Author: mrs fringe

The Kitchen is now Closed

Jawfish poking his head out of his cave to see if it’s all clear

I hope everyone is having a happy holiday season. Remember my last post, my big stand about refusing to make any rolled cookies in hopes of preserving my back? Yeah. I stuck to not making any rolled cookies, but as it turns out, if you make enough drop cookies while still up and down the train steps for 12 trains a day and add in cooking regular food, that doesn’t actually mean anything.

First came the molasses cookies.

Then came the oatmeal cranberry chocolate chips.

Photo by Art Child

Pause to absorb some tank serenity.

This cracks me up, the snail has some type of algae (that I don’t see anywhere else in the tank) growing from his shell.

clown trying to convince the urchin to move

On to the chocolate crinkle cookies.

Now for my favorites. Honey nut ball thingies. They have the flavor profile of a Greek/Middle Eastern pastry but in a cookie. They’re kind of a pain to make, lots of steps but well worth it.

The first step is the killer. Chopping and chopping

End of chopping, walnuts on left, pistachios on right

Glaze of honey, oj, cinnamon sticks and cloves

Glaze of honey, oj, simmered down with cinnamon sticks and cloves

The filling=nuts mixed with orange peel and a little of the glaze

not so secret ingredient for the dough

By this time I was grateful for a dough that didn’t have to be mixed by hand.

End result, drizzled with the glaze.

Last batch, pumpkin cookies with a cream cheese frosting. Simple and pretty fast to throw together, these are almost like little cakes.

Added up, somewhere between 15-20 dozen cookies, less the couple dozen that were casualties to the residual nerve damage from my fall last spring. Lots of dropping/kitchen accidents now–I have to start remembering it’s just to be expected when calculating how much I need to prepare.

Christmas dinner I tried to keep things easy. Ham, curried lentil/cauliflower/almond pie, and a baked spinach and pea risotto. I’ve never made risotto in the oven before, but I saw a few recipes online, and it seemed like a great back-saver. Blech. Let’s just say I won’t repeat that mistake.

The curry pie was also new for me, but this I would definitely make again. If I can remember what I put in it.

Mini pies with the excess curry and crust

Man Child wasn’t with us last Christmas, either, but this year we’re really feeling it. Maybe because last year he was here right before and after, maybe because we know he’s much further away this time. In any case, he’s been missed. On the bright side, he definitely knows the routine/timing for us, so he and Miss Music (visiting him in Europe for the holiday) called to video chat on Christmas morning.

For you, Man Child–in case you were missing our Christmas breakfast. 😉

So yeah, I’m done. I don’t want to mix, measure, chop, sauté, or bake anything else. More than anything, I’m sick of smelling like the inside of my oven. Why oh why does anyone think it’s a good idea to create grown-scents and lotions that smell like food? As far as I’m concerned, it’s a successful adult day if at the end of it I don’t reek of garlic, onions, cinnamon, or vanilla.

One of the best parts of this season has been having Nerd Child home. Not just here, but relaxed because the college app hell is over. This means I’m getting to hear lots of fabulous music.

Yesssssss

Because of El Niño, instead of gray skies and ice we’ve seen quite a bit of fog in the city this winter. Unfortunately, late December is still far from the end of the season, and I’m afraid we’re going to be slammed with early spring snowstorms. This of course is based on nothing other than my pessimism.

For most of us, winter weather is, at worst, a nuisance. Our recent high temps have meant it didn’t “feel” like it should be time for Christmas shopping, but it was more pleasant when we had to. Feeling beat and smelling like holiday cookies is solved with a shower at the end of the day. But for all too many, this warmer than usual season means everything.

Wheezin’ With the Season

Smudge Moon

It’s that time where I post about how crazy busy everything is, and how behind I am on getting ready for the holidays.

This year I’ve done absolutely nothing to get ready so far, but oddly enough I don’t feel stressed about it. Each year we pare down a bit more in terms of the number of gifts purchased, amount of money spent, types and amount of cookies baked, amount of decorating done in the apartment and size of the tree. Because I’m not a shopper, I miss the biggest sales more years than not, and by the time my youngest was ten, I didn’t even pretend I would go anywhere on Black Friday, enough was available online. And let’s be honest, hitting those big sales often means you end up buying more than intended, so financially it’s a wash, with more crap to figure out where to store on December 26th.

I am never spending three days making rolled gingerbread cookies again, whee!

Art Child is disappointed because I told her I won’t be making any rolled (i.e.: fun holiday shapes) cookies this year. I’m sorry she’s disappointed, but I’m glorying in my lack of guilt. I’ll make some drop cookies, much less time and prep required, and they’ll be absolutely fine. Instead of gingerbread cookies, I made a gingerbread bundt cake (used an oatmeal stout in it, freaking delicious!) so the apartment could at least smell like we’re getting in the spirit. Because she’s sick (always at this time of year, it’s the one tradition that will apparently never be omitted) that little missing slice is all she’s eaten of the cake. We won’t discuss how much I’ve eaten.

