Budget

Four Fingered Discount

Sometimes we all need a helping hand.

I try not to blog about the kiddos too much on Mrs Fringe for two reasons. One, this is my spot to be me–all of me, not just mamaing, but certainly being a mom is a big part of me. Two, their privacy. This week is my girl’s birthday, though. And it’s a big one. So we took a trip downtown and went to the art store. A new one for us, haven’t explored it before. Flower Child was given all the time she wanted to look at each pencil, eraser, and every other thing that I don’t know what they’re called or how they’re used, but she does. And she saw the manikins. I know they’re useful, but all these little things add up in price. She saw this hand, missing one finger, and asked me if I thought they’d give it to us for fewer dollars because it had fewer fingers. I told her to ask the manager. She did, and he did. Thank you!

Of course, she has a long list of things she would love for her birthday. But…budget. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t summon a unicorn. We do the best we can. One of the things on her list was a name change. She wants to be called Art Child here in Fringeland, instead of Flower Child. I can do this, and I think I should. Here’s a drawing she’s been working on for the past week.

I love this. Not quite finished, but I say this definitely = a name change, don’t you?

I continue to be blown away by her developing talent. She pours her dreams onto the sketch pad, uses her charcoals to smudge them into something visible, something tangible, something I can feel.

I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot these days. How, as someone who writes, a wannabe, I take bits and pieces of what I see, hear, and feel. I inhale them, taste them, smoosh them together, let them harden, and then tap them with the keys on my laptop until they crack and the cracks become stories. Written dreams that turn into personal dreams of connecting with readers, publication. At this point in my life, dreaming isn’t enough. A head in the clouds doesn’t protect you from the potholes under your feet. Work needs to be done, mamaing needs to happen, life has to be lived.

When we left the art supply store we walked down 23rd St. I looked at the old YMCA and wondered what happened to the dreams of the young men who stayed there years ago, before it became a trendy Crunch gym.

Yup, the one that inspired the song.

But for now, I want Art Child to dream. I will watch out for the cracks in the sidewalk.

Hey Foureyes!

When I bought them they were cool. Fashionable, even 😉

I wear contacts much more frequently than I wear glasses. A few reasons for that, not least of which because I see much better in contacts than glasses. Must be the peripheral vision, I don’t know. Doesn’t hurt that it’s cheaper to replace contact lenses than glasses.

When I bought those frames I loved them. For a long time. Remember, early 2000’s when the teeny tiny frames were in style? Great for people like me with extreme nearsightedness, combining the small frames and lightweight, thin as they can make them lenses they were almost comfortable. For a few hours.

Because this is life, and this is life on the Fringe, I had a little accident when throwing garbage away yesterday. I know there’s a wind tunnel kind of thing in the compactor chute. At this time of year, every time you open the door, bits of dirt and grit whoosh out. I know this. Hell, I even blogged about it here. I turn my face away when I open the chute, but something went horribly wrong and I got a face full of scratchy muck, mysteriously drawn straight to my eyes. I think the left one just got irritated, the right one, though, extra special. Something got under the contact, because that eye went straight from oh! to holy shit I think my eyeball is on fire!

If there’s anything I’ve learned from many years of wearing contact lenses, when something goes wrong take them out right away. I did, and found my glasses. Which you can see, from the photo above, have had better days. The finish on the frames has worn off in spots, the protective anti-glare coating is scratched, and there’s a little piece of frame missing from the top–if I move my head too quickly, the left lens pops out. Excellent.

The prescription on these glasses is two or three levels behind my most current rx. You look blurry, I look blurry, can I just stay in bed? I know, I know, I should change the lenses on the glasses when I get new contacts, but glasses are freaking expensive. And by the last time I got a new scrip, it didn’t even seem worth it unless I was getting new frames, too. Did I mention this was also my last pair of contacts? Between the too-weak glasses, the thought of the bill for new glasses, new contacts, the co-pay for the eye doctor and the pain in my eyes, I’ve had a headache for about twenty-four hours now. Better and better.

I need an eye dr appt, and then I’m going to have to go and replace the contacts and glasses. For the record, when you have vision as poor as mine, there’s no such thing as glasses in an hour, or contacts that are in stock. Skip the Tylenol, pass the Excedrin and keep it coming for at least 5 days, please.

