer)

I’d like to explain it to him, but can’t. Her thinking can be…circuitous. For some reason she associates the math teacher with Nerd Child, which in turn connects her to the phrase. I’m guessing the teacher regrets his surprised laugh the first time he heard it from my girly girl. Poor man. Still, an excellent, creative teacher and I’m grateful for the fabulous team working with her this year.

Seeing as it’s the 28th, I feel I should report on how the writing went this month, since I announced I would be making an all out push, producing as much as possible. Turns out that between Flower Child’s illness, the passing of my father in law, and life, this might not have been the best month to choose. Between the morning of February 1st and this evening, I got about 12,500 words added to the WIP. I also wrote that short, about 3800 words. Not a wasted month, just not quite the momentum I had started with and hoped to continue.

Speaking of the short, I’ve got a reference in there to snot, connected to the main character, a woman in her late sixties. The reason I mention this; super interesting to me to find that a few people strongly and specifically associated snot with children, and not older adults. Is it the word or the mucus itself? I’m no gerontologist, but I am and have been around a good number of older people. Boogers don’t disappear when the AARP card arrives. And someone who would use the word snot at thirty is likely to still be using it at sixty or seventy. One of my mother’s favorite insults was to call someone snot-nosed. She had other, more colorful insults, but that one was always used to great effect, with much power behind it.

A man mid-sneeze. Original CDC caption: “This 2009 photograph captured a sneeze in progress, revealing the plume of salivary droplets as they are expelled in a large cone-shaped array from this man’s open mouth, thereby dramatically illustrating the reason one needs to cover his/her mouth when coughing, or sneezing, in order to protect others from germ exposure.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Gesundheit, and happy almost Friday, fringelings!

Limerick Tuesday

Limerick – MÓR Disco, Every Tuesday (Photo credit: infomatique)

Yes, yes there is such a thing as Limerick Tuesday.

It’s the fourth Tuesday in February, when I want to post something, but I’m too dazed to write something deep or clever. Why am I dazed, you ask? It’s the effects from the overwhelming stench in the cab I took with Flower Child when I picked her up from school. She was tired, there was some type of brouhaha happening on Broadway that resulted in many police cars whizzing past with lights and sirens going. Seemed like the perfect day to splurge on a cab. I’m pretty sure that cabdriver must have had a pico reef hidden in the trunk, because that was the gut clenching, every muscle recoiling smell of dead sea critter.

Luckily, I already made some progress on the WIP today, so I’ll just give the update in limerick.

There was a young lady called Frag Hag

Who lived in a magical grab bag

But one day her reef

Gave her such grief

Her virtue; Twas lost to a scumbag!

Jester’s sceptre (Photo credit: sleepymyf)

Five Cent Return

Description unavailable (Photo credit: B Tal)

I don’t love to grocery shop. This is unfortunate, because here in Manhattan, it’s something that needs to be done frequently. Any and everything you buy has to be carried home, and most of us don’t have large refrigerators, freezers, or storage space for stocking up. Add in the knowledge that you can walk outside and hit any number of stores within a few blocks, and there isn’t the same pressure to remember everything you need in one shot.

The cost of groceries here, outrageous. I know this is so because when we’ve gone on vacation and shopped for groceries at stores geared towards ripping off tourists, while the other customers are grumbling I’m skipping through the aisles, filling the cart and trying to decide what’s practical to take home. I try to shop at Trader Joe’s as much as possible, it’s a significant savings compared to the other groceries that are much closer. But it isn’t always practical, it’s twenty four blocks away. So if I’m doing a bigger shop, great! Worth the cost of the cab ride home, still saving. But if I only have twenty minutes to get there, shop, and come home, don’t need much, or I need things they don’t carry (like regular white or brown rice), it doesn’t make sense.

Grocery Store #1 (Photo credit: wgdavis)

I trek to Whole Foods for rice and flour (cheapest in the area, I buy it from their bulk containers, they have enough of a turnover that it’s always fresh) and soy milk for Flower Child (yes, their brand of soy milk is the absolute lowest price). For the certain basics or when I’m running out, I go to one of the two cheapest groceries in the area. Both conveniently located within three blocks of my apartment. They don’t look like the artsy photo above. Dark, dingy, cleanliness is questionable, the cashiers are surly, don’t even think of asking for help from a stocker for something you can’t reach, aisles are crazy narrow–any number of which are usually blocked by boxes waited to be unloaded–and if you’re smart, you’ll check expiration dates of everything before bringing anything home.