I probably should be feeling stressed about shopping by now, but I don’t. The wish lists are small and mostly practical. Nerd Child actually made a request (he’s the one who never asks for anything) so that completely removes the anxiety of trying to guess–knowing as I hand over my cash that I’m guessing wrong and spending too much–and we have to have him with us to make this purchase. He won’t be back home until later this week, therefore there’s 0 reason to go fight the hordes on music row, 48th Street. Not that there is a music row in New York anymore, most of the stores have folded or moved elsewhere, adding an element of maudlin “remember when” to the crowding.

If it weren’t for the fact that I once again forgot to factor in medical copays, I’d say we are going to be completely within budget.

If I can see this guy's rooftop decorations from my terrace, does that count as us being decorated?

Thank you, guy on the next street, for putting your decorations on your roof where we can see them even if you can’t.

Honey, I’ve Got Underwear Older than You

And I’m wearing them.

Maybe the bones aren’t as strong as they once were, but it’s still standing.

Over the summer I posted about an idea I had for a novel. Not exactly a new idea, it would involve a complete revamp/rewrite of a manuscript I wrote a few years ago. I lamented in advance about all the work that would entail, the time, the energy, the damned hope. I didn’t know if I wanted to. I decided to put the idea to the side and see if both the idea and the urge faded away or took root. It’s taken root, but I still haven’t decided if I’m going to do the work. A couple of weeks ago I wrote an opening, a few hundred words. Not enough for me to call it a WIP (work in progress). The night before Thanksgiving, I decided I absolutely needed to go right then to the neighborhood where it’s set to take some photos, so I can decide exactly where my imaginary house will be in my imaginary manuscript. Just in case, you understand.

While I haven’t been working on anything, I still go on the writer’s forum. I’ve got several friends on there, I’ve been a member for a long time, and there’s a healthy amount of silliness that takes place in the off topic sections. I still read all the threads directly related to writing, though I rarely post on them. So the other morning I was having my second cup of pre-dawn espresso and surfing the writing threads in an attempt to take a break from political overload, and I saw a doozy of a post. Actually, it was a few posts, and I don’t even remember what the thread was supposed to be about in the first place. Someone referenced a sad blog post they had read, about a woman who had been trying to get published for twenty years and was giving up. No other details given, I have no idea who the blogger referenced is, or any of the details of her story.

Imagine my surprise to see a response that said something to the effect of, perhaps readers are lucky she’s giving up, if she couldn’t get anywhere with all that time. Hmmm. Someone else wanting to know what she was doing for all that time. Someone else assuming her work must be poor. And someone else referencing that she’d been failing longer than they’d been alive, and she should try something else. Well, let me just say Mrs Fringe had quite a difficult time restraining herself from sending them to their rooms. (no, I’m not a mod there and have 0 authority) Maybe the time out corner, for 7 or 12 or 17 years. Or as I like to call the time-out corner, life. Again, I have no idea what else was going on in that woman’s life over the course of those twenty years, how much time was spent actually writing, or submitting. It doesn’t matter, because one thing I’m sure of is that writing wasn’t the only thing she was doing. Because life does happen, to all of us, whether we’re creative geniuses, no talent hacks, prim and proper accountants or women of a certain age.

Even though I wasn’t actually a part of the conversation, and no one was actually speaking to me, I was annoyed. Feeling sensitive, because they’re asking the same questions and making the same deprecating comments I’ve been making about myself. Some of it has to do with the writing, yes, questioning the value of my words and stories. How do you measure the value of these things, anyway? Because that, I think, is the crux of it for me. What is the value? If there is no measurable value without success, what is my value? Being a woman of a certain age without clear markers of success, feeling the negative pressure, maybe I’m supposed to just fade out quietly; stop making a fuss, stop dreaming, move out of the way of the younger generations, and for God’s sake stop cursing so much. Well, that last part is never going to fucking happen.

I don’t know if I’m going to write that manuscript. But if I don’t, it won’t be because of how many years have or have not passed since I first said hey, I’d like to see my words in a book, on a shelf, and be paid a dollar for them. I’ve been busy.

Living in the Real World?

