City Life

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)

Things That Go Bump in the Day

Jack-o-lantern (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We love Halloween. Well, I’m not sure if Husband really loves it, but the rest of us here in Fringeland do, so he smiles along. Man Child has been Jack Skellington twice, all three of my kiddos knew all the lyrics to the soundtrack of the Nightmare Before Christmas before they knew their ABCs. This afternoon there’s going to be a party in my building for the kiddos. A nice idea, and so I went out early this morning to hit the grocery store. I saw a meme thingie on Facebook for mummy-hot dogs, what a great idea! Easy, not too pricey, something in addition to candy to eat. OK, I’m using tofu dogs, but still. My sweetie is really looking forward to this. I’m not sure why, but the Halloween oogie boogies, ghosts, vampires, and banshees don’t bother her at all. (no gore though, please)

You don’t get the house to house trooping through dusk here in the city, we do vertical trick or treating, for the most part. This has its advantages, no worries about your little superhero freezing in a costume.

I didn’t leave early enough. The train reeked of young adults on their way home (subway of shame?) with last night’s booze steaming from their pores. Cold outside, hot in the tunnels, lots of vodka sweat.

20101009 1818 – NYC – subway – tunnels – IMG_2309 (Photo credit: Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL))

Then the store was packed. I was on line longer than it took me to finish my shopping–on both floors!

Fine. I get back to my neighborhood and decide to stop in to the temporary Halloween store before going home. Meant I was lugging groceries, but didn’t have Flower Child with me. Sounds mean, doesn’t it? I mean, here I am, going into the store to get make-up for her costume, but preferred to do so without her. Bad, bad mama. Practical mama, too. Flower Child cannot make decisions. I don’t know why or what misfiring synapses cause this, but she can’t decide. Ever. On anything. So something like standing in front of a wall of makeup to decide which tubes of face paint could take two hours–and result in both of us needing to go home and crash–screw the mummies, let those other kids eat candy corn. But I’m being a good mama today, damn it! Supporting creative costumes! Buying ghoulish makeup! Supplying tofu mummies! So I went without her.

Great! Except now I’m looking at a wall of theatrical makeup, trying to decide what looks easiest to apply, wash off, most versatile, trying to fit into the budget. Halloween costumes have come a LONG way since I was a kid. I know, it’s hard to believe, but I was once a kid. Wore my mother’s gold hoop earrings, red lipstick from my grandma, and a black nylon blouse from my mother’s closet–voila! A gypsy! I’m sorry, it was long before the idea of gypsies being politically incorrect for a Halloween costume hit Brooklyn. Anyway, here I was and somehow, I ended up one too-rapid breath from a full blown panic attack in the store. What. The. Fuck.

I’ve had panic attacks before, but not in years. Years and years. Multiple children and lifetimes ago. A tube of gray face paint had caught my eye. The exact shade of gray I’ve seen on Flower Child too many times during seizures. I don’t know what happened, I really don’t. I mean, I know, it’s scary shit watching your kiddo turn colors human beings were never meant to be, hearing a shriek like no other as the air is pushed out of their lungs, watching them stop breathing, feeling completely powerless, wondering if this will end quickly or be one of the ones that goes on and on until you’re in the ER reporting the sequence of events to the 18th doctor. But it’s Halloween! Fun scary, not mama’s flipping her lid for absolutely no reason whatsoever scary.

Flower Child was fine when I left, fine when I got home. She’s happily playing with the makeup I grabbed. I didn’t buy the gray.

Good Peasant Stock

This morning I gave up. When I woke, it was 42* outside, windchill of 37*, probably 33* when factoring in the wind tunnel of my terrace. That’s right, I cried uncle and put socks on.

Sock Prayer Flags. (Photo credit: knitting iris)

I have a love/hate relationship with socks. Mostly hate. I prefer barefoot or flip-flops. I always make sure I have at least one pair of shoes that are fuzzy inside so I can delay the dreaded opening of the sock drawer as long as possible. But then…there are so many cool socks out there. Patterns, colors, silky, cozy, cushy, and itchy. Can’t forget itchy. They can be a boost on a cold morning, getting your toes warm and bright yarn to pierce a gray sky.

I always preferred barefoot. When I was a kid and running down the outside stairs without shoes on, my grandmother would yell behind me, “Fringie, the dogs make sissy out there! There’s glass!” Both true. Remember, I didn’t grow up in the country, these were the streets of South Brooklyn, no garbage cans on every corner, cracked cement, before NY was cleaned up for tourists, before the young and hip discovered the outer boroughs, before pooper scooper laws.

Here in Manhattan I don’t often see anyone barefoot outside. Once in a while, though, usually a young woman late at night or early in the morning carrying stilettos. Even I want to yell at her, “The dogs make sissy out here!”