Friday Whimper

Remember my last post, focusing on what’s been good? Fuck that. Somehow the three days since then have been 83 days in real time. Just tell me when I can go meet Fatigue for Friday Night Madness. In fact, I think I might splurge. Skip the food and just spend all my dollars on a Kwak. Because it’s delicious and makes me feel special, that’s why.

pauwel kwak (Photo credit: [puamelia])

It is Friday, that’s the good news. Tonight, Fatigue will tell me about his acting class and his singing practice. He will ask me about writing, and I will tell him about fixing-to-get-ready to query. Then we will both contemplate, strategize, and ramble about how much is subjective, and analyze the week to find the bright and hopeful spots. And of course, dog poop. My beasts, his beasts, and any other beasts we walk.

I will remember that Loehmann’s is going out of business. This is a big deal to me. When I shop, I shop the discount stores. Filene’s is gone, Daffy’s is gone, what’s left? There’s Century 21, but their stuff is all higher end, so for me I can buy a splurge piece there, not replace my blown-out-in-the-knee jeans. TJ Maxx, but I rarely find anything in there, and most of what I do isn’t stuff that’s made to last. Yeah, yeah, I’m cranky today but I feel like this is another nail in the coffin of the working class. “You’re a peasant, it’s time you dress like one. How dare you want to wear something that isn’t lycra and polyester?”

And it’s just after the holidays, so it isn’t like I have any money to run in and see what they’ve got before they’re gone.

Goodbye, Loehmann’s

I’ll miss you

Together we will moan and groan about the state of the union, the dearth of common sense in politics, and–depending on how far into my beer I am at that point–I will likely rage about this case, which thankfully is over now, but has been weighing heavily on my heart and my mind. It shouldn’t have been a case at all. I’ve been wanting to write a post centering on it, but I have to wait until I can think calmly and clearly. I’ll still be angry (wtf, politicians? Get your head out of my skirt!) but I want to make sense, whether or not readers agree.

It is warmer today, though I’d prefer that didn’t mean the pigeons were out and bold and noisy. They are, you know. They make this obnoxious whirring trilling noise that is the auditory equivalent of their splatter.

So yeah, just hanging in to get to the end of this hideously long week, hoping nothing goes wrong in my house or Fatigue’s to prevent our meeting up tonight.

No shame whatsoever

Winter is Coming

PARKA SQUIRREL TRACKS ALONG THE WEST BANK OF THE SAG. THE ESKIMOS MAKE THEIR WARMEST WINTER PARKAS FROM THE PELTS OF… – NARA – 550466 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This year, I’m trying something new. I’m going to do/wear whatever I need to in order to stay warm. That’s right Fringelings, I am going to blow the dust off my change purse and go with the warmest, not the least expensive. I say this every time I need to get new winter gear, but this time I mean it.

There’s a pair of boots I’ve been eyeing for three years, super waterproof and warm but silly overpriced. I finally found them online in a size sort of close to mine (in August) for a greatly reduced price and bought them. They’re a silly color. Have I mentioned the ugly factor? And they are *gasp* flats. But they are warm.

“Improvised winter boots”. Improvised Winter boots. Battle of Stalingrad. Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945. Русский: «Эрзац-валенки». Эрзац-валенки. Сталинградская битва. Великая Отечественная война 1941-1945 годов. Россия, Волгоград (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I researched the warmest winter coats. Yes. Research. I’m an obsessive lunatic, remember? Found the perfect coat two years ago. It’s been discontinued and isn’t for sale anywhere. Ok, found the second best one. More expensive. After two years of watching, I accept that this brand never goes on sale, doesn’t matter where you buy it. Never seen it at any of my usual discount haunts. Two weeks ago I dragged Husband to a fancy department store I haven’t been in since my pre-children days. Found the coat, tried it on. Very, very warm. And ugly. And expensive. Now picture Husband’s face when I said, “okay, let’s go home.”

Lucy watches Little Ricky’s birthday party from the window ledge. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Aren’t you going to buy it?”