City Streets

The internet is aflame with gun arguments right now, impassioned and extreme on both sides. On one site I’m a member of, I read a comment in defense of private citizens keeping themselves armed (without stricter regulations) to the effect of for those of us who don’t live in ivory towers…live in the real world…danger…needing a weapon…and a few cities were named, to make the point that (s)he was not referencing bucolic pastures or suburban houses made of ticky-tacky. That specific comment really struck me, because as a city dweller I’ve always thought of this as an issue for those who don’t live in cities. People living in wide open spaces who don’t have police and police stations within spitting distance, and of course, visions (fed by the media, no personal experience) of compounds populated by paranoid folks who don’t trust the commie gubmint. Obviously there are criminals with guns here in the city, law enforcement officers, and those who work in the Diamond District, but nope, I don’t know of any neighbors who are campaigning to keep legal arsenals.

Several of my online friends who aren’t American have been asking me questions, all pretty much boiling down to a blend of what-the-fuck? why? guns? and America?

I touched on this in my last post, but I want to talk about this a bit more, and hope readers will join the conversation. You’re welcome to agree or disagree with me, but no personal attacks or blanket slurs. While Americans have a common bond by definition, our experiences of life in America–what constitutes the “real world,” varies greatly, and that plays a huge part in individual stances.

Maybe you grew up with inappropriate jokes about those who lived in the Bronx. Or Detroit, or Chicago. I grew up with inappropriate jokes about places in big sky country (is that a nickname for an actual place or an idea?), where the men were men and the sheep were nervous. Shouldn’t we be past all that now?

You all know Mrs Fringe is a New Yawkah; born here, raised here, guessing I’ll collect social security here too. I ride the subways every day. I’m not wealthy, never have been. When I was younger, I worked in downtown Brooklyn, when it was very, very different from the artsy, hipster paradise it is today. Our office was next to the Brooklyn Arms Hotel, and every day on my way from the subway station, I’d feel the crack vials crunch under my feet while I rushed past the Brooklyn Arms Hotel (a particularly notorious welfare hotel) and hoped I didn’t get clipped in the head by something flying out a window–’cause that happened regularly. Of course, I wasn’t first starting my day when I went into the office, that was after three hours of “field work,” which involved walking through neighborhoods that weren’t part of any tourist attractions, and visiting clients who weren’t particularly happy to see my smiling face at 7am. Sometimes I was walking those streets at 1am, because of a late shift or an emergency–and trust me, this was long before New York was spit shined and spiffed up. I’m not trying to glorify life in the city or America, there’s crime, there are problems, and yes, I’ve had a moment or ten where I’ve been frightened.

I don’t live in the roughest neighborhood, it’s one that’s been “gentrified.” I’m not young, I remember when it wasn’t. Gentrified in (most of) NY means there’s still a good mix of everyone–race, culture, and economics–sharing the same block and the same public schools. Three kids, three elementary schools, and two of those elementary schools were classified as Title I schools. Title I means there’s a high percentage of children who come from low-income families who qualify for free/reduced lunch. If you’re unfamiliar, trust me, your income has to be pretty damned low for your kids to qualify for free lunch, and yes, here in Fringeland, we’ve had many years where our kiddos qualified because life.

On my block there are a mix of residences. Google tells me one brownstone is on the market for $6 million dollars, average for the block and neighborhood. Next to it is a housing project (yanno, the projects), there’s a small building that I think is a co-op (a very NY thing, you buy your apartment, but technically you own shares in the building, not your apartment, so everything you want or do–including the purchase of the place–has to be approved by the co-op board, generally a bunch of residents who take pleasure in agonizing over awning colors and making residents jump through as many hoops as possible), and there’s my building, which is part of a program from the 60’s/70’s designed to keep working class people in the city. One block over starts the SROs and a couple of shelters. Wikipedia says SROs are for one or two people, but I know plenty of families that live in those one room dwellings. Regardless of which address they live in, I recognize most of the long term faces on the block and immediate neighborhood, and they recognize me, too. We smile, nod, maybe say Happy Holidays. My family’s experience of America is quite different than that of the family in a brownstone up the street, and different again than that of a family in the projects.

Even if I only look within my building, there’s a mix of skin colors, ethnicities and cultural backgrounds; I know of at least ten different languages spoken within these bricks, twelve different religions, atheists–likely more, this is NY, we don’t talk personal religion all that much. Multicultural is a fact of life here, not a talking point, and definitely not something that strikes fear in my heart. So what’s my point?

We’ve got a lot of questions that need to be discussed and examined, but more guns can’t possibly be the answer. If your experience of America is different than mine, that’s part of what makes America what it is. It doesn’t invalidate my experience any more than mine invalidates yours. Let’s talk about what’s real, what it is to live in x city, x suburb, x town; talk about it based on real life experiences, not phantoms of what could happen based on shadows and misdirection. Maybe you’d be afraid if you found yourself on a subway platform at 1am and saw a few of my neighbors waiting for the 2 train. I’m pretty sure I’d piss my pants if I found myself faced with a bear in the woods. Hell, I run into the house when I’m visiting friends in New Jersey and a deer steps into their backyard. But my world is still real, thankyouverymuch. Real city, real New Yawk, real America. There have been quite a few times where I wished I had cab fare, but I never wished for a gun.