I just ran to one of the two “inexpensive” stores this morning. If you’re curious, a gallon of low fat, non-organic milk is $4.89 there, a half gallon is $2.99. A gallon of store brand distilled water for top-offs for the reef tank,* $1.19. Honey-Nut Cheerios, 12.9 oz box, $5.39. Navel (not organic) oranges, .99 each. One loaf of sliced wheat bread, $4.19. A 10 oz “brick” of Cafe Bustelo–about as far from fancy coffee as you can get, $4.69. To be fair, Bustelo goes on sale regularly. Five years ago the sales were two bricks for $5, two years ago it became 2 for $6, now it’s 2 for $7. I have to make a new batch of doggie gumbo tomorrow, so I bought a pound of cheapo ground beef, $3.63, and a pound of ground chicken, $4.29.

Getting the picture? Chasing in four different directions for the cheapest prices, reasonable quality (yanno, fresh and none of those free pets that skitter across the counter as you unload), calculating, carrying, it’s exhausting. Screw cooking, between the financial, physical, and stress tolls I don’t even want to eat.

Over twenty years ago, I had a friend who theorized the nickel deposit on bottles was instated in NY as a way for the homeless to get money to feed themselves. Was he onto something? I don’t know, don’t remember his entire argument, but he was one of those people who could argue anything and have you believe he was brilliant. But while I do see plenty of homeless grabbing cans and bottles out of the corner trash cans, the real business of it is with the senior citizens. On days when the recycling bags get put out on the street for pickup, I find seniors by every large apartment building, filling carts and Hefty bags with empty bottles. These are not days you want to find yourself in a hurry at the aforementioned less expensive grocery stores, because you’ll be on line forever, waiting for the elderly gentleman ahead of you to have each bottle and can checked and tallied before he can turn around and shop. Think about my little shopping list above, that’s a lot of nickels; many, many bottles to carry. Individual, older people trying to feed themselves off of a fixed income, not organized groups with a vehicle to get to the big redemption center.

At night, in these stores, you find what Man Child calls the shuffle of shame. On line to buy a forgotten gallon of milk, you often find yourself behind two seniors cashing in bottles, three finance-looking or professional people who are embarrassed to find themselves in this grocery store (but it’s a dollar cheaper for that box of Cheerios here than in the cleaner, higher end grocery stores), and a stinky guy buying dish detergent. But sometimes you also find one of those New York moments. The elderly woman who’s come back with her shopping cart, straight to the sighing, texting cashier ahead of everyone else on line. And the cashier rolls her eyes, holds out her hand, and takes the jar of applesauce from the woman, pops the seal and hands it back, so the senior can go home and eat it. She couldn’t open it by herself in her apartment, and needed a little help.

Beverage container redemption center (Photo credit: Hobo Matt)

*Reef tanks use salt water. Water evaporates, salt doesn’t, so you have to “top off” the tank with fresh water. Because these are very delicate critters, tap water can’t be used. Most reefers buy and run an RO/DI water filter, so they can use tap. With a very tiny kitchen, and even tinier (1) bathroom, I can’t tie up a faucet or use the space needed to run these filters, so I buy distilled.

Admitting Defeat

Checkmate (The Prisoner) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, much as I hate to admit it, I’m never going to be King. Not Virginia Woolf, not Laura Ingalls Wilder. Not even a princess. And really, that’s just fine. A quiet life is appealing. But a silent one?

When I first began thinking of putting a blog together, my original idea was to have a collaborative blog, women of somewhat varying ages and perspectives, focusing on the differences between what we thought our adult lives would be, and what they are. That idea never got beyond early planning stages, and eventually I started Mrs Fringe.

But due to some recent happenings in the lives of friends, and the never ending brain crunching non-happenings in my own life, I’m thinking about those early ideas again. Specifically, the life I’m living and the Grand Canyon that separates it from the life I thought I would have. While I won’t deny I have a vivid imagination, not all of my scenarios involved a crown and scepter. I never actually thought I would become rich, never thought I would live in a palace, never thought I would lie on a bed of thornless roses. Of course, I’m allergic to roses, so that one might not be fair.

