City Life

Aahhh, These Summer Mornings

Just me, my flowers, the occasional spider to watch the sunrise.

Seems peaceful, doesn’t it? Especially before I boot the laptop, read about the day’s atrocities and most current buffoonery of Trump.

Not this morning. Yesterday was long and busy. We’ve reached the portion of the summer where my anxiety begins to rise, knowing before I can weep Nerd Child will be waving goodbye, headed North to school, and I’ll be back to twelve trains a day shuffling Art Child back and forth. Ridiculous, we still have weeks, but there you have it. With Facebook friends all over the country and world, I’m already seeing the obligatory first day of school pics. There should be a way to block those until Labor Day, don’t you think?

With so many guests this summer, I’ve gotten behind on keeping the apartment neat and organized. Small space, lots of people in and out, packing, unpacking, beach bags galore and the general sloth of long hot days. Time to start getting it together, so I’m not in a complete panic in another two weeks.

Too late!

Man Child’s girlfriend, Miss Music, was here last week, came for a week after her band finished its tour. Fun. Except one morning, she was sitting on the couch with Art Child, turned to me and said, “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

A mouse.

In my apartment.

IN my apartment.

In MY apartment.

Sweet mother of fuck, nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In my many, many years of NY living, I’ve never had a mouse in my apartment. There was evidence of them in our last apartment before we moved in, so we filled every crack and hole we could find, and then put down glue traps just in case. Big Senile Dog promptly got a glue trap stuck to his nose and each paw. Good times.

I grew up near the water in Brooklyn, huge wharf rats could be seen regularly on the streets. Yucky, but outside. There was also a large population of feral cats, so mice weren’t such a thing, between the cats and the rats I’m guessing mice didn’t have a chance. I see rats all the time on the subway tracks. Again, meh. Part of NY life.

Back to the other morning. We didn’t see anything, but we bought a few traps and put them down, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog only got 3 of them stuck to her, and they were much easier to remove than they had been for the big dog, because she’s used to being held to be groomed, and she’s got long hair. Plus, not as dumb as I’d expect, she steered clear of them afterwards. Zero interest in the mouse itself.

No further mouse sightings, until a couple of nights ago, eating dinner and holy shit! I saw a shadow fly over the living room floor. That was no migraine floater. The plan was to go shopping yesterday to restock on cleaning supplies and toiletries, both for the apartment and for Nerd Child to take to school. Needless to say I picked up more mouse traps.

Got home, tore apart the living room, dining area, and kitchen, filled every hole around every pipe we could find, and laid 16 mouse traps. When I say we, I mean Husband and Nerd Child, while Art Child and I steered clear and washed our hands every time those guys touched another trap. I am not taking any chances. I know, they’re a fact of life in NY, in most places, I guess, hence the city mouse/country mouse stories, but they’ve never been a fact in my personal space and I am not ok with sharing. This apartment is crowded enough, thankyouverymuch. Nerd Child reminded me I’m against the death penalty. Nope, only for two legged creatures. Twitchy four legged ones need to be erased. Period.

You know how high my anxiety levels are now, right? In case I needed a bit more, tonight is that open mic night reading.

So I got up, made coffee, went on the terrace, sat for a bit, and then prepared to sit at my desk. One of the glue traps under the radiator worked. But the critter was still alive, and had gotten two of my electrical cords stuck with it. I woke Husband, went back to hiding on the terrace. I was heroic enough to dispose of the whole thing, after it was bagged.

Yes, I took a pic of the mouse actually stuck to the trap, but I just can’t bear looking at it again.

The day has to go up from here, right?

Sunset, Manhattan Style

I needed a little break from all the ugliness these days. “Manhattanhenge” is something that occurs about twice a year, I think, when the sunset lines up just so with the grid that makes up our city streets. I didn’t make it down to the streets that have the best views, just walked south with Art Child and my Mother-In-Law until we were able to have a decent vantage point. This amounted to me standing in the middle of the intersection every time the light was red, Mother-In-Law calling out the seconds I had left, and Art Child looking at us both like we had lost our minds.

Mrs Fringe: “Just this one next light, and then I think that will be it.”

Mother-In-Law: “Yes.”

Art Child: “Didn’t you say that last time?”