Another Day, Another Mass Shooting

When Columbine happened, I cried. Virginia Tech, I cried. Sandy Hook, I cried. After Sandy Hook, I thought I was finished crying. Then came the shooting in Charleston, SC this past summer. I cried again. Yesterday’s shooting in San Bernardino, CA–I didn’t cry. I’m horrified, deeply saddened, my heart aches and breaks for those lost, injured, and those who have lost loved ones in yesterday’s slaughter. You know the one, in a Social Services center, where the developmentally disabled receive services. I’m disgusted.

When did these types of shootings become an acceptable part of the fabric of America? Last night I thought it must have been after Sandy Hook. But I purposely waited before trying to put a blog post together, waited until I was calm enough to think beyond what.the.fuck. Earlier in the day, before I saw the news from San Bernardino I was still debating whether or not I could write anything that made sense about this past weekend’s shooting at the Planned Parenthood in Colorado. Whoops, I blinked, new shooting. So I make no guarantees as to the coherence of this post, sorry.

This morning I’m thinking this “acceptability” must be older. Maybe 1984, when 21 people were slaughtered (also in CA) in a McDonald’s. After all, not everyone goes to college. Not everyone relates to seeing churches as a sanctuary. Not everyone had a warm and fuzzy school experience. But McDonald’s? What could possibly be more American, more of a symbol of capitalism at its finest, than McDonald’s? (Hell, when I had my first child, McDonald’s was one of my thoughts when deciding whether or not to raise my children vegetarian, and decided against it.) Maybe it was 1986, when “going postal” became a punchline after 14 people were shot and killed in Oklahoma. Come to think of it, when did these mass shootings become a sacred cow? Not that they’re in any way, shape, or form funny– but somehow they aren’t a subject open for discussion. Or study. Or, yanno, action.

My mind is peppered with questions, but not the ones you might think. We’ve had so damned many of these shootings, in so many ordinary places filled with people going about their lives, there’s no question that any and everyone in this country should be able to identify and understand this isn’t a matter of a hazy “them,” it could be me, or you, or anyone we care about. We’ve had so many I don’t care about the specific why or who of each shooter. White, black, brown, male, female, Christian, Muslim, right now I don’t give a shit. When we look at these mass shootings, we are always looking at American citizens taking out as many other American citizens as they can. I think we need to focus on the how before anything else. And the answer to how is guns. Easy accessibility and the attachment to them. It is bizarre, that we live in a society where the right to own a personal, literal arsenal is considered so holy, we aren’t even allowed to research it.

Because, as the Facebook memes say, guns don’t kill people, people kill people. This is true–and they kill each other with guns. We passed the time when access to legal guns should have been given (much) tighter restrictions at least thirty years ago. It’s also true that increased background checks and tighter restrictions will not eliminate all gun related crimes and deaths. We can’t cure cancer, either, but we screen for it, pay attention to symptoms and warning signs, and treat people who are sick. Surprisingly enough, even though we have no cure for cancer, many of the people treated go into remission and go on to live full lives. Some don’t. If we used the same logic currently being used for arguments against gun control, we wouldn’t treat any cancer patients because some will die regardless of treatments available and used.

Last night I had a conversation about this with a friend who is also medical needs mom. Over the years, we have gotten very good at compartmentalizing. You kind of have to, in order to help your child as much as possible, but also to, well, live. Get the laundry done once in a while. Laugh. We have learned to accept what would have once been considered unthinkable, let alone acceptable. So I understand how and why we, as Americans, have learned to compartmentalize these atrocities, these types of “events.” When there are so many, we have to, in order to keep functioning. But there’s a huge difference in this analogy. We don’t stop caring and loving. We don’t stop doing everything in our control to learn what we can, access the best treatments, provide the best life. We don’t stop remembering our children, medical needs/special needs or not, are human beings. It seems to me it’s time for the larger we, the American people, to remember these victims (past, present and future) of gun violence are human beings. We’re supposed to care. Care with real discussion, not rhetoric. Care with action and the best preventative measures available.

“It’s too soon” is not a battle cry. It’s a deflection. And it’s nonsense when these horrors are happening so frequently there isn’t even a pretense of a time that isn’t too soon.

These shootings aren’t an act of God, a force of nature we’re powerless to prevent. We, as a society, are making a choice. We make a choice when we watch and read opinion pieces and pretend they’re news, we make a choice when we encourage hatred, when we value this life over that one, we make a choice when we tsk tsk about another mass shooting but don’t enact stricter gun laws. Federal ones.

