Month: February 2014

(Wo)Man Makes Plans

and God laughs. That’s the expression, right? I’m making plans anyway. Well, I’m thinking about making plans, and we’ll see what happens. There’s only so many days I can walk around sniveling before I can’t stand myself anymore.

Even Little Incredibly Dumb Dog looks bummed, and she truly is too dumb to be depressed. 😉

Several years ago it occurred to me that people need stuff to look forward to. This is a problem when you’re stuck in the endless grind of life on the Fringe. I came home from taking Flower Child to school yesterday morning to find that Big Senile Dog had gone out to the terrace while I was gone–my fault, I shouldn’t have left that door open–and torn into a bag of garbage that was left out there. Yanno, so they wouldn’t make a mess while I was out. Once upon a time he would have eaten everything in there, pistachio shells, tea leaves, and coffee grounds, while Little Incredibly Dumb Dog took care of the tissues and tea bags. She did eat all of the paper stuff, but. By now even he knows he can’t eat that stuff, so instead, all that crud was ground into and under the rubber flooring stuff I have down to protect the concrete. Fantastic.

No shame.

There I was, thinking about nothing to look forward to and how many years it’s been since I really had a day off. If you’re curious, it’s almost 19 years. Man Child will be 21 in a couple of weeks. Husband and I went to Aruba for a long weekend when MC was 2. 21 years since I had a day off *to myself.* And then I was thinking about submissions, querying, and Astonishing. The unpredictable nature of this business I’m trying to get myself into. Well, what can I realistically do about all of this? What is/can be within my control? Two plans conceived.

First, today is a #MSWL day on twitter. That’s when certain agents and editors post their “manuscript wish lists” under the hashtag MSWL, tweeting what they’d like to see come across their desks. I’m watching, in hopes of seeing magical realism, literary fiction, dark lit fic…anything that would reasonably seem like a potential match for Astonishing, and then I will query those agents. I hope. A lot of the agents expected to participate seem to be more focused on Young Adult, Middle Grade, New Adult, but I’m watching. The best part of this is no twitter pitching. I suck at Twitter. Seriously, I can’t quite get the hang of it. I’d blame my age, but that’s a blatant lie. Plenty of people my age and older who are twitter-savvy.

Second, I decided I’m going to go away for a couple of days when Big Senile Dog dies. By myself. No, his death isn’t imminent, but he is elderly and going. Could be a month, six months, two years, but it gives me something to look forward to and a chance to save my pennies. No, I can’t do this before he dies. The logistics of getting him and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog walked and taken care of, Flower Child taken care of, too much/too expensive. I mentioned this to Husband last night, I think he was horrified by my cold and calculated look at the future. The big non-secret is that he adores this dog he didn’t want more than any of us. Not enough to walk him, but adores him nonetheless.

For today, I’m going to watch the Twitter feed and create a playlist for my little eventual trip. That’s the plan, anyway.

In The Eye of Ooo, That Girl is Ugly!

loudspeaker (Photo credit: tutam)

Do you know that voice? I grew up with it. My version of The Mirror in Snow White. First I was scrawny. Then I was scrawny with coke bottle glasses. Then I was scrawny with coke-bottle glasses and boobs before anyone else in my class. Then I stopped growing and everyone else started. I was certain I was hideous.

My mother, like so many of her generation and our neighborhood, was always looking at what came next. When you get contact lenses, you’re going to be so pretty. When your braces come off, you’re going to be so pretty. If you would wear a little make-up, you would look so pretty. If you would gain weight–oh my God, did you see that girl, she’s so fat! did you ever think of trying blonde, you know they have those colored contacts….

The thing is, I grew up. And I educated myself. And I got a wee bit political, aware of the unrealistic pressures put on women to look a certain way, act a certain way, the keep-women-under-your-bootheel history of so many of these expectations. And of course, the magic of make-up, photo processing tricks, and plastic surgery. All that stuff that makes the women on tv, film screens and magazines look like no human being can really look. I was not going to be stomped on by those pressures, the false gods of retail and advertising. But I still thought I was ugly.