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What Time Is It?

Bottle without a message

Time for Mrs Fringe to have the first beach day of the season to herself. I feel pretty lucky to have kiddos that recognize my particular brand of lunacy requires both beach time and occasional time by myself. So the other day–the day before the girl’s last day of school– I checked the weather (iffy, which made it perfect to not bring Art Child), packed my bottle of frozen water, bleach-stained oversized towel, my trusty black and white composition notebook (just in case I should be inspired to write, hah!) and got on the train.

At first it seemed like the iffy weather prediction was completely wrong. A bit of wind, but blue skies and sun all the way. A bit more wind. Eh, the sand scraping across my skin is free exfoliation. I can be freckled and have a youthful glow! Before two hours had passed, I found myself wondering how long I could lie there with sand blowing straight up my nose before I suffocated. I gave up. Took my towel and headed back toward the train. While I stood on the boardwalk shaking out my towel, I thought of the many times I had gone to the beach in my angsty teen years, shivering in out-of-season winds while sitting on the rocks writing horribly overwrought poetry. For some reason I also remembered going with my mother to the “big girl’s” shop on Coney Island Avenue, to buy housedresses for a relative in California, while my father sat in the car outside, grumbling about muumuus. Shh, it’s a secret, don’t tell anyone. For my mother, the secret was that this glamorous, beautiful cousin was a “big girl.” For me, the secret was she wore house dresses in her home that seemed like a mansion compared to our semi-detached brick two family house. For the love of God, she had gotten three thousand miles away from there, didn’t she know there was a reason they didn’t sell those polyester monstrosities in Southern California?

It’s a funny thing. When I was growing up, I couldn’t wait to “escape” South Brooklyn. Seriously, it was like living the script of Saturday Night Fever, those bridges and tunnels represented everything. I’m a cynical gal and always was, but I can and do certainly look back and realize my rose-colored glasses were firmly in place, like most other young people. If I lived in the city (people who live in the outer boroughs refer to Manhattan as “the city,” regardless of the fact that it’s all five boroughs that make up NYC), life would be different. I would be free, not trapped, living the life I always wanted. You know, in a cold dark garret, chain smoking clove cigarettes while scribbling the great American novel. Manhattan/Paris, Nineteenth Century/Twenty-First Century–it’s all the same thing, right? I’d be living the dream. Regardless, I certainly wouldn’t spend twenty years dodging PTA meetings and worrying about doctor’s appointments. Whatever happened, I would never find myself back in Brooklyn. Most of all, I would never, ever wear a housedress.

So what do I do now with every opportunity on beautiful (or iffy) summer days? Hop on the train and go over the bridge back to the Brooklyn, of course. Just the beach, but. No matter how many times I’ve gone back, no matter that it’s been a firm part of my summer routine for eons, I have to laugh at myself. The first couple of times I went back, I wondered if I would run into anyone I knew. Never have. Who knows, maybe I’ve been towel to towel with someone who graduated from high school with me and neither of us recognized the other. I quickly stopped thinking about it. The realities of living in a city so densely populated is that I have people who live on the same floor of my building that I don’t see for months, sometimes years, at a time.

This winter I reconnected with an old high school friend, through Facebook. She left Brooklyn before I did, and it turns out she too, is back in NY, living in a different borough. We briefly talked about meeting up, but it hasn’t happened. What would I say, without judiciously chosen and edited photos to represent my life? Badge of honor, I’ve never worn a housedress! Still, I found myself on Brighton Beach Avenue before I got on the train, looking at my favorite (cheapest) variety store running a going-out-of-business sale, and wondered if I had $5 on me.

A dollar short, story of my life.

Deeply Saddened

Because the heart of America is broken and bleeding.

I remember clearly the first time the phrase “deeply saddened” came to my mind in response to an atrocity. It was 1999, and in Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado, two students slaughtered 12 classmates, 1 teacher, injured 24 people, and then killed themselves. At the time it was so shocking, so hideous, I couldn’t stand to watch the news or stay in the apartment; I took (then a baby) Nerd Child and went up the street to the preschool Man Child had attended. I stood there with the director and teachers, all of us crying silently while we watched the little ones playing on the rooftop. (NY, you make play spaces where you can.)

