City Life

Autumn in New York

There are clues that fall is here. More stouts on the menu, pumpkin soup, boots instead of flip flops, and of course, it’s COLD!

And let’s not forget, New York City fail.

Glowing Gingko (Photo credit: Puzzler4879)

Gingkos recognize that it’s fall earlier than the rest of the city trees. Their leaves turn a beautiful shade of yellow, and the female trees drop juicy seed pods all over the sidewalk. If you aren’t familiar with gingko trees, you might not recognize the why I refer to them as a fail. They stink. I didn’t know what type of tree this was until I was thirty, because they’re referred to as vomit trees. Yes, the beautiful “fruit” that drops continually from these majestic glowing leaves, splattering the sidewalks in competition with pigeon shit, smells just like vomit.

See the tourists.

See the tourists head towards the pretty trees, cameras at the ready.

See the tourists look around, turning green, inching and then running away from the smell they can’t locate the origin of.

See the New York women.

See the New York women in their fabulous new boots, legs still bare.

See the New York women hopscotch around the smashed gingko pods more carefully than they skirt a subway grate.

See the problem?

Why do we have these trees all over the city? I don’t know. I always figured whoever planned and implemented the planting of these trees was unfamiliar with this phenomenon, and now the politics of chopping down so many trees would cause too much of an uproar. Except a couple of years ago, I saw the parks department plant more of these grotesque tricks two blocks away from me. Why, NY?

Big Senile Dog is a true chow hound. Completely motivated by food, he will eat anything that is food, could be food, smells like food, etc. Several years ago he ate part of the bottom of a broken bottle on the street. Cause, yanno, it once held food. Even he won’t eat the gingko fruit.

Do you have these monstrosities in your area?

In case you’re thinking we could reap the benefits of the beauty and avoid the stench by planting the male trees, think again. The male trees can morph into female. Like clownfish. Cute little Nemo is quite the sight when he decides he doesn’t want to be Nemette’s bitch anymore, and he grows larger, turns female, and kills her.

Mrs Fringe Takes a Day Trip

More like an hour than a day, but still. I was outside of my comfort zone, ok?!

Today’s post is pretty much snark free, photo intensive. I’m not much of a photographer, but I thought it would be cool to share.

There are free,temporary, often interesting art exhibits/installations mounted in Manhattan. This morning Husband and I went to see Discovering Columbus, by the Japanese artist Tatzu Nishi. He designed a living space around the 13 foot statue of Christopher Columbus in Columbus Circle. Normally this statue is in the middle of the circle, unnoticed and exposed to the designs of innumerable pigeons. The statue itself is on top of a granite column, reaching about 75 feet in total. To reach the exhibit (enclosed by scaffolding), you climb up 6 flights of temporary metal stairs, and then down another set after viewing.

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Is it Trash Day?

New York City Department of Sanitation (Photo credit: BriYYZ)

This is what I’d like, a battalion of garbage trucks for me to toss everything in my apartment and start fresh.

Been home for several days with sick Flower Child; raw, damp, and gray outside. Can you say aargh? A couple of days ago I was “good,” used the time at home to do some overdue sorting and cleaning. Clearly, the best use of my time yesterday was to spend hours online, cyber-shopping and buying imaginary furniture for my imaginary house. Don’t think I’m not practical, I made sure to only look at couches that will fit in my current apartment in the meantime. In varying shades of cream and beige, to really play up the dog hair and paw prints that will make it mine.

All this led me to varying blogs and websites dedicated to decorating small spaces, making them chic and practical. I don’t have this talent. Many do, and I don’t think it’s about money. I’ve been to some homes where the owner has plenty of money, but it still looks like those dump trucks are waiting at the corner. Others where the owner/renter has very little money, but a great sense of style and organization that allows the space to look and feel great when you walk through the door. I wish the latter was me, but it isn’t.

Women nest at different times. Me? I nest early in a writing phase. I’ve heard a lot of writers talk about this phenomenon, referencing it as a procrastination tactic. I see how it can be. But for myself, it gives me a reason to pace while I’m creating scenes, lets me think about what type of home my protagonist lives in. Maybe it’s easier to lose my head in the characters’ lives when I’ve got a little real life elbow room.