Rose & Crown (Photo credit: Sam Howzit)

But I also never imagined having to worry quite this much about finances, when I’m not living a life of extravagance. I never imagined not having a little area for myself for writing (I think I weaned on A Room of One’s Own). I never imagined I’d be living a life at 40,000 years old where I would never, ever, ever have a day off. I never imagined I would be trapped in New York, between finances and familial obligations.

I never imagined a family of five where each of the five would have such totally, completely separate needs. I know, we’re all individuals. I value that fact, Husband and I were never the type of couple that were on the phone 58 times a day when we weren’t together, I’ve tried to raise my children to value their individuality. But I didn’t think, in the twenty first century, with all the societal and personal awareness, that I would lose my own self in the process. Sheesh, I feel like a damned ’70’s cliche just re-reading that sentence. Should I go find myself? In a consciousness raising group sitting on someone’s shag carpet, drinking dandelion wine.

So now what? I write, and that’s good for me. It feels good, and part of me still believes–or at least wants to believe– there’s hope of publication at some point. But I can’t live inside my head all the time. It isn’t productive for any of my roles, and frankly, it isn’t all that fun. I’ve thought about drinking more regularly, but I’m not very good at it. One drink and I’m buzzed, in between one and two and I’m looped, useless; a full two and it’s get-out-of-my-way-I-need-my-bed!

I’m a grown up. I have a family, I have obligations, I have a budget. There is no magic answer, magic solution. But there has to be a way to make something better, at least try.

Virginia Woolf said, “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” Is it still true? I don’t think silent lives are truly silent, they’re sirens and songs no one hears.

“Who’s Afraid fo Virginia Woolf?”. 1966 (Photo credit: thefoxling)

Justifiers and Qualifiers

The two women friends are shocked at a third woman dressed as a man. But Harlequin and Pierrot are also men. From the Danish “Punch” magazine (not the British Punch), July 1876 no. 30 page 233 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I feel like I’ve done quite a bit of moaning and groaning here on Mrs Fringe in the past couple of weeks. New week, I’d like to start out positive before beginning my usual ~~obsessing~~ musings. While I didn’t write as much as I would have liked at this point in the month, I have worked on both my WIP and a couple of short stories. There. I’ve given my dear readers unicorns and rainbows, you too, can chase your tail while sorting laundry and cleaning lost bodily fluids from canines and dependents.

On to the whine portion of happy hour. As I’ve said in the past, I write romance (the current WIP) and literary fiction (short stories, and a temporarily shelved WIP). None of this includes the blogging, which is another entirely different style of writing. Everybody’s a critic. Those who like romance, other types of genre fiction, or even–squee–my romances, don’t understand why I write lit fic. “Ew. Oh. It’s so dark. Aren’t those the books where nothing ever happens? Why do you write that? Well, it’s not my cup of tea.”

For those who like lit fic, or even–squee–my lit fic, when they hear I also write romance. “Really? Why are you wasting your time with that shit? You can do better than that. Well, I guess it’s easy money.”

I can’t win for losing. First of all, let me repeat, for the 8000th time, nothing in writing is easy money, or an easy path to publication. After 40,000 years I am still, but hopefully not always, one of the unwashed and unpublished masses. Maybe not unwashed, I bought an absolutely divine magnolia pear scented soap.

As a reader, I have a wide variety of books on my shelves. Romance, lit fic, short stories, poems, biographies, essays, non fiction books about economics, various religions, cookbooks, thrillers, horror, mysteries, even a fantasy or two. Some people are more focused, but I know many whose bookshelves look like mine.

Fiction Stacks (Photo credit: chelmsfordpubliclibrary)

So why do these same people with varied titles on their reading lists sneer at me for writing two seemingly disparate styles? Yes, the style of writing, pacing, sentence structure, word choice, these things are different. One is more introspective and character driven, the other quicker paced and it’s true, the black moment is a lot more, ummm, navy blue. But honestly, most (all) fiction is about exploring people, our emotions, our responses, our needs, wants, desires, connection to others, how we respond in any given situation, societal dilemmas and individual dilemmas.