Pfft. He must have me confused with someone else. I have to think about these things first. It’s only been two years since I started watching it online. Come on, a lot of money for an ugly coat? Much angst is required. Plus, then I stopped at another section of the store and tried on another coat. $10,000. For a coat! Still, fun to put it on, and it gives me a giggle every time I think of the lewd joke Husband made after we left the store. He’s the king of deadpan.

Ok, it’s getting cold. I’m ready. Still, no way I’m paying absolute full price for anything. If I opened a credit card account in fancy shmancy store, I could get ten percent off. Better than nothing. Back to the store we went, in between dog walks yesterday. Guess what I forgot? These fancy stores only buy a few pieces of each item. None left in my size or the color I wanted. Pretty sure Husband’s head was going to explode if I didn’t Buy. The. Damned. Coat. The saleswoman found one for me in another store across the country, and is going to have it shipped.

Now I didn’t dress up to go shopping, or put on makeup. This was a quick run in between picking up dog poop, come on. It isn’t a fun day out for me, it is a necessary ~~torture~~ ~~evil~~ errand. Plenty of time for the sweet saleswoman to chat while I filled out the credit card thingie and then she arranged for shipping. Idle chit chat about how quickly those coats sold out, especially the smaller sizes (not as small as I used to be). Why the smaller sizes? Well, because we small Puerto Rican women love this particular coat. Hmm. For the record, the saleswoman’s accent was decidedly East European. Have I ever mentioned that Husband is in sales? Has been since forever. He is an excellent sales person, always calm and friendly-but-not-too-friendly, never let’m see you sweat. Did she just say? Why yes, yes she did. After 8000 years of being friends and then being together, this could be the first time I’ve seen Husband look shocked in public, in front of a stranger. Shocked to the soles of his Dominican feet.

Before we could fully process this, the saleswoman helpfully, generously let me know I could get ten percent off of anything else I’d like to purchase that day. Pause for a deep and meaningful look, complete with raised eyebrows. “Anything. Even cosmetics, you must need some.”

I don’t know why shopping isn’t more fun.

shop or hang , that is the question (Photo credit: gandhiji40)

Guilty Pleasures

We all have them. The nice part of being old? I don’t actually feel guilty anymore. Maybe just mildly embarrassed.

English: Bates Motel Set at Universal Studio Hollywood CA. Source: Taken by User:Ipsingh (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We used to vacation on a semi regular basis, once every couple of years or so. We usually took the car, Husband driving until he couldn’t pretend his eyes were open, and then stayed overnight in inexpensive motels (upgraded once we reached our destination).

There’s something fun about a basic motel. The ice chest down at the end of the hall, pulling the car into a spot right outside your room, free continental breakfast! Lucky Charms in the morning! I would get suckered every time, “magically delicious.” Eww. But then you could change your mind and stick with Rice Krispies. When I was a kid, those were the only motels we ever stayed in, and I don’t think I understood the difference between the Super 8 and the Four Seasons. True, there was that one time my mother got fleas from the room we stayed in, but that didn’t dim the glory of the ice bucket for me. You know what? Cheap motels still fit the bill when you’re just passing through, and they’re still fun.

The other part of a road trip. Road food. And here we reach the guilty pleasure portion of today’s post. Road food should be quick if you’re behind schedule, slow if you need a break, it should be cheap, have something for everyone. For people who haven’t done a lot of vacationing, we’ve eaten a lot of road food, especially when you add in the road trips that weren’t overnight, touring boarding schools and colleges for the boys.

Brings to mind cute little hole in the wall places, right? With the tough talking but spunky waitress serving the best. pies. in. America.

No. Cause that might be what you get. Or you might find yourself starving at a table and there’s nothing for half of your family to eat. Or it might be so tiny that there’s no table for a family of five. The food could just plain suck. Or, nightmare of nightmares, you could find yourself on the road with food poisoning. The solution?

Cracker Barrel, road food extraordinaire. Rockers on every front porch, all for sitting and for sale.

The food is reliable, they serve breakfast all day (important when you’re a traveling vegetarian), sure it’s kind of cheesy, but it’s also cheap and charming and very clean.

They have big checkers tables set up on the front porch and inside the restaurant, great for waiting with kids. Even better, there’s one of these for playing with on every table.

