City Life

For the Love of Flip Flops

The last day of school for the year, hooray!!!!!!

Chalk (Photo credit: quinn.anya)

If I hadn’t remembered this (ha!) I would know by the fact that Flower Child woke up and got out of bed on her own this morning.

Summer to me means extra time with my kiddos, stepping off of the rush rush rush, beach bliss, and all the deliciousness of summer fruits.

Dark cherries, white cherries, fuzzy peaches, ripe mangoes, nectarines, watermelon! And papaya. Dear Husband, I don’t like papaya. I don’t care how ripe it is or isn’t, what how nicely you cut it, how perfect your batida came out. Papaya tastes like farts. Sorry.

The feel of the sun on my skin. The scent of cocoa butter. (Hey, I have dry skin, ok?) Flower Child’s glee on the beach, wind blowing, waves breaking, entrepreneurs with carts and Hefty bags plodding through the sand with an ocean wet towel draped over their head, “Cold Water HE-ah! ColdWater, ColdSoda, Cold Beeeer! If you don’t drink beer, you’re gonna die!”

thinking about next week (Photo credit: Makz)

Ok, there’s only one guy who says the last one, but it leaves a lasting impression, and you look for him if you haven’t packed enough drinks to last for the afternoon. Also true, I can’t remember the last time I drank a beer on the beach, probably before I had children. But still, it’s part of what comes to mind when I think summer beach day.

The city does tend to smell a whole lot worse in the heat. The temperature bakes into the concrete, mixes with old dog piss and rises up in waves that try to suck you down like a rip tide. Most buildings try to minimize this by hosing down the sidewalks at least once a day. If it weren’t for the filth factor, you could probably bake a brick oven pizza directly on the subway platform by the time we get to August. And while most of me loves the heat, in the past few years my nerves–literally–don’t. If I’m out walking when it’s hot I get this weird painful zinging buzzing down my arms and spine.

The best part of summer in the city is my neighborhood. Quiet. Half of it empties out, people take off for their country houses/beach houses. Sometimes my suburban friends will even come to visit me, there are parking spots to be found. Certainly quieter than my bedroom at this time of year. Our air conditioner doesn’t work well, and it isn’t properly set into the sleeve, so it sounds and feels like I’m trying to sleep on an airport tarmac.

Have to bring the girl to school. We should be on time, the day is only two and a half hours long for this last one. What does summer mean to you?

Cooling off nyc style (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

Summertime

Officially, but not exactly. Happy belated Solstice! A few more days, and the school year is over. Today is a lazy day, and you get a lazy post to match. I’m ready for summer, and so is Flower Child.

Speaking of flowers, remember those seeds we planted? First blooms!

Nasturtium

Morning glories taking over–but no buds yet. The vines are now taller than I am.

Alyssum, with bunny tails behind (no blooms for the bunny tails yet)

Apparently my farming skills are on par with my photography skills; sometimes I’ll hit, mostly I won’t. Still, I’m dreaming of a garden. Flowers and veggies and fruit trees, oh my!

We haven’t gone on vacation in a long time, no plans to vacation this summer either, but we are planning on some day trips. We talk about doing this every year, and then budget, timing, illness, all kinds of not fun things get in the way. And the beach. The call of the beach is normally louder than anything else for me. But this year I believe we will venture out a bit. Of course there will be beach days, but there’s something new, some part of me that wants to check out greenery outside of the confines of the New York Botanical Gardens.

Sending good thoughts and peace to my cyber friends dealing with these horrible floods in Canada. Be safe!

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)

On the Rocks, Extra Grit

Zwei Cocktails “Leap Frog” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now that it’s late Spring, we’re having some nice weather days here in NY. Not today, and not forecast for this holiday weekend, but it is that time of year. Women toss their tights, sunbathers glare at me as I walk dogs through the park, and restaurants put some tables and chairs outside to extend their seating and offer sidewalk cafes.