A year or two ago I came across a picture of myself in my late teens. You know what’s funny? I wasn’t ugly. In fact, I looked pretty damned good. Like every other girl/young woman in their youth. Firm and smooth, a little overly made-up but ready to go kick some ass.

After a lifetime of being skinny, I’m now not. Still slim, just not skinny. I’m not sure I’m ok with it, but not bothered enough to get back to my yoga routine. I know myself well enough to know there’s a disconnect between what I see when I look down, the voice whispering from the mirror, and what the rest of the world sees. There have been three other times I haven’t been skinny, after the birth of each of my kids. Strangely enough, I never felt more attractive, never felt sexier, than I did during those times. I thought it was the extra weight. It was the fucking hormones. Oh those postpartum, breastfeeding hormones. I swear I might as well have woken up and snorted an eight ball every day. I didn’t have postpartum depression, I had postpartum euphoria. Life is wonderful, my babies are wonderful, your babies are wonderful, I’m beeyootiful! evidenced by my beautiful babies.

Spiegel 1963 maternity bras (Photo credit: genibee)

I was not going to raise my kids with that other bullshit. I was going to let them know how beautiful they were, all the time, no matter what. Lucky for me, that’s been the easy part, they are, in fact, the three most beautiful people in the world. I know, it’s strange, because you’re sitting there thinking your children are the most beautiful people in the world. I was going to point out the politics behind false advertising, what matters and what doesn’t, what’s real and what isn’t. Because the whole concept of ugly is bullshit, dictated by others (except, of course, for me). That was going to take care of that voice.

All of the women like myself were arming themselves with awareness of what to say and not say to their children. But none of us raised our children in caves, and society’s focus on the external gets in. Generation after generation of kids (girls and boys) coming home talking about who called who ugly, who has good hair, who’s too fat, too skinny, too tall, too short, too light, too dark, nose too big, nose too flat, eyes too small, eyes too big. Who am I kidding? It’s already in. In the way I don’t like to look at myself in the mirror, buy jeans that are too large because when I’m looking online I’m certain that I’m two sizes bigger than I used to be, in the way no matter who says it, no matter how many say it, I don’t see a hint of myself in any of my kiddos’ faces.

Several years ago I was sitting in a dr’s office with Flower Child, who was having a particularly rough stretch medically, no answers in sight. Dr Ologist shrugged and said, “But she’s beautiful.”

What? Did I mishear? Did that medical degree come from the Maybelline factory? What a fucking world, where even specialologists see this as something to offer. I was stunned, wanted to scream. Pretty sure I cried on the way home instead. Once again, fucking hormones.

With salt and pepper hair and skin that’s become intimately acquainted with gravity, now I’m more comfortable with who I am and how I look, but it would be nice if that voice wasn’t even a whisper.

It isn’t that I don’t think appearances matter. They do. How you’re dressed, if you’re clean, style…these things tell others about you. How you see yourself, how you’d like to be perceived, what is or isn’t important to you, maybe what type of job you have. But beauty is a whole different thing.

The standards and definition of beauty change. But the message of you aren’t this hasn’t.

Mrs Fringe Would Like To Be

Hawaii Beach House (Photo credit: imgdive)

here. No, this isn’t another weather complaint. Ok, maybe it’s a little bit of a weather complaint, but it’s actually a nice day in NY–for February. Sunny and forty five degrees. But really, I think it’s about the life I wish I were living.

It’s funny, because the life I am living is one many others want. Parts of it. New York City. Manhattan. Rent controlled apartment in a high rise building. Proximity to theater, music, art. And when I imagine life in Hawaii, I can see a lot of overlap. Multicultural living. Waking up to sights others dream of. Crazy high cost of living. Crowds. Tourists. Public transportation and walking making more sense than a car for daily life. Roaches big enough to put a leash on.

New York is like a mirage for so many. Generations keep coming. But for every 3 who come, 2 leave. It isn’t what they thought it would be. The competition is too steep, too massive, the snow is too black, the apartment is too cramped, the rent is too damned high. I imagine the same is true in Hawaii. Well, not the black snow, but the fantasy of what life will be like compared to the reality of bills and laundry and dirty dishes.

But in Hawaii you have this.