The peg game. How many will you be left with?

The food? Country/home cookin’ style. Don’t ask more than that, I think it’s a mix of southern, midwest, new england, or other. And it isn’t just food and games. Ye Old Country Store is attached to each one, selling inexpensive toys/games, old fashioned candy, blankets, candles, t-shirts, sweaters, and countrified nicknacks.

After drinking 12 cups of coffee, eating pounds of eggs, grits, and hash browns, who doesn’t need some candy for the road?

Just sitting, there’s lots to look at in the decor.

Something to see on every wall.

And of course

Heads Up! I’m never certain if this stuff is for sale or not.

Heading north for a couple of days tomorrow. I’m quite certain there’re two buttery, over easy eggs waiting for me.

I’ll save the Lucky Charms for Flower Child.

Today’s Special: Humble Pie

Shoofly Pie (Photo credit: librarykitty)

No matter how many slices I eat, there’s always more.

We pushed forward with car shopping, out of necessity. The special joys of used car shopping with a long list of necessities, a longer wish list, and a limited budget. Conducted under a broiling sun with 95% humidity, to ensure my brain cells didn’t communicate with each other too quickly.

We were on one lot where I swear the salesman was comedian Jon Lovitz. Looked like him, spoke like him, I melted into a chair in the office, clutched my styrofoam cup of water and expected to hear, “Live, from New York, it’s Saturday NIGHT!” Of course, we were in New Jersey, but no matter.

No matter how I searched, where I searched, it turns out my idea of what I should be able to get with my money had no relationship with reality. We found a car, were treated well by the dealership we bought it through, but it has more miles on it than any used car I ever purchased. I’m trying to remind myself that the expected life span of engines/mileage is much higher than it used to be.

I thought I was too old for this. Too old to go back to the days where I’d buy something when I wasn’t 100% confident the vehicle would get me from Point A to Point B without question. At first I thought our budget was enough to buy one of those lovely used vehicles that are termed “previously owned.” You know, about two years old, just turned in at the end of a lease. Then I thought, ok, we can get something a few years older, but we’ll be able to get something that has ALL the bells and whistles, maybe 50,000 miles on it. Oh, Mrs Fringe, you foolish, foolish woman.

Wrecked car (Photo credit: The Library of Virginia)

Given the realities, I think we did ok. Several of my fish freak friends are also car buffs/mechanics, and they think I did ok, but wow. Those little ice picks through the forehead that remind me of my continuing path of downward mobility don’t stop puncturing my brain.

Buying the car was a two day process. We looked, I sat–yes indeed, with the little back problem I’ve got, top of my list of necessities was how the seats felt and whether or not there was lumbar support–test drove, sat more, looked more, went off site and had a discussion, went back and talked more, began the process, inspection and negotiation of our car for trade in value, went home to NY and got Flower Child and Nerd Child, brought them back to NJ, paperwork, call the insurance company, blah blah blah, “oops, forgot our title.” We agree to bring it back in the morning, leave a separate check for a missing title in case we’re scammers.

Went back to NJ yesterday (the car does ride nicely, everything seems to work, and it’s cleaner and prettier than it ever will be again) with the title, children, and mother in law, deal with the other miscellaneous forgotten bits of buying a car. I swear I don’t remember this ever taking so many, many hours in the past. While we’re waiting for…something, I check twitter, and see a breakdown of how many of each category (middle grade, young adult, new adult, adult) pitches have been selected for the contest I entered. Not looking hopeful for Mrs Fringe. I said some not nice words from the depths of my Brooklyn soul, and think I might have scared our salesman. Unfortunate, because he’s a cousin of Husband’s, likely I will see him again.

Done. Suck it up, take a breath, move forward. It is what it is, I am where I am, and it’s definitely a big step up from our old car by the time it was traded in.

I haven’t done any real writing in a couple of weeks. I felt stuck, I was working on the pitch for this contest (part two of said contest is Friday, so still hope), was lost on a never-ending used car lot of big numbers.

Take another breath and get your shit together, Mrs Fringe.