Stop and think about that. Al fresco dining in the middle of Manhattan. Now it’s true, we don’t have too much in the way of drive-thrus here. If I’m starving and in a hurry, you just might be able to spot me eating a slice (pizza) as I walk south on Columbus Ave. Not high on the list of dining experiences but it can work.

But I would like someone to explain to me how they think it’s a good idea to pay for a restaurant meal and drinks, and sit outside on Broadway. New York is a whole lot cleaner than it used to be, but it isn’t clean. The amount of dirt in the air is measurable (I know this because the windows in my apartment are usually open, even ten floors above the street a lot of dirt drifts in daily). Ask any person in the city wearing open sandals or flip flops what the soles of their feet look like at the end of the day.

Stephansplatz in Vienna, Austria. Pedestrians walking by. In center a young woman sits on sidewalk barefoot, with the dirty soles of her feet towards the camera. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t forget the tons of pedestrians checking out what’s in your dish as they sneeze past.

I’m not saying I never/have never had a meal outside in the city. I’ve done my share of picnics in the park with the kids. And there’s a lovely cafe in Riverside Park we used to go to. Out of budget now, but it is a nice afternoon option. Grills and tables under a cement dome that provides shade and cooler air, it feels like a public barbeque. Fancier tables are right alongside the Hudson River.

Back to those sidewalk restaurant extensions. There are trees planted along most avenues, growing from square cutouts in the sidewalk. Pretty, and if they’re big/old enough, they offer a little shade and fresh breeze. You’re really appreciate that nice oak three feet away from your table when the dogwalker goes past with a pack-walk. The standard poodle especially loves that tree. As does the mastiff and St Bernard. Splatter splish.

If it’s a popular time of day/evening, don’t forget the press of people waiting for a table. Don’t rush, they’re fine waiting. New Yorkers are much friendlier than tourists expect, they’re happy to provide entertainment. The foodies–or the picky eaters–will deconstruct the contents of your plate and debate the merits of sitting at an outside table. Many are comedians, and crack jokes about how hungry they are, offering to share your meal.

Bon apetit!

English: Looking east across Broadway, past Tom’s Restaurant, down West 112th Street on a cloudy afternoon. ZIP 10025. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hidden Dangers

I’m pretty sure the overt dangers of life in NY have been well covered by the media. Overblown, even.

English: Heavily tagged subway car in NY in 1973. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The trains don’t even look like this anymore. As a New Yorker, I have and always have had a certain comfort level with the stuff that makes tourists clutch their purses. Yes, I rode the trains at all kinds of hours, even when they still looked like the above photo. Not only rode them, but I’d fall asleep–almost always waking up just as the doors opened at my stop.

Safety tips can be summarized quickly. Look like you know where you’re going, and do so at a reasonable pace. Don’t gawk. Don’t be stupid (flashing cash, jewelry, etc). Flashing boobage is questionable. It’s legal in NY, you can’t be arrested for it, but I think we’ve got a little way to go before it’s safe to be a topless female waiting for the 4 train. And oh yeah, watch out for subway grates when you’re walking down the sidewalk in stilettos.

In Central Park relax, enjoy, and don’t walk through by yourself after dark or before other joggers/bikers/dogwalkers are up and about. Don’t pet the squirrels (nasty and rabid) or feed the pigeons (gross). C’mon, it’s self explanatory. Same rules as NYers. Don’t stare ’em down, keep moving, leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone. Or be prepared to be the crazier one, but that’s another post.

Central Park (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Occasionally you can spot a raccoon in the park. Never heard of one that didn’t have rabies, don’t pet it, or send your dog after it. I saw something in a tree staring down at me last week, I swear it looked like a sloth. Tried to get a photo, but dusk in the park and my camera phone don’t seem to care for each other. Sometimes there are other bizarre animals to be found in there that don’t belong at all, generally because some bozo thought an exotic pet was a good idea when it was cute and little. Then it got big, angry, and tried to eat its owner, so Mr Macho decided to release it into the “wild” of Central Park. Thanks.