As a teen, I would go to the beach and walk the boardwalk barefoot. The boardwalk used to be wood, no practical composite materials. Old weathered boards. At night, I could be found in my room with a pair of tweezers, picking the splinters out of the soles of my feet. By then, my feet were so calloused I didn’t feel the splinters going in or out. What did I do with my shoes while I was on the boardwalk or the beach? I can’t remember.

Coney Island, New York boardwalk on a foggy night. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now, I’ve got the feet of an old peasant. Makes sense, I am an old peasant. Doesn’t matter if I spend 99 cents or $8.00 on a pair of socks, the average lifespan is a season. Or it would be, if I threw them out once they had holes. I don’t. Not until the holes can no longer be twisted and arranged so my toe doesn’t poke through inside my shoe while I’m walking. That’s uncomfortable. I’m sorry Man Child, you got my feet.

Husband has the feet of royalty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear through a pair of socks. And he wears them :shudder: all year long.

English: Feral Goat on Island Davaar. At the time he was stood stock still and blended into the background very well. I almost walked straight past within a few feet and not notice him. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Carb Coma

Breakfast for lunch!!! Mangu, queso frito, salchichon, y juevos #dominican #breakfast #lunch #foodporn -www.remolacha.net (Photo credit: Remolacha.net pics)

Husband and I went out for breakfast this morning. There’s a local Dominican restaurant with the best (and best priced) coffee in the city a few blocks away, and there’s nothing like a big plate of yuca con cebolla–cassava with sweet red onions and vinegar–for comfort food. It won’t even hit my large intestine until tomorrow, but hey.

Now I feel physically the way I’ve been feeling mentally; overly stuffed, and unable to even look at more food or another word of fiction, until I can process what I’ve already taken in.

Husband asked if I got a lot of writing done yesterday. Nope, not a word. Not the day before or the week before either. I’m in overload, not to be confused with overdrive. Not writer’s block, just a pause.

Ink (Photo credit: heidarewitsch)

Sure, there’s that little voice in my head telling me I should be writing. I’m telling that little voice to shut up. There are certain perks to being forty thousand years old and having written off and on for much of that time. I know better, know when to stop giving the voice an ear. Uncertainty about what I’ve produced? That’s forever. But I know I will write again, taking a break can be a break without the ceremonial gnashing of teeth and wailing that I’ll never write again .

Six weeks ago I was bemoaning the fact that I couldn’t retreat from the world and do nothing but write for a month. I was on a roll, and knew that inevitably real life would interfere. And so it did. Cycles. Life will settle again, I will settle again, and then I’ll find myself muttering and clicking over Astonishing again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j83xviHVmGg

Pigs, Drunks, and Amy

English: Pigs and Daffodils Pig farm and Daffodil fields (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My goodness, October 1st! I didn’t realize how long it’s been since I’ve posted. blahblahblahlifeexcusessadnessmuckfringeblahblahblah.

I’ve come to a very important (though I’m not sure why) realization. Little Incredibly Dumb Dog isn’t all that dumb, she’s just a pig. The other evening I was getting ready to walk the beasts, and the little one was being a nuisance. I dropped my sweatshirt on top of her to keep her busy while I got the leashes.

You know, that’s supposed to be the test of doggie intelligence, how long it takes them to get out from under a towel, or some equivalent. Imagine my surprise when it took her about 1 second. Maybe I didn’t have it completely over her. So I dropped it again, making sure the thing was centered. Same result.

This is the same dog that I still have to keep a pee pad in the apartment for, even though she’s over two years old now. She’ll do great, not use the pad at all for 10 days, and then do nothing when we’re out on a walk, come in and race to her pad to pee/poop. And still, not always remembering that it doesn’t count if only her front half is on the pad. Very special. Even more special is how she’ll take a treat and run to the pad to eat it. Thus, my conclusion–she isn’t dumb, she’s just a pig. Eleven dingy white pounds of gross.

Yes, I’m still writing. Slowly. Painfully. I hit 35,000 words earlier today, which I figure puts me about halfway through the first draft. My protagonist, Christina, is now permanently pickled. Half time, that moment when I close the file and have a wardrobe malfunction through blogging.

The Pin-Up by Charles Dana Gibson. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Do I still think Astonishing is any good? No clue. I’m too deep in it. Slogging through the middle muck, trying to figure out how in the world I’m going to write her way to an ending.

So the other morning I was walking the beasts, thinking once again how much easier life would be right now if I was better at drinking. Sadly, Mrs Fringe pretty much has a one drink a week limit. More might sound appealing in my head, but my body doesn’t want it. But it would be easier to put myself in Christina’s head and ride along with her downward spiral, and easier not to care when Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is rolling in another mystery puddle in the curb. I was contemplating all of this, and then I heard a familiar voice, “Hi Amy!”