Snake Attacks Bird Nest (Photo credit: johnynek)

I don’t know, maybe it’s because I know if I really get going, the housework completely falls down on the priority list. Usually long before the sorting and organization are finished.

At the moment though, I’m imagining a tasteful and elegant home, with a clearly defined space for me to work in. Preferably an enclosed porch type thing, with lots of glass and screens and light. In the Florida Keys. Somewhere like that. But not here, tucked into the corner of my ratty blue couch, laptop balanced on the sinking arm, stinky from the rain Little Incredibly Dumb dog pressed against me.

I’m going to take up cigars and fishing, since I apparently fantasize about being Hemingway.

Ernest Hemingway House, Key West, Florida (Photo credit: Mat McDermott)

Way Over Yonder

For someone who isn’t going anywhere, I spend a lot of time thinking about where I’d like to be.

Hawaii (Photo credit: jmauerer)

I’ve never been to Hawaii, so it’s pure fantasy to say I’d like to live there. But I know I love warm weather, and sun, and the beach. I’d have to give up my mixed reef tank, it’s illegal to buy most corals there, but I could have an excellent softie tank, with some beautiful fish. Besides, I’d be able to see the corals in the ocean. Wouldn’t that be something? Unfortunately, I’d also love to live somewhere I could afford a little house and groceries, with a good school system for Flower Child, so Hawaii isn’t a likely scenario.

So many beautiful places to fantasize about, even limiting my game of “let’s pretend” to America. Sometimes I think about going north, have you been to Vermont? Awesome sharp cheddar, real maple syrup, elderberry wine! It’s stunning; peaceful, sunny, and many parts are affordable.

Vermont (Photo credit: Dougtone)

I love to read the descriptions and study the photographs posted by my online friends who live in various parts of the country. I envy their gardens, their scenery, their reasonable cost of living, and their space. Then I keep reading. And hear about raccoons and deer and bear, and beavers and possums and snakes. *** I had to pause here, because my shudders made it impossible to work the keyboard.

Yes, it’s true, Mrs Fringe is a weenie. I’m willing to brave underwater creepy crawlies, willing to brave the subways, I’ll even, on occasion if need be, brave the tourists in Times Square. But rabies and lyme disease and giardia? Oh my!

When I was a kid, I thought I was an animal lover. I loved dogs, I even the loved the gazillion stray cats that lived in the neighborhood. My parents told me I was an animal lover. There were plenty of breadcrumbs, if I had thought to follow the trail. I hated the chickens at the live poultry place on McDonald Ave. But they were there to be killed, plucked, and taken home for Sunday dinner, the F train roaring and clanking above, so I didn’t think of them as nature. I also didn’t think of them as dinner, I think I stopped eating chicken by the time I was eight. I hated the zoo. But this was before the days when zoos became humane, who could love the scrawny, flea bitten lion tearing into a hunk of bloody raw meat in his cage? I loved the track. I loved Black Beauty. Very exciting. Beautiful animals, those thoroughbred horses. From a distance. Up close, they’re really, really big. Scary. I was an adult before I found myself next to a cow. They’re huge! And they stink. I know how to hold my breath on a steamy day in August when walking down the subway steps, so the waves of funk and urine don’t penetrate. But farm animals? There is no holding your breath for that stench. Pfft, clean smell of manure…I don’t think so.

Thinking back, again, they weren’t so much breadcrumbs on a trail as bright yellow strips of divider on an interstate highway.

Are you living where you want? If you could move, where would you go?

For all my fantasy time, I’m not sure where I want to end up. But I don’t want to be here.

Theater District/Times Square

Where’s My Union Rep?

Women corset workers on strike walk down the street wearing undergarments (Photo credit: Kheel Center, Cornell University)

I’m going to join the ladies in the photo above and go on strike. Mrs Fringe needs a day off! I’m also going to digress for a moment.