Yesterday I learned something new. There’s poison ivy in parts of the park. Not only did I not know that, it never occurred to me. For me, that’s under the category of “things to learn about if I go rural.”

This morning I was walking my beasts. Not even 7AM, just walking down the street, not in the park, and we were accosted by a sparrow. It has to be one of the most bizarre experiences I’ve ever had. This little twit hopped out from under the orange netting of a construction site and chirp chirp cheeped at Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. OK, I figure the thing must be confused, built a nest in the wrong place, I pulled my little fluffball away. Then the thing went after Big Senile Dog. Really?! I can’t tell you how uninterested BSD is in birds, squirrels, etc. I beg him to frighten the pigeons off of the terrace, but if they aren’t in his sunning spot, he just doesn’t give a shit. He kept walking, in search of the ideal poop spot. The sparrow chased after us, twittering and chirping and hopping while Little Incredibly Dumb Dog kept yapping, until the bird got Big Stupid Dog’s attention. He, of course, decides it must be a pre breakfast snack and opens his mouth. I hauled both dogs away as his teeth were about two centimeters from the little morsel, convinced we had come across a rabid sparrow.

I consulted with my good buddy Googles when I got home, it turns out, birds don’t get rabies. Guess it was plain old New Yorkitude.

English: House Sparrow Deutsch: Haussperling Svenska: Gråsparv (Passer domesticus) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Happy Mother’s Day–to all the Fringelings

Flowers for all the Mommies

If you hadn’t noticed by now, I’m not generally a fan of the “Hallmark” holidays. But I have to admit, Mother’s Day can be kind of nice. Today is extra nice on several levels. One, after a spectacularly crappy week, it’s a better day. Friday showed a glimmer of light, yesterday showed promise, and today is a good day. I hope all of you are feeling the same.

Husband read the note I left on the chalkboard, and gave me a couple of much needed and much appreciated gifts. Both boys were in touch with me yesterday, to be sure they didn’t forget to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day.

Flower Child had a rough week, and so did I. There’s the obvious–if she isn’t doing well I’m nervous and holding my breath, my brain hurts with all the coulda-woulda-shouldas and general foot stomping unfairness of life. But she’s smiling and perky now, working on her art and a vision of love.

And then of course, there’s revision hell, which grew to include query writing hell. You know that little voice in your head that whispers, who the fuck are you kidding? You can’t pull off a traditional romance, that’s for woman who are sweetness and light and roses; not women who hope for sleep, a new alarm clock, and money to get their legs waxed. Not for women who were told their last romance was well written, good characters, but just a little too far off the beaten path.

The way I see it, I enjoy writing. Even with an eye towards success and publication, it’s important for me to enjoy it. Not every last aspect, but overall, it should be pleasurable, like Mama-ing. You should be able to weather the difficult or boring parts and stay strong throughout, knowing there will be release, relief, and an ability to hold onto the good days and moments of pure love, so you don’t actually run away or give up when the next hard part comes along. At the moment, no one is paying me for writing any more than I’m being paid for the Mom gig, so the motivation and reward has to come from the act of doing, and hope for eventual external validation. As a Mom, that external validation will (hopefully) include a positive, healthy relationship with adult kiddos. As a writer, the external validation will (hopefully) include a dollar and a contract.

Between internal angst, hammering out query thoughts at the writer’s forum, and pushing through, I’ve come to realize I need to shift the focus of my manuscript, a little. Basically, still the same story, but ultimately not a romance. I’ll keep the strong romantic elements, but focus on my heroine and her challenges and obstacles outside of the relationship. I still want it to be a fun read, this isn’t meant to be a navel gazing allegory on the ills of society (I’ve got my lit fic short stories for that, along with an unfinished manuscript that may or may not ever be completed), but this feels better.