I’m guessing there are slurs for every style and genre, but it feels like the two I write in are particular targets. Romance is for frustrated housewives, girly-porn (not sure what these critics make of M/M romance, but hey), they can be knocked out in a week, blah blah blah. And this doesn’t begin to touch the many subgenres of romance, or the different levels of “heat,” from sweet to yowza! I like writing romance. It isn’t easy, but it’s fun. How do two people (or vampires, if that’s your thing) fall in love? What makes someone heroic, or lovable, for that matter? What makes someone with an independent, fulfilling life want to make the drastic changes necessary to incorporate a significant other and arrive at happily ever after, or even happy for now?

And literary fiction. Sigh. It’s pretentious, self conscious, an excuse to break the rules of grammar, there’s no plot, it can’t be literary if it hasn’t won an award, navel gazing, yada, yada, yada. If you haven’t been following Mrs Fringe for long, let me tell you, I’m quite fond of navel gazing, and wondering why the fuck we make the decisions we do. Yanno, the human condition. Also, not easy to write, and for me, even the pace of production is slower than when I write romance. Is it “fun” to write? No, but there’s a depth of satisfaction I can’t describe, and I love it.

I wish I was like Stephen King, able to create believable, relatable characters that battle unreal creatures and situations. I wish I was like Margaret Atwood, sculpting a marriage of poetry, brilliant prose, and speculative fiction. I don’t have either of their levels of talent, certainly not the imaginations required. But if I did have an imagination that leaned towards alternate realities and creatures that go bump in the night? I’d write those stories too.

Why this rant? Because I am feeling good about working on both, I get different but definite satisfaction from working on each, but I’ve received several of these not so sly little pinches in conversation this week. Unknot your panties, folks. If I’m ever blessed enough to be published in both, they’ll be in different sections of the bookstore (assuming there still are brick and mortar bookstores by then), and I’ll use a pen name for one of the styles.

“Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.” Margaret Atwood (Photo credit: katerha)

SAD Sunday Blues

I have a very specific distaste for Sundays. Something about them has always stressed me out, it’s the day I’m most likely to feel depressed (especially during the winter), regardless of what days I was working, what’s planned for the week, etc. It doesn’t help at all that the temperature outside is dropping again, with the wind blowing garbage on and off my terrace. This is my official Sunday song:

Oh Aretha, her voice makes my heart weep. Very unfortunate that my rendition makes everyone else’s ears weep.

Not a terrible day today, as Sundays go. If I ignore the fact that it’s been a full week since I had a reasonable and uninterrupted night’s sleep. I got a positive critique for the short story I worked on last week. Man Child helped me do the shopping before he leaves for school this evening. And yes, now he’s totally back to school, not popping in and out during his internship. The week’s gumbo is made for the dogs, Flower Child and I have at least four days worth of clean underwear, and it’s a four day weekend for FC.

I did some writing this morning, not enough, but some, back to the WIP. Whenever I have to close the file, stopping earlier than I want to, I always swear I’m going to write again later in the afternoon or evening, but it just doesn’t happen. Lose my focus, lose my energy.

So what do you do on your blah days, when you can’t just go back to bed, but also can’t be productive in the way you’d like?

Flower Child is feeling a little better, able to eat a bit again, so I made cookies. Now someone tell me how to avoid going into the kitchen until tomorrow, so I don’t have to see the pot from the gumbo and the bowls from making the cookies.

Here, have a snickerdoodle, it will help you think.

I’m pretty sure enough cinnamon will cure anything, including the Sunday blues.

Two Days Late and Two Dollars Short

Jacopo da Ponte – St Valentine Baptizing St Lucilla – WGA01452 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Saint Valentine, patron saint of love, lovers, beekeepers, epilepsy, fainting, plague, and travelers. He was one busy dude.

Since this week included Valentine’s Day and I’m writing a romance, I was thinking about romance; the ways it can be defined, the different meanings, and how those representations have changed for me over the years. Yeah, yeah, I’m a little late for a Valentine’s Day post.