In looking for an old photo of women on strike, I noticed something interesting. The women are smiling in these photos. Not so in photos of men on strike. Why? Is it so ingrained in women to smile and be polite, even when making a political statement and fighting for a living wage? Or did the photographers give women an alert and admonission, “Smile pretty for the camera!” that wasn’t offered to men? I can see it now, “Oh yeah, this is important, we’re gonna to a big story on you, front page. What’s that you say, your sister lost three fingers in the industrial sewing machine cause she worked 27 days in a row? C’mon girls, you have to smile, nobody’s gonna look at a photo of a bunch of sourpusses.” Then again, I have a vivid imagination, and my observation could mean nothing more than smiling women are the photos that caught my eye.

I like my coffee analogue, like my photography (Photo credit: futurowoman)

But mostly, my imagination has been taking me back to my youth, when a day off meant a day of nothing. Not a day of less, but a day where I could stay in my pjs, lie in bed and read all day, my biggest energy expenditure when I got up to make coffee. It isn’t a mystery why I can’t do this anymore. I live in the city with two dogs, they need to be walked three times a day. I have people, little and big, brought to life and brought into my life by choice, who depend on me for household supplies, clean laundry, meds, food, chaperoning, homework help, and a clean toilet.

Fatigue and I went out for Friday Night Madness this week. Due to life, we had missed the past few Fridays. He has arranged his finances so he’ll be able to take a few months off from his day job, beginning next month. This will mean tightening his already tight budget to a stranglehold. But I get it; he’s going to rest, regroup, and use the time to work on his art. I’m almost envious. Almost, because even my vivid imagination can’t quite imagine being in a position to do this.

One of the “tells” in writing as to whether or not a piece was written by a man or woman has to do with qualifiers. Women tend to write the way they speak; lots of almosts, quites, somewhats, sort-ofs, tend-tos,in-my-opinions. Many of us live that way, too. Almost a day off, not quite a day off, somewhat of a day off, sort of keeping it a light day.

Sunday, not a day off, not a day of rest, but I’m going to try to keep this to a day of less. How about you? Do you get days that are truly off?

Dear Peeple In Charge,

English: Quill pen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is the salutation on the letter Flower Child began working on last night.

During dinner, Husband, Flower Child and I had a lovely, meandering conversation. Her mind makes some interesting connections, and when I’ve got the luxury of time, I like to follow. In order to make a connection, she speaks aloud, touching on every detail of every thing she can remember hearing/seeing that somehow reminds her of what came before.

The maze of Longleat House (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Without this process, her mind stalls, and she can’t follow or remember. We began discussing Greek goddesses, which jumped to eating habits in history, Pa Ingalls curing meat, the gold accents on her Cleo de Nile doll, why organic fruits and vegetables taste better but cost more, why she had to eat some soup and not just the coconut chips garnishing it, and why everyone should help each other.

Somehow it made sense to tell Husband and Flower Child about a scene I passed when I was on my way to the hospital the other morning. There was a man standing outside a coffee shop where I got off the bus, panhandling. A familiar scene to me, there didn’t seem to be anything remarkable. No aggression, no singing, no yelling, no horrendous odors, no aggression. An older, elegantly dressed and coiffed woman about ten steps ahead of me. Her nose turned up so high if I had been standing next to her I could have checked for polyps. She turned to another man walking by her, “No one ever gives money to those people, do they? I hope not.” Obviously not a New Yorker.

Not much of a story, more of a moment. But I turned to Flower Child, and saw her eyes watering and lip quivering, “What’s wrong? Come here.” She pressed into my hug.

“That’s terrible.”

Yes, yes it is. I told her no one person can help everyone, or fix these things, but if everyone does what they can; even it’s limited to contributing one can of food to a food drive, it can make a difference.

She isn’t all that clear on the distinction between city and state, state and country, country and continent, principal and president–but she’s writing a letter to the people in charge, because it’s wrong to ignore people who are hungry.

Man Child and Nerd Child also care about others, volunteer time and give what they can. Community service means more than a line on a college resume.

The other day I was telling friends a story from my childhood. My mother would send me with a lunch every day. I wasn’t much on eating three meals a day, and I rarely got “good” sandwiches. These were the days when you heard a lot about the starving children in Biafra. On the way to school, I passed a mailbox. Each day, I would drop my brown bag into it. Unless the sandwich was olive loaf, in which case I kept it. That poor mailman, his bag must have smelled permanently like bologna. My friends’ immediate thoughts were what a caring child I was. Not so much. More like practical. “They” were hungry, I wasn’t, and would have gotten into trouble if I brought the sandwich back home. If anyone used the term win/win back then it would have applied.