Table of Enough

Butternut Squash Risotto

Today is Thanksgiving here in the US. I was going to muse on why we still celebrate this holiday–a holiday that continues to glamorize Native American genocide, food waste, shopping for shit we don’t need, and canned cream of mushroom soup. I’ve posted about being tired of the tremendous amount of work to prepare and cook for this holiday for the past few years. I’ve said how much I used to love this day, but haven’t in a while. Yes, every year I swear never again, and yet here I am, one eye on the clock because the shelves in my fridge are warping under the weight of foods waiting to be cooked.

I was going to muse about what America means. President Obama tells us these hideous pronouncements of wall building and turning our backs on refugees aren’t what we stand for. I like Obama, I like what he stands for, and I agree that it shouldn’t be. But let’s be honest, America has a long history of fighting to reject immigrants and refugees, an even longer history of racism.

If you are someone who believes “freedom of religion” includes all religions, if you believe “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…” is still valid today, this is an exhausting and often disheartening time. I still hear people moaning that only English should be spoken in America. Sigh. English is the language of the US, and it doesn’t take a damned thing away from anyone when other languages are also spoken. Not only doesn’t it take anything away, it’s a bonus. “Global community” isn’t just a phrase for Facebook and college admissions essays.

The thing is, sappy as it might sound, I still love the idea of Thanksgiving. The sentiment of it, anyway. I like the idea of a day to stop and pay attention to the privilege of enough to eat, having people in our lives whom we love and love us. Should having enough to eat be a privilege? I don’t think so, but it is. I know it is when I look at the photos of the Syrian refugee camps. I know it is when I walk down the streets and through the subways, seeing those who are homeless and hungry. My children have attended schools with classmates who live in mansions, brownstones, projects, and shelters. When you know this, when you know the kiddo waiting for their turn with the brown crayon right next to your kiddo, sharing Saltines and apple juice with your kiddo, isn’t going home to a full table, it isn’t theoretical. Yes, yes, we should all give thanks every day for what we have, but really, many of us don’t.

I’m not going to post a million Thanksgiving food pictures. Have faith, Fringelings, my cranberries are glistening in their zinfandel bath and the skin on my pernìl is crisped just so. I will post a few pics from the past weeks that make me smile, and hope they do the same for you.

Love when I luck into a decent shot of the moon.

This guy comes to visit me regularly, but I suspect he’s going to fly south soon.

zoanthid colony in the tank.

Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate, and if not, happy Thursday.

Could You Repeat the Question?

I seem to have lost my train of thought down in the subway tunnels.

I know, I’ve been quiet. You could go so far as to say absent–doing what I have to do, and not a syllable more.

It’s a funny thing. I’ve heard writing described like a muscle, the more you do it/use it, the more you can write, higher word count and more effective. The same is true in reverse. Not working on a novel led to not working on anything fiction, to not reading fiction, to not blogging because what the hell, is anyone actually reading my words anyway? Despite my descent into sniveling, I’ve received several nudges in the form of notes and emails over the past couple of weeks from people wondering where I am (thank you!), reminding me there are people out there who read Mrs Fringe. If this post is a bit scattered, keep in mind that my writing muscles are a bit stiff.

By now, most days I’m on autopilot for the commute. Some days I can fully appreciate the opportunity to hear some fine musicians, find a dollar at the bottom of my bag for one of the all-too-many ragged and hungry homeless who are walking those tunnels without benefit of a coat–sometimes not even shoes, note some characters (and quirks) for future writing endeavors, and some days, well,

some days I wonder if I’m going to be humping that 3rd rail after another few years of twelve trains a day.

So where I’ve been is here, and what I’ve been doing is adhering to the if-you-don’t-have-anything-nice-to-say rule. What makes me come out of cyber-hiding today? My absolute embarrassment at being a member of the human race right now. Much as I’d like to be a Time Lord; I have no Tardis, only one heart, only one life, and am in fact limited by time and space. We won’t even mention the effects of gravity. Same as everyone else on this earth.

But everywhere I look these past few days, I see and hear people playing the my-god-is better-than-your-god game, naturally followed by my-life-is-more-valuable-than-yours. Last week’s attacks in Paris more than ramped up the worldwide conversation about the Syrian refugees, where they can go, who will take them in, why anyone should. The attacks in Paris were horrendous, despicable, the result of fear and hatred. Every act of terrorism is horrific, be it domestic or international.