Big Island, Punaluu Beach Park (Photo credit: Wikipedia

What will it take for me to make peace with where I am? I don’t know. What would it take for me to get there? More money than I’m ever likely to have. Husband willing to go. Nerd Child and Man Child willing to trade their home base. More money.

For years I kept a reef tank, my beach house of dreams in a glass box. Recently I broke it down, the cost of upkeep too much right now. Much as I loved my tank and critters, and I expect I will set it up again eventually, it isn’t much of a substitute for this.

A Needlefish is being cleaned by Rainbow cleaner wrasse, Labroides phthirophagus. on a reef in Hawaii at cleaning station (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There isn’t a whole lot of me in Christina, my main character of Astonishing. Except towards the end, when she’s dreaming of black sand beaches. Yet I didn’t send her there. Why? I don’t know. It would have been a different story, she would have been a different character.

Are you where you thought you’d be, Fringelings? Where you want to be?

**I don’t know why the spacing is so funky today. My mind must be somewhere else. On a beach. Or underwater with a school of yellow tang.

Sometimes You Just Have to Say

Serious in an entirely different way.

Fuck it. And put on your favorite winter boots.

And go out, after searching the internet for the most steeply discounted tickets you can find. When I was a kid, we used to to go to the theater on a semi-regular basis. Not like we went every month, but once or twice a year. Tickets were less costly then, with discounts you could even get good seats. Hell, if I really liked the show, I would go more than once. Maybe because of the show itself, maybe because I loved a particular lead, or maybe because someone else was playing the lead and I wanted to see them. Now? Hah! The thought of spending money to see something already seen is obscene.

Les Mis is coming back to Broadway. Flower Child’s absolute favorite. I’d love to get tickets and take her, but those tickets are way out of reach, and will be for years. I hoped for Wicked, but no discounts there either. Mrs Fringe needs a steep discount. 20% isn’t going to cut it. Anything Disney is out of the question. I know, many are well done, beautiful–but it’s so rare for us to go, just no.

Found three tickets that might or might not have caused some vertigo and a nosebleed and broke out the Metrocard.

Neon and tourists

Running since 1988, and this was the first time I’ve seen it.

Yes, it needs to be said. Pizza is sold by the slice in most places in NYC

One way to tell NYers from tourists is their pace. NYers walk quickly. Husband rarely walks more than up the block to see his mother, but when he walks he’s fast. This was my only night out in I don’t know how long, I think it’s been 3?4? years since I’ve seen a show. I took my time. Sure, he was a block ahead of me–but I had the print out to pick up the tickets. Another way to tell tourists from natives is the camera hanging from their necks. Well, see, I’ve got this blog….So perhaps I looked like a tourist last night. I don’t mind.

I love live theater, and wish I could go every month. There truly is something magical, I think it’s in the theater houses themselves, in the plaster and gold paint, the chandeliers and hundred year old exit signs.

I was thinking opera glasses would have been a perfect accessory. Do they still make/sell those?

Yes, these not so little touches are everything.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

I would like this over my front door.

The show, of course, was lovely. Flower Child gripped her armrests throughout (we were pretty high up for sure) but loved the music, the costumes, the singing, the trip to the lobby during intermission and the peek at the orchestra seats, lol.

A few photos of Times Square as we walked back to the subway–and perhaps an explanation for why Mrs Fringe can’t tell a star from a photo flare from a smudge on the camera screen. It’s bright in the city–even at 9:30pm on a mid-winter night.

Mid-Winter Break

Even the beasts don’t want to be bothered until it’s Spring.

Ahh, the February break. It began during the mid? late? ’70s during the energy crisis, to save oil and of course, save money. Every June I’m cursing it, when the school year doesn’t end, and my NY kiddo is still in school 1, 2, 3 weeks after everyone else’s kiddos. But in February, when it comes? Oh yeah, we need it. This year, with the winter being absolutely unrelenting, it feels particularly necessary.