I’m a lucky mama. My children have compassion, good souls.

Campbell’s Soup Cans by Andy Warhol, 1962. Displayed in Museum of Modern Art in New York. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Score: Life- 80932, Mrs Fringe-1

This is what I want to do today:

DSC_1878 (Photo credit: Lannuit)

This is what I will do today:

NYC: 8th avenue windows through a bus window (Photo credit: Susan NYC)

Not the Chinese food part, the waiting for and riding the bus in the rain part.

Husband is doing much better, still in the hospital but I expect he’ll be able to come home today. For the record, I called it. Cardiac cath done and stent placed yesterday. When I left him last night, he was feeling much better. Between massive quantities of blood thinners and the new stent, a little more rest once he’s home, he should be a supercharged Husband by Friday. Unfortunate, because I’m so tired I was seriously tempted to shove him out of his massaging hospital bed last night, and get some sleep for myself. Those beds aren’t cushy, but they’re pretty comfortable, you don’t even need any quarters to get the magic fingers to start.

I spent a good chunk of yesterday in the waiting room next to the Cath lab. Went downstairs to the cafeteria for a cup of tea and a snack, got all excited because they actually had dill pickle chips. My favorite! After the first hour, the couple sitting next to the one outlet in the room left, so I was able to settle in and charge my phone. I didn’t have my laptop with me, but I had remembered a book and my iPod, so I had something to do. What I didn’t have was what I needed–earplugs. People, hospital waiting room does not mean party room. If you’ve got company to sit and play the waiting game with you, great. But oh. my. God. There was one group of women who literally didn’t stop yakking and laughing over each other for a second. There have been times that I’ve sat in waiting rooms by myself, and times that I’ve had company. It’s nice to have company, it can be nerve wracking to sit there–especially once you’re an hour past the estimated wait time. Shut the fuck up! I thought I showed remarkable restraint when I didn’t get up and shove my now empty pickle chip bag into the open maw of the loudest one.

Description unavailable (Photo credit: the real janelle)

I’m not going to think about the laundry that’s piled up, the cleaning that needs to be done, the aortic stenosis they saw during the cath yesterday (yanno, by the valve already replaced once), or the look on Flower Child’s face just now as I told her we have to get and go again today. Still no earplugs, but my blinders are on, and I’m doing what I need to do.

They Say It’s Your Birthday

A birthday cake (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Some birthday surprises are so sweet, so wonderful, they are the cake and the candles all in one. Like my reefing friends letting me know they ordered a new bluetooth for me, to replace the one Little Dumb Dog ate.

Some birthday surprises are more like the dirty plate that was tucked behind the couch and forgotten, discovered after the residual icing has hardened, with a fuzzy layer of mold connecting it to a cushion. Husband gave me a perfect card this morning, beautiful and encouraging without being sappy, funny comments that make sense to us penned in. Then he told me he was having chest pains, radiating down his left arm with intermittent lightheadedness thrown in.

For the record, I will be voting for the New York politician who declares parade paths that block the way to several major hospitals are henceforth banned and illegal.

So, Mrs Fringe spent her 40,001st birthday in the emergency room with Husband. He’s still there, being admitted; I had to come home to take care of Flower Child, who had been left with my in-laws. Damn these laws of science, that don’t allow me to literally be in two places at once.

Galt School of Nursing Practical Training (Photo credit: Galt Museum & Archives on The Commons)

I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on tv, but I have a lot of experience sitting in ERs, ICUs, CICUs, PICUs, and EMUs. So, based on prior experiences, preliminary tests, symptoms, medical history, conversation with the ER doc, and hours spent watching House, I predict a cardiac catheterization and subsequent stent (angioplasty), followed by amazing recovery. Have I ever mentioned Husband’s lineage traces directly to Superman? It’s true, both Husband and Father-In-Law are walking miracles. Truth, even the surgeons say so, and most surgeons I’ve come across are happy to take credit for the Resurrection.