Deeply saddened. When the loss is so huge, so shocking, nonsensical yet calculated, it feels deeper than a personal tragedy; a public loss we all share and mourn, yet feeling we’re powerless in the face of it, and what we feel doesn’t scratch the surface of those whose loss is personal, those who lost children and family members, spouses, friends and teachers.

In the 17 years that have passed since then, it feels like there have been many occasions when I have found myself deeply saddened by a no-longer-extraordinary mass shooting here in America: Virginia Tech, Virginia, Binghamton, New York, Fort Hood, Texas, Sandy Hook, Connecticut, Washington Navy Yard, Washington DC, Charleston, South Carolina, San Bernardino, California, and now Orlando, Florida. This is by no means a complete and comprehensive list of mass shootings here in the US, nor does it include any slaughters that came before Columbine: Edmond, Oklahoma, Killeen, Texas, San Ysidro, California–to name a few “big” ones. Hell, I think the largest mass killing of this type was back in 1857 in Mountain Meadows, Utah.

By the time Sandy Hook occurred, maybe the “shock” of the targets being children so young, I was tilting from deeply saddened to furious. And now, with this most recent mass shooting in a nightclub in Orlando, Florida, 50 dead and 53 injured, I’m still sad, I’m still angry, but I’m sure as shit not shocked. That this occurred in an LGBT nightclub during Pride Month? Not shocked. How can anyone pretend to be? Look at my (incomplete) lists above. Children, teens, young adults, adults, black, white, asian, latino, gay, straight, rural, suburban, urban, elementary schools, high schools, colleges, churches, post offices, immigration centers, motherfucking military bases. If the list of victims, perpetrators and locations is so scattered, the only answer is to find the common theme.

Yeah, I’m going there. I know, many will see this and roll their eyes, “it’s too soon!” “Mrs Fringe is politicizing a tragedy!” It cannot be too soon when we know the next mass shooting is only a matter of time. And this is a political tragedy. A tragedy of policy, when we live in a country that refuses to enact stricter gun control laws, a country that has in place a congressional ban on gun violence research (renewed, by the way, immediately after 9 people were killed inside a Charleston church), when we know most of these slaughters occurred with legally obtained weapons by people who should never have been able to obtain guns if we had any collective common sense. Obviously, at this point we, as a nation, have accepted that next time it could be us personally, our children, our loved ones, and we’ve decided we’re ok with that. Oh sure, we’ll hold vigils and wail, offer prayers and tweets and gnash our teeth–if it’s really a big number killed we’ll even apply an appropriately colored, somber overlay onto our Facebook profile pictures.

Many of us have had personal tragedies, upheaval or illnesses in our lives that have caused us to accept a new normal. Well, mass shootings are our not-so-new normal here in the US. The NRA–hell, friends of mine–will be defensive, certain of their right to mourn alongside the rest of us and those who lost loved ones this weekend. They’ll mean it. Most of those I know who are against sensible gun control will genuinely be saddened by this most recent tragedy–maybe even deeply. They’ll hold up the shooter’s history of hate, insanity and domestic violence as “proof” that we need more guns. Above all they’ll point to the Second Amendment, the right to bear arms as sacred, not to be contained, controlled, or god forbid tampered with above all else. Above all else. Above:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among those are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. ~~Thomas Jefferson, Declaration of Independence, 1776

1776 was a long time ago. As a country, as a world we have grown, changed, and advanced so much it makes no sense at all to apply the guidelines written then as a document to be followed to the letter now. We know it, but it’s inconvenient. So much easier to be reactionary and defensive, luxuriate in the righteousness of our greed and mourning, to cry, Patriotism! while accepting our new normal. It is greed when our elected officials put the contributions of gun lobbyists and their interests over those of their constituents. When we continue to elect and support those officials, we, as a people, are validating that greed.