I hope everyone is having a day of peace, or beauty, or whatever it is that lets you feel tomorrow might be okay.

Photos from time in Central Park last weekend with Flower Child.

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And one more, a super bonus surprise sent to me from Nerd Child, delivered yesterday afternoon.

I’m all gooshy inside, wouldn’t you be?

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)

It’s OK, My Dog is Friendly

English: "A Mad Dog in a Coffee-House&quo...

English: “A Mad Dog in a Coffee-House” by Rowlandson, showing a rabid dog terrorizing a coffee house in 18th century England (possibly Garrison’s or Jonathan’s, near the Exchange). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Um, no it isn’t ok. I’m glad your dog is friendly. That’s nice for you. My dogs aren’t friendly, therefore your dog charging up to my dog is a problem. You can consider your dog a member of your family (I do the same), you can call your dog your kid or your baby, but guess what? It’s a dog. Which means if your dog runs up to mine, and mine freak out, yours will too. Because they’re DOGS. I know you love your beasts, I love mine too.

Dogs in the city are generally pretty awesome. They tend to be well trained, and tolerant of sharing “their” space with others. Some are better than others. Mine fall into the “other” category when it comes to dealing with other dogs. They are not going to share the elevator nicely with your dogs, so when I see you on the elevator, I’m not getting on. I do this in the interests of everyone’s peace and safety. Trust me, they’re mine, I know them. So stop holding the fucking “open” button on the doors, trying to convince me to get on with them when you see them freaking out, and there’s an elderly woman cringing in the corner behind her shopping cart. It’s ok, they are my responsibility so I can wait for the next elevator.

Big Senile Dog won’t bark at another dog across the street or down the block, but he doesn’t want to pass right next to another. For the love of all that’s holy, you people with ultra friendly pups, when you see someone else walking a dog who is clearly bobbing and weaving to avoid run-ins with others, don’t wait for them, or follow them so the dogs can say hello and “make friends.” Sorry, my dog doesn’t want to make friends. He wants you and your dog to get the fuck away from him. I do my part, you do yours, please. Go to the dog run. Really. If Cesar Millan is with you, fine. Otherwise, let me move away.

Having a dog in the city is wonderful, but it’s tricky. You do have to make sure the dog gets enough exercise, and you have to be aware of the many dangers. Cars, bikes, poison, rats, the list goes on. I’m sure there are equivalent dangers in the suburbs and in rural areas. But somehow, we seem to have this privileged subset of dog owners who don’t think these dangers could ever, possibly apply to their beloved Rover.

Bucket-headed dog (Photo credit: Paul Kidd)

I’m always in awe of the sheer stupidity of some people. Truly, the vast majority of city dog owners are great, caring, and responsible. Their pets are well cared for, groomed, exercised, loved. But then you have the few who think all the dog needs to be happy and healthy is unconditional smooshies and freedom. There are leash laws for a reason. The reason is to PROTECT YOUR DOG as much if not more than anything else. You think your dog will always listen to you no matter what. Mmm hmm. These are the siblings of My-Kid-Would-Never, and their names are My-Dog-Would-Never. Yes, they will. Given the right/wrong circumstances, your dog will indeed get into a fight with another dog, scare a child, run into the street and become urban road kill. I have seen this more times than I can tell you, and it inevitably ends with the dog owner sobbing because they “don’t know what happened, Mitzi has never run into the street before.” I know what happened, Mitzi is a fucking dog and you treated her like a child old enough for higher order thinking! **I am excluding

professionally trained service dogs from this, because they truly are amazing**

Now here come the cousins to My-Dog-Would-Never-and-Doesn’t-Need-a-Leash, My-Dog-Would-Never-So-I-Let-Him-Have-All-25-feet-of-the-Retractable-Leash. Can I slap you now? The freakin dog might as well be off the damned lead! Large or small, if that dog runs into the street when a car is coming and the car doesn’t see him, that’s the end of the dog. If you’ve got a little dog who startles another, larger, unfriendly dog, your dog is getting his butt kicked before you can get him in your arms.