I don’t remember thinking about romance or Valentine’s Day as a kid, certainly it wasn’t the standard it has become for each child to come to class with a card for each classmate and a candy stuck into each one. I don’t remember it being in our home, either. My parents were very practical people, something like buying a heart shaped box of chocolates would have sent my father up on his political soap box to deliver a long, loud lecture–possibly pulling out the Encyclopedia Brittanica for back up and illustrations. Not that he never bought my mother flowers or gifts (not regularly, but it happened), but the idea of being expected to do so because of a Saint, or worse, Hallmark, was just the type of thing to make his head explode.

Vinegar Valentine, circa 1900 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I was a teenager, oh I loved all that shit. Pretending I didn’t, of course. But really, what teenaged girl doesn’t love gifts of chocolates, flowers, white teddy bears with red ribbons, maybe a splinter of a gold charm that must surely mean dedication, pledges of undying adoration from anonymous sources? Trust me, they all love it, or some variation. Vegan, hemp wearing girlfriend? Organic fair trade chocolates. Or maybe a bong with a rose painted on it, put Sugar Magnolia on the iPod. Even the girls wearing thick black eyeliner to match flat-died black hair, wearing spikes around their neck. Stick a black ribbon around the damned box, pierce the teddy bear’s tongue and they’ll be certain you really, truly “get” them.

Romance as an adult, though. That changes. And I’m not talking about secksy times. It means different things to different people. I focus on women because I’ve got girly bits. I have to say one of the top three romantic moments I ever experienced with Husband was the first time he insisted I take my pants off so he could iron them. Strange? Certainly. But it represented something. After eleventy billion years together, though, it isn’t quite the same moment. I can identify and create romance inside my head that work for a manuscript, the off balance rush of hormones in overdrive and falling in love. Between Husband and I, we were never big on “traditional,” commercial romantic moments. As life got busier and more complex, the untraditional romantic moments have gotten lost in the shuffle. Maybe this is the stage where it would be nice to have the traditional, commercial moments acknowledged, if only to counteract the effects of SAD and sick kiddo. I find myself wondering what romance means at this stage, with frenetic days of each of us running our separate wheels inside of one cage. A bonus slice of carrot? Fresh shavings?

I don’t know, but I’m also wondering if Flower Child will notice if I steal one of the chocolates from the box I bought her. Probably not, so I won’t.

What does romance mean to you?

valentine! (Photo credit: maximolly)

DIY IVs and Dreadlocks

Glucose (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flower Child has been sick for four days now, koalaed to me since Sunday morning. Life with a medical needs kiddo is…interesting. It’s never just a sniffle. Forget about secondary sinus infections, we see things like seizures. And pleurisy–which is extra special, because she doesn’t cough, so that type of diagnosis is always a sucker punch delivered in a crowded ER at 2AM. So, I’ve been working on trying to keep her hydrated and home. She dehydrates quickly, hence my not so funny when you live it DIY IV joke. Pedialyte and lollypops. Same as a glucose drip, no? I’m hopeful at the moment, today has been better than the last few days, fever sticking to low grade so far, and she ate a little bit. Just heard from the nurse at the pediatrician’s office, results from the flu swab are back, and it isn’t the flu.

Are you kidding me? This isn’t even the flu? Just one of several viruses making the rounds right now. For my Flower Child, a virus that would make another child sick for a few days leaves her scary laid out for much longer. It isn’t like I actually need to sleep or anything. Really, an hour or two is more than enough. What’s that? You want to know why I go through 5 espressos and 12 cups of tea each day?

Since today has been better, and I know not to make any assumptions for tomorrow, I figured it was an opportunity to ~~hack through~~ wash her hair.

Dreadlocks machen. Mit Hilfe eines Hundehaarkamms (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Rapunzel long hair and extended periods of time in bed adds up to dreadlocks, forget Goldilocks. I just spent over an hour detangling her hair. >>that photo is not Flower Child, just illustrating her hair.

Who wants to guess how much writing I’ve gotten done? *insert cynical laugh here* There went my 1000 words a day streak. Though I have kept going, with a much lower word count. I wake up every morning convinced I should be able to be more productive. I go to bed each night chastising myself for a paltry word count. I’m not losing two hours a day doing drop off and pick up, she’s certainly not chatting or wanting anything other than to be next to me, but this hyper-vigilant watching and listening is exhausting. Very hard to immerse yourself in fantasy land when you’ve got a little person burning, shaking, and whimpering next to you. So I’m on a break from the romance, working on a new short. Progress is slow, and it’s an angry piece (shocked?) but I like how it’s taking shape.