On Saturday Flower Child had a field trip with her art class. It was cold and flurrying and I had a couple of hours to myself, so I went to Loehmann’s to see if there was anything left. Not much of interest within my budget, but there were a good number of bags/purses left that were reasonable once all the discounts were applied. I saw a somewhat unattractive but neat laptop case. Predictably, I couldn’t decide if it was the right size for my laptop. But I did think about the purse I’ve been carrying, the way everything has been getting a little (ok a lot) wet with all the snow. So I saw a larger bag that closed and decided to get it. Even on the street it’s hard to find a bag for twenty bucks anymore. This store has never been known for its fabulously helpful sales staff. But now, with the certain unemployment ahead and empty racks, all bets are off. The staff seemed to divide into two camps, those who were more relaxed and nicer than I’ve experienced in there, and those who decided the time is right to lose their filter. At the register I was paying for the bag, the cashier next to the one ringing me up looked at it. She sucked through her teeth (back in my middle school days, that sound/gesture was equivalent to throwing down a gauntlet).

“That looks fake.”

I laughed. What a moment. I told her that was good, since I normally buy my bags from the guys selling knock-offs on the street.

Knock-off?

After I dumped my shit from the old bag into the new one, I was online and followed a link from somewhere to youtube. I don’t remember what the original video was, but on the side of the screen was a link to Susan Boyle’s audition for Britain’s Got Talent. You know the one, “I Dreamed a Dream.” I’ve already seen this clip several times, but it’s a beautiful song, she has a lovely voice, and I clicked on it. Three minutes into the video, my eyeballs were leaking. A connection to this Susan Boyle singing that song at that moment, taking a breath and her shot with her unstylish dress and snark to defend against the expectations of who she should be based on where she is (was, she’s surely in a better spot now). For people with advantages, 40 might be the new 30, but for the rest of us…well.

I’ve begun to query Astonishing. Slowly, but I’m moving forward. I’ve even gotten a few “bites.” (Requests to see the manuscript) It’s a slow, often frustrating process filled with ups and downs and no guarantees. Many agents have adopted a “no response means no” policy. Except as the querier, you don’t know exactly when to assume it’s a no. Agents are flooded with queries on a daily basis, so even if they say 6 weeks on their website, that could mean 8 weeks, or 10 weeks, or 12 weeks. There’s an amazing, delicious charge when you open an email and instead of seeing “Dear Author, Due to the Subjective blahblahblah” you read “Dear Mrs Fringe, I was intrigued…please send me…” Squee! Now hurry up and wait. But don’t hold your breath, it’s still a long, uncertain road in between requests for more material and an offer of representation. And that is far from the second leg, when the agent queries editors–hopefully resulting in a sale to a publisher.

The general wisdom of the internets and writing groups everywhere is to begin a new project as soon as you begin querying. Meh. I’m taking a break. I have an idea that I will likely start playing with at some point, but for now, I’m taking a breath and paying some attention to…yanno, the other areas of my life. Being a woman of 40,000 years, I’ve got other areas. Being a woman of 40,000, I know myself enough to know taking a break doesn’t mean I’ll never write again, never find the discipline again. Being a woman of 40,000, I’m not obsessing about those queries. Do I think about them? Of course. Do I have spurts of ohmyGodwhenamIgoingtohearback? Yup. And then I notice the spots on the bathroom mirror, think about how long its been since I gave Flower Child a manicure, remember how good it feels to read for pleasure, and take care of some of those things. I don’t write just to write, I write when I have a story to tell. I write when I’ve got the energy and focus to find the correct words–regardless of how long it takes to find them.

I watched Susan Boyle and leaked a little bit and then felt better than I have in days. The odds are long and not in my favor, but I do have talent, I’ve worked and continue to work on craft, and the possibility is there.

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

That’s what I think of, when I think of Valentine’s Day. Remember that scene from The Rose? Bette Midler playing a Joplin-esque character, breaking down on stage as she tries to croak out Let Me Call You Sweetheart. That and the fact that St. Valentine is the patron saint of epilepsy. Ya caught me, a true romantic. I’m also allergic to roses.

flowers for Flower Child. We need the pop of color during this endless stretch of gray and snow.