Mrs Pilgrimm (Photo credit: David Wilson Clarke)

Alert the Authorities

Professor Kobb (Photo credit: gothicburg)

Something I’ve noticed in a lot of areas of life these days–highlighted in the blogosphere, everyone’s an authority. Why? How is this? I’m an average gal and as such, I’m an authority on…

Nothing. That’s right, nothing. Tons of blogs and bloggers out in cyberspace, the number larger than degreed professionals, and yet, so many are “experts.”

I write, and sometimes I blog about writing. These posts are about my process, my experiences. Certain aspects of my process and my experiences have a common thread with some other wanna be writers. This doesn’t make me an expert. And if it did, what would my expertise be in? Wanna beism? If I am ever published, it will still be my experiences, not writer’s rules to live by.

Sandro Botticelli – Madonna del Magnificat (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Even within the blogs of professionals on writing, the advice and rules vary widely from blog to blog, professional to professional. Subjective. Don’t get me wrong, I love books on writing, I own dozens, and have read dozens more, by published authors, well published authors, agents, and editors. Some are useful, some are motivating, and many more I’ve kept looking back to the “about the author” page to figure out how and why this book was published. But it was, I bought it, others bought it. So there you have it, proof of my lack of authority on writing.

Sometimes I blog about parenting. Again, my experiences. How in the world would I tell anyone else what would work in their home, for their children? I have three kids, each quite different from the next. If I have to tweak my approach for each of my own three, I think we’re well out of the realm of tweaking if I’m talking about someone else’s kids. Subjective.

Sometimes I blog about being a woman. Again, there are certain common experiences in being a woman that most of us experience. I can only speak to being an undereducated woman in New York. But there are more and different experiences for a woman who doesn’t have children, doesn’t get married, lives in the suburbs, lives on a farm in Kansas, has a PHD in electrical engineering, lives in Kuwait. Tons of “women’s” experts out there. Such high authorities, in fact, they’re going to tell all of us what to do with our bodies, how to have a relationship, and how much money we should earn. *This is definitely fodder for a whole other post. Maybe an article. Maybe a book. Oh wait, I don’t have a platform apart from being a woman and living as one. See? No authority here.

Uterus Embroidery Hoop Art (Photo credit: Hey Paul Studios)

I blog about living in New York. I was born and raised here. I can guarantee the woman living up the street in her brownstone doesn’t think I’m an expert on life in New York. Trust me, her New York is different than mine. I know, it’s hard to trust someone who isn’t an authority, but try.

Sometimes I blog about reefing. If you saw the sad state of my tank at the moment (running dark for a few days to kill a green hair algae outbreak) you’d snicker.

How about another favorite of mine, being broke? Let’s be honest, I’m pretty excellent at it. I have had the requisite hundred thousand hours of practice. Or have I? The guy who lives on the church steps might not think so. I’m guessing if he read Mrs Fringe he’d call me out for being a fraud.

I think this leaves dog poop. Mrs Fringe is an authority on dog poop.

Then again, maybe not.

It’s subjective.

Dale Chihuli giant blue poop Walmart bag sculpture (Photo credit: reynolds.james.e)

1001 Questions of Mamaing

Happy Saturday, Fringelings!

It’s been an exhausting week for me, lots of ups and downs, how about you? Two highlights. One, Nerd Child is home for the summer, hooray! It was a seventeen hour day yesterday, much of it spent driving in torrential rains that seemed to call for an ark, but he’s home.

What’s the other highlight? SnapinTime, from The Voice from the Backseat very generously donated her limited time to watermarking some of my photos of Flower Child’s artwork, so I could share it here. Thank you, Snapin!

I love looking at art, and so does Flower Child. We’ve spent quite a bit of time in museums together. My sweetie has a real talent. It’s newly discovered, or perhaps it would be better stated to say newly unlocked. I can’t say why, for sure, but it emerged after receiving an iPad to use for schoolwork. Is it the preservation of energy (a precious and finite resource)? Excessive fatigue is one of the most, if not the most, debilitating features of her struggles. I don’t know, but as a mama who watches her struggle with so much–yet she always holds on to the positive–and as a person who is hard pressed to draw a stick figure, this work makes me weep, literally.