I could write for 30 minutes or so now until I go dog walk, but I think I’m going to escape to my happy place instead. It’s almost beach season, isn’t it?

Bora Bora (Photo credit: Benoit Mahe)

I Double Dare You

Cliff jumping in Cyprus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Feeling introspective. Probably not a good idea, but it’s where I am tonight.

I am not brave. I’ve chosen the path of least resistance more frequently than the road less traveled. I like people who are brave. I like to hear about their lives, see the photos, read the stories.

My stomach hurts just thinking about it. Risk taking is just not my thing. I have never gone cliff diving, and never will. I’ve never gone to live in another country, I don’t see that happening either. Some people live big lives, I’m not one of them. It’s true that some of those with big lives were raised in a certain way, maybe they had financial backing, or those around them assumed they would live those big lives. But not everyone. Some have an inner something that prompts them to take a leap with open eyes, even as their hearts are pounding.

I think those patterns have to be set when you’re young, and responsibilities are only to yourself. Yes, yes, we always have a responsibility to others in our lives, our community, our society. But responsibilities at 25 are different than 35, 45, or 55.

Venn Diagram for T (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Not in a woe is me, life is over with middle age kind of way. There is a point where bravery and selfishness overlap. They have to. No one would ever take a chance if they were focused solely on how the chance might harm others.

Do I live through my characters? Absolutely. When I think about it, though, my characters aren’t about big lives either. No espionage, serial killers, or royalty. I love the everyman. I love exploring what goes into the choices we make in the everyday; our relationships, and the subsequent, long range repercussions. I like to follow the path of each character, trying to establish what the question really is, forget about the answers.

So if our lives are one long game of truth or dare, I choose truth. Through a substantial veil of fiction. To make it more interesting, or more palatable? Maybe the choice isn’t truth at all, but fear.

If life had been different, and we weren’t strangling on a budget that makes the basics of getting through each day a freakin minefield, I like to think I’d be more brave. Then again, if I’d taken more risks, the road less traveled when I was younger, maybe this wouldn’t be our every day.

What about you, truth or dare?

(For Child Welfare Exhibit 1912-13.) Shooting craps, Providence, R.I. Location: Providence, Rhode Island. (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

Off With Her Head!

Queen of Hearts (Photo credit: Ana Kelston)

Please and thank you. If you aren’t in the US, or in the northeast of it, we’re gearing up for a blizzard. As of this moment, it’s a snow/sleet/rain mix here in the city, the blizzard conditions will start later this evening. Gross, but the bonus is that the jackhammers are quiet for today.

I had a meeting at Flower Child’s school this morning. It went very well, assistive technology has come through, thanks to her fabulous team this year. We needed this to go well on several levels, it’s been a rough week for her; her good streak ended. Good news though, right? I come home and think I still have plenty of time to write before it’s pickup time. In peace and quiet. Ahhh. For about a minute.

English: Hammer drill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s this, you ask? Well, it’s the hammer drill being used right above my freakin head in the apartment above mine. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear my sobs providing the rhythm for the bass of the drill. The walls in my building are concrete. No, I’m not confused, I am referring to interior walls, so any holes need to be made with a serious, loud, powerful tool.

This week has been, well, life, I guess. My father in law passed away, which was expected, and I’m glad his pain is over, but still very sad. He was an absolutely lovely man who was well known and liked in the community and loved by his family. For the past few days I’ve been hearing his distinctive whistle in my head. When Nerd Child was a little guy, and my f-i-l was passing our building, he would stop and whistle up, “Coquito!” Nerd Child would stop whatever he was doing and run to the window, throwing whatever he had been holding down to the street. Those child safety bars only prevent an actual child from passing through them, not the paraphernalia that accompanies children. Good thing the man always wore a hat, or his head would surely have been dented by a lego more than once. He had a distinctive smile, the kind that let you know where the phrase “ear to ear grin” comes from. It’s a warm fuzzy to say Flower Child inherited his smile.

I did write this week, though nowhere near the word count I intended. It is what it is, maybe the coming week will be a bit more steady.

How was your week?