Husband is away, so we won’t be doing our normal Valentine’s Day celebrations. Oh wait, we don’t normally do anything. I don’t think we ever have done anything special for VD. We just aren’t that couple, never were. We’re both bad at stuff like that, cards, remembering specific dates, anniversaries. How many years are we married, Husband? I think it’s 43,000 years, but I could be off by a year or two. We’ve known each other for-ev-er, were friends for a long long time before anything else.

I think without getting into the realm of the spiritual, after my insane devotion to my children, I believe in the healing and strengthening powers of friendship more than anything else on earth. Friendship can come from our significant others, siblings, children, parents, classmates, workmates, online, any of the many places we humans interact. I’m very lucky to have some wonderful friends in my life, and wish that everyone could say they have at least two great, long-term friends.

Too many people are out there feeling they are alone, and “holidays” like this one seem to magnify those feelings of loneliness.

So it feels fine for Husband to be off doing his thing on Valentine’s Day, and for me to not-celebrate by having Fatigue over for Friday Night Madness. Because…friendship. In honor of low days, snowstorms, downwardly mobile lives and overly commercialized holidays, I decided comfort food is in order for tonight.

That’s right, mac n cheese. My version of macaroni and cheese involves whatever cheeses I happen to have in the fridge.

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Feel free to come join us at the cyber table, Fringelings, I’ve even got a few beers on the terrace. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Low

One of those days, yanno? Can’t quite get myself going. I’m certain much of it is because I was sure yesterday was Thursday and woke up thinking, “At least it’s Friday.” Surprise for me, it’s only Wednesday.

The girl saw the puzzle doctor yesterday, not so much fun.

Man Child went back to school. We’re going to miss him, but I know he was more than ready. For a last hoorah, he made bear claws with Flower Child.

Why yes, they do taste as good as they look.

One last dinner, I made a stir fry. Actually two, one for the vegetarians and one for the flesh eaters.

In between writing projects, I feel a little bit adrift. This is fine, I’m not ready to start a new WIP (though there is a little seedling of an idea trying to put down roots). It’s good to rest and recharge before getting lost in a new world. The only problem is it leaves me looking around at my real world, noticing the dust on the furniture, the stains in the sinks, and the fucking freezing temperature outside.

I would like something tangible to look forward to. I have to think about what it can be. Something realistic and within my control. Any ideas?

In the meantime, I give you my latest attempt to capture the moon. This batch seemed more fuzzy than the last batch, but I’m fascinated, trying to figure out what the green splotch is.

Is the green thing a star? Planet?

Sorting through the moon photos put this song in my mind, and it doesn’t want to leave. I figure if I post it here, I’ll pass it on.

Does This Theme Make My Shnoz Look Too Big?

Icicles hanging down from the terrace above mine.

A new theme for Mrs Fringe, to counteract the winter blues. What say ye, Fringelings?

Dumb Dogs

Innocent, I tell ya–and dumber than a box of rocks.

Everyone talks about how smart dogs are. I don’t get it, and I’m a dog lover. I know, I know, your dog is brilliant, it’s just my dog. I’ve had multiple dogs over the years, and between friends’ dogs and dog walking, have known many, many others very well. Mixed breeds, “designer” breeds (aka mutts), rescue dogs, purebreds.

I think my understanding of “smart” is too limited, I only comprehend it as it applies to people. And as intelligence is applied to people, dogs aren’t very smart. They’re cute, loving, protective, smooshable, eager to please, but not intelligent.

Some dogs care a lot about pleasing their owners, keeping us happy. These are often the dogs considered the smartest, because they learn the most commands. Then there are the food motivated dogs, who will do anything in the hopes of a treat. Food motivated dogs are also among the dumbest, because they will eat anything that could be food, once held food, might once have sat in the same garbage bag as food.

Yesterday I was walking a dog, and we stopped for a light. Dog starts rooting in a snowbank. Fine, lots of dogs have fun with the snow, like to roll in it, burrow their snouts in it, eat it. The light changes, we cross the street. Get to the other side, and I notice the dog has something out of his mouth. Hmmm. I pay attention, especially if I know the dog is one likely to eat stuff off of the street, but it does occasionally happen. Is that his collar, did it come off? No, collar is still on. My general rule of thumb is not to stick my hand into any dog’s mouth if it isn’t my dog. Dogs really don’t like it when you stick your hand in their mouth. I don’t care how friendly the dog is. If he/she thinks you’re trying to pull a tasty prize out of their mouth, they’re likely to bite. Because they’re dogs. I’m paid to pick up dog shit and give the dog some exercise, some company and petting, maybe food and water, not offer myself as a chew toy.