City Dogs Are Friends (Photo credit: ilovemypit)

If you’ve got a big dog at the end of that lead and they take off after a juicy rat, odds are excellent that you will either let go of the lead, get your wrist/arm broken trying to hold her back, or at the very least, you’ll end up on the ground. It’s science (physics?), a big dog with four on the floor with 15-25 feet of running lead has a lot more traction than you do. Hell, a 50 pound dog with four on the floor has more traction than many.

There are options for people with friendly, well trained dogs to be off leash and romp with other dogs. There are dog runs throughout the city, and dogs can be off-leash in Central Park from dawn until 9am, and from 9pm until park closing. By the way, just because you can let them off leash doesn’t mean you should. If your dog is not friendly or well trained, those ordinances won’t magically make your dog friendly and obedient.

This has been a public service announcement from Mrs Fringe.

Polski: trufla nosowa psa (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.

Gutter Ball Graphic (Photo credit: cote)

Is the Boogeyman Getting Bigger?

Return of the Boogeyman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s a funny thing. I find as I get older, certain things that used to bother me, don’t. You really do reach a level of understanding, this too shall pass. In other ways, though, those fears take hold and get more firmly rooted. Like, say, fear of the unknown.

I’m at a point where I’m ready to make changes. Not quite sure about what they’ll encompass, but I’m ready. Except, what about that other old adage? You know the one, “the devil you know…”

Fatigue and I were talking about fears the other evening. Not wanting to live our lives dictated by fear. We were talking about our young adulthood, before we knew each other. I realized I used to be brave. Ok, maybe not brave, but braver than I am now. I took chances. Some worked out, some not so much. Yanno, life. It’s a lot harder to take those risks when the fallout of a miscalculated risk involves more than me and a cat. Yes, once upon a time, Mrs Fringe had a cat.

I dream about moving to “the country.” What if we did it? Would it be an easier life, living somewhere the budget would stretch farther? I have blissful visions of a kitchen where I can’t touch both walls while standing in the middle. A dishwasher. Not living with people literally on top and below me. Privacy! A garden. A spot to let the beasts out so I don’t have to always walk them no matter what at least three times a day.

There’s nowhere we could go where our money will magically stretch for a fantastic area, HGTV worthy house, or a house on the beach. A lot of factors have to be weighed in. Cost of living, school system, special ed services, doctors/hospitals, work, somewhat reasonable distance to get to Mother In Law. Let’s not forget political factors. Not every area would be happy to welcome us. I don’t need to be somewhere where everyone has the same political beliefs, but I also don’t want to be somewhere I’d be afraid to state my beliefs, know what I mean? And Husband, who would be very happy if I would forget all about this fantasy and continue to trip over each other in the apartment, choke on the budget, and keep waving as I trudge out with the dogs to walk them for the eleventy billionth time.

If I keep huffing and puffing and moaning, and swear it will all be fabulous and I will wake up and skip through the daisies every day, maybe we’ll go. Eventually. But that isn’t how I want to walk into a big change. My crystal ball is looking a little milky these days. I don’t know if this type of move would work out. If we’d end up in the perfect area, if it would provide enough stress and financial relief to enjoy those daisies. We all face decisions, we all try to stack the odds in our favor. But at the end of the day, big decisions are a leap of faith. A calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless.

None of this obsessing is getting me any closer to the revisions I should be working on.

For the moment, I’ll continue to watch the real estate porn on HGTV while I wonder if I’m being ruled by my fears or being practical. Sensible. Oh gawd, am I supposed to toss my stilettos and buy orthopedic lace-ups now?

And in the meantime, Flower Child and I keep watching our little seeds sprout, pretending we’ve got a real garden. And I trimmed and bathed Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Productivity, sorta.

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