It’s a parent I used to see during drop off and pick up when Flower Child was in elementary school. Never got to know him other than 2-5 minute chats waiting for the kids to come out or bring them in. Nice enough guy. Except for one thing. My name isn’t Amy.

I don’t have any clue why he thinks it is, but he does. For all the years I’ve been doing the parent thing, there are more parents of my kiddos’ classmates whose names I don’t know, and who don’t know my name, than who do. I probably didn’t notice the first few times he said it. Hey, it’s a group of parents, I’m waiting for my kid, didn’t pay that much attention. Then I noticed, and corrected him once or twice. Nope. I don’t know if he didn’t hear me or has a mental block, but I decided it didn’t really matter.

I live in a fantasy fringey world of pigs and drunks, I suppose being an Amy is pretty good. Maybe I should use Amy as a pseudonym for Astonishing.

{| style=”width:100%; border:1px solid black; background:#ffe0e0; padding:0; text-align:center;” |- | This photo is of Wikis Take Manhattan goal code R13, Curb cut. |} (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Someday

I can do a lot of dreaming looking at this photo, how about you? ~Mrs F

Late August. Time for the annual panic, “oh no, the school year’s about to start.” I’ve been walking around saying this summer has felt particularly odd because of the cool weather. Lies.

Summer is just never long enough for me. If it isn’t cool temps, it’s temps that are too hot, or too rainy, or too many obligations or too many deaths. Just not enough, which is an old and familiar song for me. The theme of much of my writing, the guilty chorus that whispers about my parenting, the peek at my word count at the end of each day’s writing session, the ever ready want of more.

The other day I went with Nerd Child and Flower Child to my godson’s Eagle Scout ceremony. Induction? I don’t know, scouts aren’t a big thing here in Manhattan. My suburban friends reassure me that scouting exists here in the city, but I’ve never met any beyond a small, half hearted cub scout group when Man Child was in 1st grade, disbanded by Christmas.

Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges (Photo credit: honus)

It was very sweet–though I know better than to use the word sweet in relation to an almost seventeen year old boy– and made me feel old and nostalgic. We took the train to Brooklyn and the Scout’s grandmother, where I sat with my kids on her couch in the living room I spent hours in as a teenager. Not too many people from my past have stayed in Brooklyn, let alone the same house, so it was very alternate reality feeling. We met up with a friend and traveled the rest of the way to Long Island. There I saw more friends, and watched my kids goof around with theirs, and felt the absence of a good friend’s son who passed away last summer.

Obviously more goes into the Eagle Scout thing than I understand, Godson and parents were very, very proud. Local politicians and reps attended and gave brief speeches and congratulations. A snapshot of a lovely moment.

I also missed Man Child. Between boarding school and college he’s been away a lot, and I did get to see him this summer, but he’s already back in the dorm. This is the first time he hasn’t come home to be “home” over a break, and it’s damned weird.

Kind of maudlin today, aren’t I? Did get to the beach with Flower Child yesterday, which felt good, but didn’t quite recharge me in the way I had hoped. A family of three, two parents and a little girl of about 4 years old settled next to us. I couldn’t believe the amount of shit they had with them for two hours at the beach. Six towels, two large shade umbrellas, three huge bags of toys, sunscreen, and snacks: three people. The little girl was covered neck to calves in one of those bathing suit/lycra sun coverall things. I swear Flower Child and I saw bathing suits that looked just like it in the museum last year, what women wore at the turn of the twentieth century. This was not a fair skinned family, but you would think they were albino (am I politically incorrect, is there a more current term?) with the amount of sunscreen they slathered on. I’m not going to mention their little disagreement with the lifeguards about the safety of their sweet pea, and the rule against life jackets/swimmies in the ocean. I know it seems counterintuitive to the Backyard Pool crowd, but really. Big waves, riptides, small children, you don’t want them at all out of reach and where they can’t safely stand.

I know we’re all so much safer than previous generations, fewer kids will find themselves in the dermatologist’s office with a skin cancer diagnosis, but widespread Vitamin D deficiencies weren’t a thing when I was using baby oil and iodine instead of SPF 8000, either.

Listened to Creedance Clearwater Revival on the way home, remembered when that was my favorite beach music. When I had to turn the tape over it was time to flip and freckle my other side. I used to work odd hours, at the time I lived in South Brooklyn and worked in either Manhattan or downtown Brooklyn. In the summer, if I was working overnights I’d leave work and head straight for the beach, get a few hours of sleep and sun before heading home to eat, nap, and go back to work. Swing shifts, I’d get up early, get on the train and go back to sleep on the beach, leaving just enough time to shower before work. Thinking a lot about those days as I work on Astonishing, tapping into those old work experiences and certainties that I would, when I was ready, be a published author.