I’ve read many theories on what to do in order to combat terrorism. Some of those theories sound good, others make no sense to me at all. Not being an expert in international relations or politics, I can’t begin to think that I know the best thing to do in order to neutralize (is that the right word?) Isis/Isil/Daesh. Here’s what I do know. They are a small group of dangerous nut jobs. I said it. SMALL. And they do not, in my expert opinion as a human being residing on the one and only planet we humans can currently reside on, justify turning our backs on the millions of Syrian refugees who have had to flee from their home.

We, as human beings, have documented waves of refugees (most, if not all, because of religious persecution) dating back to BC times. Israelites, Huguenots, Muhacirs, Russian Jews, Belgians, Serbians, Armenians, Jews from Eastern and Western Europe during WWII, Palestinians, Ugandans, Cubans, Balkans, Rwandans, Sudanese, Iraqis, and now Syrians. I’m certain I’ve missed many, and I’m certain the Syrians won’t be the last. Is there a group, a religion, a nationality that hasn’t been persecuted?–and many have had their turn as the persecutors, as well. With all this experience, shouldn’t we, as one human race, be able to recognize each other as fellow humans and respond with compassion, instead of reacting with fear and walls and bigotry? Given the planet’s population, global climate change, and bigger and better weaponry, I would guess waves of displaced peoples will increase with time. (Unless we eliminate borders.)

I’m not naive, I understand there are problems, logistical and otherwise that come with large numbers of refugees. But the biggest problem I see is clinging to hatred and xenophobia, pretending that it isn’t “our” problem.

The other day I was on a crowded train and spotted an empty seat next to a woman wearing a niqab. You know what I did? I sat down.

Holy Papal Visit, Batman–Gotham’s a Mess!

Look up, look down, but whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.

In case you’re an American who doesn’t know because you’re oh…dead and buried in a hidden cave, Pope Francis is in town. Now, I like this pope, I like the things he says, I like the things he does even more, and I think he’ll make great strides worldwide with his emphasis on humanity, compassion, and service. I’m happy for those who are thrilled for the opportunity to see him and hear him speak.

But for the love of all, could you learn how to train before you walk into the subway? The stations and the train lines are all packed, overflowing with papal tourists and delays. This morning I think I saw every outer borough character I’ve ever written.

On the Shuttle:

“Mary, there’s a seat, go sit down.”

Mary clamps her lips together and shakes her head so hard her pin curls are quivering.

“You don’t like that seat? I’ll sit instead of you.”

“I don’t want any seat, Timothy, not just that seat.”

Timothy turns to the man in the seat next to him. “I only ride the train once every ten years or so, what about you?”

Man next to him lifts one side of his headphones, “Every day.”

“You must have a lot of extra time on your hands. What does it take you, hours to do your hair like that every day?”

Man touches his dreadlocks, looks across at me (guess I’ve got the stamp of a regular subway rider tattooed on my face), and laughs. “I do it while I’m on the trains.”

***

On the platform:

“Steven!! Get away from the edge, you’re going to fall in!”

***

“Oh my GAWD, is that a rat?”

***

“Is it always so hot in here?”

***

On the 2:

Group of senior women in their very best rhinestone studded Juicy Couture, talking at a young man in workout gear. “I’m tellin ya, they’ve got the best pizza on 18th Avenue, you’ve gotta go to Brooklyn.”

“Uh, ok, thanks.”

“Whaddya telling him that for, Rosemary? Don’t listen to her, honey, you’ve gotta go for the clams at Campagnoli’s.”

Pained nod from the young man.

All four lean in to him before they get off the train. “With spaghetti!”

***

There’re two things regular NYC subway riders get every day, and one of those is religion. Jehovah’s Witnesses seem to be the most organized, tables set up and staffed at many stations, 3 in Grand Central, politely waiting for those who appear interested. Many different Christian denominations can be found with signs and pamphlets. Every so often, outside the stations there’ll be a group of Orthodox Jewish men, offering…baptisms? conversions? in trailers. Last week there was a group of off-key Hare Krishnas singing and soliciting donations, bright marigold robes practically glowing in the tunnels. Then of course there are those there to alert us to Armageddon.

What exactly is a whoremonger, anyway?

The other thing you get in the subways daily? Music. Often great music. I’ll admit, I’m not into the guys who’ve made instruments out of saws and violin bows, but they have their followers. And it would be fine if the trumpets would hold off until, say, 10am. But yeah, music is the perk of a sizable commute on and around the trains.

I love when these guys pop in.

Yes indeed, that’s the back of a one-man-band. An optimistic one, with a 5-gallon Home Depot bucket for a tip jar.

I know, I know, for most visiting today it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, an honor. Couldn’t they have scheduled this for one of the two days off the public schools had this week?

Happy Friday, Fringelings.