: angel

: truncated tree, with color

: dog and bird on a branch

: tree

: woman sleeping

: branch and moon

: Nerd Child

: woman with dreds

Flower Child is indeed, special. Her thoughts take twists and turns that can be difficult to follow, and clarity is connected to how she’s feeling physically. The drawing of the dog and bird looks like it was done by a different person, no? This was a work she produced last weekend, when she was unwell and “crashing,” as we call it, for lack of a better word. Not completely crashed, because then she’s hard pressed to hold a pencil. After several hours of rest, sleep, and her evening meds, she produced “woman with dreds.”

I’m hoping to figure out a way to get her art lessons this summer. We need someone who will be flexible and ok with these inconsistencies, and sympathetic to the &*$#% budget.

Starry Nights and Street Fairs

English: Pleiades Star Cluster (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Trite as it sounds, sometimes as a parent you have to make hard decisions. Husband and I had to make one of those last week. Flower Child’s school has an annual overnight camping trip. After much discussion, asking questions about the plans for trip, student teacher ratio, and watching how she’s been doing and feeling, we felt we had to say no. It was the right decision, but it sucked to come to it anyway. I got a phone call from one of her teachers after the decision was made, one I don’t speak with regularly. He asked if there was any information he could offer to help us to feel better about the trip, etc. I absolutely believe he was coming from a good place, but it sure made that voice in my head–the one that whispers about how unfair things can be–a whole lot louder.

Yesterday I planned to go to the craft store with Flower Child so she could pick out a small pad of sketch paper. Hopefully we’re going to get to the park today so she can find a tree she likes and sketch it. The pad she had at home is too large and heavy for her to carry or manipulate in the middle of the park. She has always loved art. She loves to draw, and has been doing a lot of it recently. Since getting the iPad for schoolwork, it seems like she has enough energy and strength left at the end of the day to put more into it and enjoy it. Watching her have fun and progress with this is a particular pleasure I can’t put into words.

When we left the apartment, we saw there was a nearby street fair, first of the season for us. No reason we were in a hurry, so we walked the fair for a bit. Most of the fairs run for about 10 blocks.

This is from a couple of years ago, they’re $5 a pop now.

Really, there’s only three blocks worth of booths. Two blocks of wares that keep repeating, and every so often something different thrown in. Still, on a nice day, and before you’ve had 5 straight weekends of traffic being messed up from them, it’s a nice thing to do. We went past a booth of inexpensive art prints, Flower Child spent some time looking at the Van Goghs (she loves his work). As I looked at the Starry Night print, I thought of how much Flower Child would enjoy being somewhere she could see the stars at night. Cuppa guilt, anyone? I splurged on a couple of arepas (delicious for about 45 seconds, after you’ve burned your mouth on the first few bits but before you’re eating cold sweet corn grease) and went on to the craft store after strolling for four blocks.

The craft store was having a sale on sketch books. Score! Got two small sketch pads and a pad of tan paper so she can figure out how to use her white pastels. Then we were just looking at the different art materials. They had Bob Ross kits. At this point, she isn’t into painting, but I was telling her about him when a man walked by and we ended up chatting about art. He turned out to be an art teacher, made a couple of recommendations for paper for Flower Child, I added a large pad of newsprint paper to our pile. Who needs groceries? I took his contact info. Nice guy, maybe we can figure out a way to get her lessons.

We were out for a little under two hours, and I was feeling great. A beautiful sunny day, relaxing, no pressure-no rush strolling, got Flower Child what she wanted plus some, a nice New York moment in the craft store. When we got to our corner, I told her we had to take the dogs out for a quick walk. “Right now? Can we rest for five minutes first?” Pop goes my bubble. She was out of energy, literally exhausted from the couple of hours out and walking around. Oh yeah, this was why the plan was to buy the sketch pad one day, and go to the park the next. And this was why saying no to the trip was the right call, much as we wish it was different.

4 “vine” charcoal sticks and 4 compressed charcoal sticks. Drawing materials. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Walls are Closing In

Near the wall (Photo credit: Niamor83)

I thought I would feel better after my rant about fear and changes in my last post. Wrong! I posted, and then checked out this week’s posts from blogging friends, and ended up in an interesting conversation with Caitlin Kelly from Broadside Blog, prompted by this post.