I determine this thing hanging from the dog’s mouth is definitely a strap of some sort, with a small metal loop at the end. Looks like the kind of thing used to attach babies’ children’s mittens. Crap. Can’t let the dog eat a strap. And metal! I tell the dog to drop it, leave it, try offering a treat instead. No dice. What the hell is this dog doing? He isn’t chewing or biting, he’s…sucking. Yes, the dog was sucking on the pacifier at the other end of the strap. Sigh.

Pacifier (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yeah, yeah, got it all away from Einstein and threw it away safely.

Then last night, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog started acting even weirder than usual. Jumping and barking on Man Child (she’s decided he’s the one who should take care of her needs). We see no problem, she seems ok, then curls up and goes to sleep. Fifteen minutes later she’s squatting on the living room floor. Umm, NO! I pick her up and bring her to the pad. By the second nugget the problem was apparent.

Flower Child has very, very long hair. She doesn’t want any hairs in her brush, ever. This leaves me finding hairs wherever she might have been when she picked up the brush. She does try to remember to throw it away, but sometimes, well, sometimes. Little Incredibly Dumb Dog thinks anything produced by any of our bodies is delicious. She races to the bedroom when Flower Child wakes up each the morning, to steal those yummy used tissues out of the bag next to the bed.

So that left my little fluff ball, working hard to only semi-successfully evacuate a gut full of doggie gumbo and knitted by her intestinal tract hair. Yes, yes, I helped her, all better now. Emergency bath of her back end.

Tell me again how smart these beasts are.

No Dog Poop (Photo credit: Sweet One)

Brain Freeze

We had a sizable but not crazy snowstorm again the other day. The snow itself was wet and dense, beautiful.

oops, don’t forget how slippery the steps down to the subway become.

All so pretty, everyone was out taking photos, talking about how the city looked like a fairy tale.

But then, Tuesday night, we got more snow. By Wednesday morning the falling snow turned into sleet. All freaking day. That lovely, heavy snow became piles of slush with a thick layer of ice.

It’s great that this is a walking city, but it isn’t easy to navigate when the sewers can’t handle the amount of dirty, packed, snow and slush. The corners and curb cuts become freezing lakes. You think you’re stepping onto a snow pile, and then your foot sinks through a pile of icy muck and you’re shin deep. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to navigate the streets with a stroller, and yet, every year when I see those messy corners I think about how grateful I am that I’m not trying to find the one spot you can push through–usually about halfway up the street, exactly when 5 cars are coming through. On my way to pick up Flower Child the other day, there was a woman with a big stroller at the bottom of the stairs, getting ready to carry it up.

Ugh. I remember those days. Not fun in the best weather, let alone when those metal steps are icy and people are crowding to get in or out of the subway as quickly as possible. I helped her carry the stroller. Not a big deal, not a random act of kindness, just common courtesy. Her look of gratitude made me sad, I wish helping someone in this type of scenario was the rule, not the exception.

Yesterday I went out to walk a dog in the sleet. The streets were so iced over it was all I could do to focus on staying upright. Add in the super dooper hood of my parka that blocks my peripheral vision, and I wasn’t noticing anything. Heard a thud as I walked towards a local bodega, but really, I barely noticed, just trying to get to the sidewalk before the snow plows buried me in the ever rising snowbank against the curb. Frankly, everything was so muffled through my layers and I was concentrating so hard on not busting my ass, I’ve not sure I would know I was hit by a snow plow until I was snorting slush.

Picked up the dog, went past the bodega again, now add in trying not to fall on the ice with an overexcited dog pulling towards the park. Drunk guy on a cell phone, “No, they’re being robbed right now. It doesn’t matter if I’m drunk. I’m telling you, now. Send a car from the blahblah precinct.” Oh, New York.

By this morning, the streets look a bit less magical.