Testing, Testing, 1,2, Oh, ‘Murica

Surely you’ve read about it, or at least heard about Ahmed Mohamed, the 14 yo boy arrested at school in Texas for bringing in a clock. Just in case being a new high school freshman isn’t terrifying enough. I’m not sure I can come up with any new or brilliant commentary on this, but I couldn’t bring myself to let it pass without mention. The school to prison pipeline grows ever shorter, while the concept of American public schools being about anything other than testing and warehousing grows more fantastical.

When we moved into this apartment, I dumped or donated most of the no longer used toys and build-your-own kits that clogged the shelves. But I looked into the boys’ closet this morning, and found this:

Contraband?

And now you know the truth, Mrs Fringe and Husband are subversive enough to have encouraged our kiddos to use their imaginations, and *gasp* learn outside the classroom. I would say I’m going to send the pinhole camera kit to Ahmed Mohamed, but since he built his clock using his brain, imagination, and spare parts, I’m guessing he’s advanced well beyond this type of thing.

I’ve seen many comments to the effect of “oh, Texas.” But it isn’t “just” Texas, this type of lunacy, this profiling, this purposeful stifling of children’s minds is everywhere. Test scores test scores, who needs learning? Or creativity? Or ingenuity? We do. Who needs to question school rules, what’s being taught and valued in our schools? We do. Who needs to speak up and say racism and fear has overtaken common sense? We do. The teachers in Ahmed Mohamed’s school failed him. The first teacher he showed his clock to who told him to hide it, and the second teacher who reported him to the principal. The principal who called the police. The police officers who arrested him, fingerprinted him, questioned him without his parents or attorney present, stated that he was passive aggressive because all he would say was that it was a clock, they failed him. Not just him, but every kid who attends anything other than the “elite” schools where science and creativity are encouraged. Schools with precious few seats where you either have to test in, win a lottery, live in the right zip code, or pay tens of thousands of dollars per year.

We send our children to school with the assumption and reassurances that the adults in charge will do all they can to keep our children safe. Safe, first and foremost. Before academics, before test scores, before athletics. This boy wasn’t kept safe, he was terrorized. My heart aches for his parents, trying to imagine what his mother must have thought and felt when she first heard. Anyone else remember being taught that old trick about principal/principle? The principal is a pal. Not to a kid who’s brown. Or poor. Or smart. Or questioning.

I’m guessing most of us have been faced with at least one moment in our lives where we made a decision based on fear. Those moments don’t generally result in rational thought and educated decisions. But yesterday’s incident was based on pure, willful ignorance and prejudice. It isn’t an honest debate about the advantages/disadvantages of high stakes testing, if it’s worth having our schools look and act like prisons complete with lockdowns, metal detectors, and bars on all the windows, or even whether or not girls should be allowed to wear belly shirts in school. If you’re thinking Mrs Fringe doesn’t sound impartial and unbiased, you’re absolutely right–because Mrs Fringe is a blog, for my blatherings, not a fact-checked news source. If only we were teaching our kids to tell the difference. But I suppose that would also be suspect; mustn’t question what’s on the screen in front of you–unless of course you disagree, and even then, don’t question, just attack, facts be damned.

I read something yesterday, a comment on a Facebook thread that referred to his arrest and suspension as science-shaming. WTF? This doesn’t need a pretty and politically correct label, it needs to be called what it is. Bullshit.

This morning everyone is gleefully celebrating the support shown through the #IStandWithAhmed hashtag on Twitter. President Obama invited him to the White House, he’s being celebrated and receiving invitations from the techiest of the big tech folks. That is wonderful for him and his family, and honestly, I hope they win a huge judgement in a lawsuit. But I can’t quite celebrate, because this shouldn’t have happened, and no matter what opportunities come his way, I imagine being criminalized for making a clock will shape every decision he makes from now on. Him, and every other young person who saw this news.

Mama, Didn’t Mean to Make ya Cry

Empty nest or empty bed?

I think it’s just an empty bed, because the nest surrounding it is filled with the laundry that gets washed but doesn’t go in the dryer, so there’s a forest of detergent-scented shirts and undies to hack through. And of course, I still have one child at home.

But let’s go ahead and talk about the empty nest thing. The other day on Facebook, I saw a short video meant to tug at the heartstrings and tear ducts of women my age and up (all with gray or white hair, yes!!) giving individual answers to what they’d have done differently. All said some variation of they’d have slowed down, appreciated the small moments, snuggles, hugs, bedtime delays, etc more than they did. Ok, fair enough, and it was a nice little video, but my immediate thought was, I did all that. I did all that, and I wish I had done a little (not a lot, but a little) less of that.