This sucks. Could be much worse, but it still sucks. I HATED leaving Husband by himself. Doctors and hospitals are often wonderful and appreciated. I’m as comfortable in them as a non-medical professional can be(provided I’m not the patient). I can even tell you which roach coaches parked in front have the best coffee for several of the “biggest” hospitals. But they’re still scary.

Life happens. Every day, good and bad, life happens. If you’ve become a Fringie follower, lurker, or even stumbled across this while googling how to trim the fringe on the blanket you’ve been crocheting, feel free to join me in sending some good thoughts into the universe for Husband, a prayer, and maybe, once Flower Child is in bed and I’m drinking my fiftieth cup of tea, a heartfelt “FUCK!”

A mug of tea (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Draw, You Varmint!

Warms the cockles of your heart, doesn’t it?

This is the sign currently posted outside the elevator doors in my building. Welcome Home!

How unfortunate that these Pest have been disturbed, I sure am glad it isn’t my fault. At first I thought it was the magic pipe I’ve been playing. It’s the darned construction. Except there isn’t any unusual construction going on our block. There’s some, but no more than usual. No water main break, no gas line being replaced, no new high rise.

The memo is titled “Vermin.” What kind of vermin? Roaches–already knew about that increase– bedbugs again?, mice, rats, coyotes? Should I trade the dogs in for a feral cat? Shotgun? And what is the wanted pest activity? I want no pests.

Hmm, perhaps those chicken bones I’ve been seeing around aren’t chicken bones.

In the past year, we’ve had two fires and a significant flood. Maybe the pests are the locusts I’ve been waiting for.

New York is much, much cleaner than it used to be, I see it as the trade off for the Disnification of Times Square. If we’re going backwards, with vermin taking over the streets, basements, and subway tunnels; can we get rid of the big box stores and see significant rent reductions?

Banksy Rat Mural: Let them Eat Crack on Broadway & Howard, SoHo, New York (Photo credit: caruba)

Wake Up!…Your Early Morning Call

Kate Bush – Hounds Of Love (Photo credit: Piano Piano!)

A little Kate Bush playing on the iPod in an attempt to prod myself along. Not sure what today’s sin is, but it feels appropriate to have that background voice proclaiming “guilty, guilty, guilty!”

I’m about 5 hours late for my usual blogging time. On a good day, I have 1 to 1 and 1/2 hours to myself before anyone else wakes up. My most productive time of day since I had children, though I’m not a morning person by nature.

English: Alarm clock Polski: Budzik (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s my time to work out, check my (non-Mrs Fringe) Facebook acct, read and answer emails, and now blog. Hmm, either I’m over-scheduled for that time slot, or there’s something very wrong with my time management skills cause I haven’t been getting half of those things done since Man Child and Nerd Child left, and Flower Child began school.

It used to be two hours of focused time, but Flower Child’s new school is further away than the old one, so we need to leave the house earlier. For those who don’t live in NY, getting kiddos off to school is different than most of the rest of the country (if you’re an at home mom, different again if you’re getting yourself off to a paying job no matter where you are). Yes, we NY mamas also get up, get the kids up and fed, make lunch, meds for the med needs kiddo (s), and all that other fun morning trauma, but we have to get ourselves dressed, no waving to the school bus driver in our pj’s. Somewhere in here I also walk the beasts.

A man and his son dancing to the band in Times Square station (Photo credit: wwward0)

Then walk to the train, down and down the subway steps, catch the train, ride a few stops, up and up the train steps, walk from the train to the school, and then get ourselves home; to be repeated at pick up time. Most days, I’m grateful my days of carrying a stroller up and down those steps are over. When Flower Child isn’t well and needs assistance, I’m wishing I still had it.

This morning I went grocery shopping after dropping her off (Trader Joe’s is my best friend). Husband even came to pick me up, so a morning that started off behind schedule picked up nicely. Started cooking the Doggie Gumbo for the week, unloading the groceries, and the phone rang. Mother in Law needed Husband to help her get Father in Law to the ER.

Just another morning in Fringe World. I really need to work on my schedule, but for now, I’m going to put Jig of Life on for the 8th time, and dance around the empty apartment.

“I put this moment…………………here.”