It’s ok, you can laugh, there was no internet then to tell me that isn’t how it works.

A Helluva Town

You know those times when you want to reach out, connect, but you don’t feel like talking?

Yeah. So I’m doing a NY themed photo post today. Yes, that’s right, more crappy photos for your viewing pleasure. Try to contain your excitement.

One of my favorite buildings in NY.

Always construction

Entrance to the Holland Tunnel, NJ side

One of the many always there, no matter the weather, asking for money at the traffic jam. It was 98 degrees when I took this, had to be well over 100 standing in the midst of so many running cars on asphalt.

Subway tile art

One of the fanciest gourmet stores in the city

And right outside that fancy store

Got mail?

Wish more grates were like this one, openings too narrow to trap and eat a stiletto heel.

No. This way.

Because I liked it.

The metal coverings to store basements and access to underground workings of the city are an art unto themselves.

Knock knock.

Need a job?

Sunset in the summer

Love these green terraces.

Hungry?

What could be more NY?

Brooklyn Beach

Sand Snippets: Those disjointed words, phrases, and sentences you hear when lying on a crowded beach.

–Russian I don’t understand

–Sal, c’mere, meet my friend Maureen, she’s single.

–Ice Cold Beer, Here, Nutcrackers!

—Mira, coñaso!

–Russian I don’t understand

–and he cut her whole chest open, on her bed. She met him online, shiiit.

–Hot Pretzels!

–Are you depressed?

I’ll be happy when I get my frappucino.

–More Russian I don’t understand

–Gimme the vodka

—Pendejo

–I want an iceeee!

–Check her out

–I don’t wanna go in the water

–Fuck ‘em

–More Russian

–I hate this sand, so dirty.

Me too, and the water is disgusting.

Yeah. You ready to go in and cool off?

Yeah.

–Russian commentary from a woman watching two guys playing chess

Summer of…

Rain cloud (Photo credit: State Farm)

Suckage. Last year was the Summer of Death. I’m trying to decide if this is a step up or down. The weather in New York continues to be strange, we seem to have turned into a depressing morph that combines the frequent rains of the Pacific Northwest with the intensity of storms in the Southeast. July 3, and there has yet to be a day where I can get to the beach where the weather has cooperated.

We did go to visit with the kids’ godparents the other day. Man Child met us there with his girlfriend, which was lovely. Even better, he brought me a super special bonus surprise, my favorite treat. Don’t judge, they’re delicious and not available in the city. Not so good, I was in a significant amount of pain by the time we arrived. Our minivan is no longer reliable for trips over 30 minutes. We borrowed my in-laws’ car. Great to have the option, but there’s something about the shape of the seats in that car that doesn’t work with the curve of my spine. Ouch.

This led us to new-used car shopping in NJ yesterday. Eventually, my heart will start beating again, and we’ll continue looking. WTF? Where did the used cars go? Cars from 2010, 2011, 2012 are still way too pricey. I am not kidding when I say I saw a truck with 72,000 miles on it for $24,000. And no, it wasn’t a Cadillac, Lexus, or anything like that.

For bonus pleasure, the weather continued swinging wildly. We wandered half the lots in pouring rain, the other half blinded by sun reflecting off of wet asphalt and car windshields, a little steam thrown on for good measure. On our way home, we stopped in one of the Manhattan car places on 11th Avenue, where it took longer to get a salesman to escort us up to where they keep the used cars than it did for us to scout the floor and realize there was nothing in our budget.

Gave up and were greeted by the traditional wildlife of NY summers underground. Oh, this urban jungle.

When I’m walking the beasts on these hot, wet summer nights, I can actually hear their legs skittering on the sidewalk ahead of us, just to illustrate how substantial they are.

I should be writing, I want to be writing, but I can’t get my head into this new character yet. So I’ve been working on a twitter pitch (I’m calling it a twitch, it only makes sense) for the completed manuscript for an online event next week. Decided I would make a treat. Who doesn’t think it’s a good idea to put the oven on when its 99% humidity? Guava cheese pastries. Didn’t work out so well.

Perfectly delicious guayaba, wasted.

It’s only been a week, this summer will improve, right? Please?

And the Shnozberries Taste Like Shnozberries

Oh, that Mrs Fringe is so immature!

And excited by dumb things. Like the fact that everything is continuing to grow in my little ~~shop of horrors~~ terrace garden.

The lavender is far from flowering, but if you touch the plants, your fingers smell like lavender. If you put your face to the container overcrowded with chamomile plants/flowers, it smells like chamomile!

Dumb, but a gen-you-ine small thrill to this old city gal.

Random photos for my Fringelings while I’m cooking the week’s doggie gumbo.