When I was a kid I swore that when I grew up, I was going to have children, keep them, let them feel how loved they were, know they came first, devote my everything to them while encouraging independence. Check. I’m glad I’m a mom, glad I spent the time, feel somewhat confident that I’ve done and continue to do the best I can. Mistakes made? Check. Decisions I regret? Check. But I not only adore my kiddos, I like them, like spending time with them, love hearing the laughter, and feel like the most miserable, useless human being on the face of the earth when they cry. When they were little, Husband and I practiced attachment parenting; holding them until they fell asleep–in our room–, I breastfed for a combined total of 8000 years, and agonized over which toy, what rules, which foods, and on and on.

I thought, because I was aware and making a conscious choice to center my world around them, I wouldn’t lose myself. To some degree, that’s been true. I wouldn’t resent them. That’s certainly true. I remembered to maintain my friendships and get “grown-up” time. I didn’t stop listening to the music I loved, didn’t stop reading anything other than the Scholastic Book catalogue, didn’t let my life be ruled by playdates and mommy and me classes. Still, looking back, I wish I had nudged myself and my writing just a little higher on the to-do list.

During those early years, I heard a fair amount of backlash. “you’re pregnant again?” “you’re still nursing?” And of course the whispers I wasn’t meant to hear but did, “those kids are never going to be independent.” “never going to wean.” Yawn. The same whisperers who swore my kids would never be able to fall asleep without me let alone become functioning adults, murmured again when each boy left for boarding school. “I can’t believe she’s sending her kids away!” Yawn. For the 492nd time, I didn’t send them away, I allowed them to go. Not just semantics. Boarding school isn’t the best choice for every kid for many different reasons, but it was for two of mine.

So this video has stayed on my mind. This morning I saw a link and discussion about another video. I didn’t click the link, just read the discussion, about a commercial being aired (in Asia, maybe?) about a mom sitting alone, miserable because her nest is empty and the kid(s) hasn’t called, even though she devoted her every everything to this ingrate. Call your muthah. The discussion was all about how terrible it is for women to center their lives around their children, it’s their own fault, unrealistic expectations, excessive guilt trips, and a few posts about this-is-why-I-choose-not-to-have-children. Fair enough. There are many reasons to choose not to have children, and I believe all should be accepted. #1, it’s nobody else’s fucking business and #2, parenting is long and hard no matter what parenting philosophy you subscribe to, with absolutely no guarantees about anything; not whether you’ll enjoy it, feel good about it, have a good relationship when all is said and done, or whether or not those kiddos will be healthy and sound enough to grow up and become independent.

The other day was my birthday, and I have to say, it was an excellent day. I woke to flowers from Husband, Art Child made me a fantastic card, Man Child messaged me from Italy (unexpected, I figured he’d still be jet lagged and getting his legs under him), Nerd Child not only called me, but happened to be with someone I’m a big, long time fan of, and the man got on the phone and wished me a happy birthday! I stayed in my pajamas until the afternoon, got several texts and phone calls from friends, and my buddy El Fab came over for dinner. Would I have been angry if the boys hadn’t remembered and contacted me? Given them lectures, guilt trips, and slide shows about why they should have? Nope, but it sure was beautiful that each remembered me.

It seems natural, logical to me that at the other end of this parenting gig (sure, you’re a parent forever, but there is usually a point where the kiddo develops their own life, be it from the basement apartment, across state lines, or on another continent) and there’s a period of, dare I say it? Wondering what’s next. Maybe even feeling a bit of emptiness. When someone spends years building a career and then stops working, it’s the subject of good natured teasing, maybe even compassion, “(s)he doesn’t know what to do with himself.” I don’t hear a whole lot of “I told her not to make so much damned money…be such a dedicated worker…if he had put more into it, he wouldn’t be miserable now…eventually she had to retire!” I definitely haven’t seen any videos floating around chastising retirees.

We are all individuals, same as our children are. I know parents with adult children who speak to their children every single day, see them twice a week, and live within spitting distance of each other, can’t conceive of going a month without seeing each other. They’re living their lives, and happy. I know parents with adult children who speak once a week, see each other once every month or two, live a couple of hours away from each other, living their lives, and happy. Some live in different countries, speak when they can, and are thrilled if they see each other every year or two. Others live around the corner from each other, or thousands of miles away, and don’t speak at all, too many years of anger and resentment. And then there are some who have experienced the terrible, unimaginable heartbreak of losing a child to illness, drugs, or violent crime. Yes, we can (do?) all look back and see moments where we wish we had made different choices. For ourselves, for our families. I sure as hell can’t look back at someone else’s life from my living room and my perspective and tell them what they should have done. Does this make me a bad feminist as well as a bad mama?

After all these years of mama-ing, hindsight leads me to this one question: When are we going to stop with the judgmental bullshit? Call me crazy, but I don’t think there’s one right way to parent, one right way to live, one right way to be independent.