Sometimes I question my perception. Everyone is struggling in this country right now. Everyone I talk to, anyway. Jobs that offer a true living wage are scarce, gas is high, health care costs are obscene, and on down the line of what’s needed to survive. I know the cost of living here in Manhattan is crazy, but I’m certain I’m romanticizing life in the country, too. Everywhere presents a unique set of challenges. And then something reminds me I’m not completely insane, after all.

Check out this article from the NY Times.

Now, we don’t pay an insane rent. We’re lucky. If we didn’t have a rent controlled place, we’d be homeless in Manhattan. Literally. Sounds good, right? Except that means we can’t move within NYC, stuck in a too small apartment with a doll’s kitchen and a nightmare of a bathroom. One bathroom. Makes virus season lots of fun. And let’s not forget the rest of what goes into the cost of living. I’d love to put Flower Child in an art class, or even better, private art lessons, so we could work around her health and limited energy. Can’t afford it. One once per week after school class, run by the school is $600. And that is reasonable compared to the cost of lessons and classes not run by the public schools and those lessons are often fabulous, in just about anything you can think of. Makes for awkward moments on the blacktop when the other moms are talking about what their kids are enrolled in.

Schools here? Crazy. If you can’t afford private schools, which are >$30,000 a year here, you have to be very, very lucky. Too many kids competing for too few decent spots in the too few decent public schools. The stress involved is horrendous. This is for entry into nursery school, Kindergarten, and again 6th grade (middle school), and 9th grade (high school). Have more than one kid? This is for each child, not each family. Don’t forget the testing and the interviews. And testing for K, 6th, and 9th grade is much like the SATs have become. Test prep. Costly, private test prep. Private test prep for public middle school, high schools. Excuse me while I tap into my Brooklyn roots. Get the fuck outta here. Have a child with special needs? Well, you know those too few spots? Forget it, you’ll find yourself wishing for those days of 1 in 4 odds.

From this recent HuffPost article, NY has the curious distinction of holding 3 of the 10 most expensive cities (they’ve separated the boroughs into cities for this) to live in. A hellofa town, for sure.

But it’s New York! Theater! Tickets for a Broadway show, let’s say Wicked. On a Saturday afternoon, seats in the mezzanine. $160 per ticket. Are you surprised that we haven’t gone to see it?

March 1860 Godey’s Lady’s Book Fashion Plate (Photo credit: clotho98)

How about going to the Met for an opera? Hah! Maybe, if we want to buy a year in advance and stand up for the show.

I would miss the easy availability of any type of food I’m in the mood for. I can see it now, “Mrs Fringe learns to use a crockpot.”

Why don’t we forget being fancy. How about bowling? $9.25 per person, per game at Chelsea Piers (on weekends/holidays, yanno, when you’d take your kids bowling), $6 per person shoe rental. Don’t forget the Metro card fare for us to get there and back, and the long, long ass walk from the train. So, for our family of five to go and bowl 2 games, no frills, no snacks, no lunch, it would cost $147.50.

We don’t go to the theater, infrequently go to the museums (and only the ones where it’s a suggested donation, not a mandatory admission fee), we don’t even go to the damned movies because of the cost. The nice part of living here is that when we do go to a museum, we don’t feel compelled to pack everything into one day, and we don’t have to be pillaged buying lunch at or near it, we can wait until we’re back home for sandwiches.

A few years back, I was determined to take the kids to see a performance at Shakespeare In The Park. These shows are great, and they’re free. You just have to go the morning of the performance and stand on line for tickets. Limit, 2 tickets per person. OK. I got the kids up, we went to the park and stood on line. Heh, three hours before the ticket booth opened wasn’t early enough. Bonus seizure from Flower Child while we waited to be told they were sold out way before we got to the front of the line. Tried again an hour earlier the following week. Still no go. Really? So many NYers, infamous for brunch at 3PM are getting on line for tickets at 6AM? Turns out a good number of people pay someone to stand on line for these free-so-everyone-can-enjoy-theater-in-NY tickets.

Please, someone tell me why I’m here. Yes, Central Park is free. And beautiful. I hear some people have backyards where they see trees and birds.