Even in Fringeland, we’ve been down this road and I’ve written about this subject too many times before. Some will read this or other pieces better written with more facts than mine, and they’ll point to other nations. Hold up as proof of America’s greatness charts of violent death rates by country, point to how far down the list we are, how many more are killed by violence in Columbia, Honduras, Somalia, etc. Is that the type of comparison that makes sense, that we want? These are nations shredded by internal strife, wars civil and otherwise, ruled by poverty and desperation. They’ll point to statistics on crime and shout that criminals have guns, so we all should. No, the answer to gun violence is not more guns. They’ll then say we will not be able to eradicate all guns, so we shouldn’t eliminate any. I can’t even follow the intended logic on that one. We continue to fund disease research and treatments, even as we know we cannot eradicate all disease. They’ll say the CDC cannot conduct studies on gun violence because guns are not a disease. I call bullshit.

I won’t begin quoting statistics, they’re everywhere this morning. I will say that yesterday, while we were watching the antics of blustering politicians on Twitter, and crying as we watched the horrific scene outside of the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, FL, I saw another “small” story come up. This one local, not too many stops away on the train. A young mother of three was shot to death on a playground, protecting her children.

Gun violence is a disease in America, and mass shootings are the weeping of our bleeding hearts.

Hey Hey Mama!

Of the million annoyances I encounter daily through life in the city, I’m old enough and defeated enough to realize 999, 997 have nothing to do with me personally, don’t effect me in any way, and are none of my business. Sure, the number changes if you consider what I bitch about in my head, or to Husband, or even here on the blog, but to cause me to speak up and interact with strangers? Not so much.

New York is always under construction. Buildings going up, coming down, being renovated or refaced, streets being dug up or patched. Interesting if you’re young or new to the city, hours of free entertainment if you’re 3, good news if you’re in contracting/construction. I’ve heard people complain about “how much” construction workers earn. I don’t complain. First of all, the salaries vary widely–union/non-union, public or private project, white/”minority” worker–wrong as it is, last I read white guys earned an average of 20% more (I put minority in quotes because whites are not the majority in nyc), etc. Second, these guys* work incredibly hard, back-breaking work in freezing cold, rain, heat and humidity that has most of us hiding inside, sometimes questionable working conditions, and often breathing in shit that I don’t want to think about. Third, the majority of these jobs/workers are highly skilled, and their work is important. Fourth, the risk of serious injury is high. A few of the assignments on the sites aren’t labor intensive, they’re incredibly boring. Like being assigned to open/close the gates and plastic bumpers for pedestrians to pass through in between cartloads of crap being hauled from the fenced in site to the dumpster in the gutter. Boring, but they can’t blow it off or let their minds wander, because that would be a disaster, a law suit, and an unemployment line waiting to happen. Often while working this mind-numbing task, they’re being berated and cursed by veryimportantpeople on their way to veryimportantmeetings who can’t contain their annoyance at being detained for 7 seconds so they don’t get a steel beam through their skull.

See? Look up or look down–construction.

I pass several construction sites daily, multiple times per day, as I take Art Child back and forth to school. The nice part of being a woman of a certain age who’s allowed herself to go gray? I don’t deal with much catcalling anymore. I’ve heard there are a few who find it complimentary. There are also women who like to call their husbands/boyfriends Daddy and greet them at the door with a martini and a smile–but of course that all falls under the annoyances-I-keep-to-myself category, because it’s none of my business. At best catcalling is a background annoyance, often it’s rude and dehumanizing, and at worst it can be frightening. I see a lot of the same guys every day, they smile and say good morning, I respond in kind, and that’s the extent of it.

But the other day I was walking with Art Child and her friend, and one of the workers (who I didn’t recognize, not one of the ones usually on the gate) made a comment to/about my daughter’s friend. Well, of course not so much about her as about her body. My daughter looks younger than her age, her friend does not. Young teenaged girls. Of course she’s attractive. I shook my head, said “no,” and we kept walking. This man–was he drunk?–kept on, calling after us and followed. For the record, he was not a young man. Definitely old enough to know better than to make these types of comments to a girl who could easily have been his daughter. I understand, putting to the side the misogyny of catcalling, when it comes to girls this age, it’s easy to think they’re older, especially if you aren’t looking at their faces. I turned back and said very clearly, “she’s underaged, back off.” Would you believe he kept going, commenting and following a bit more? Of course you believe it, if you’re a female between the ages of oh, say, 10 and 100. Was he delusional? I offered him a couple more words and we kept going. Why did I keep going? Because the girls were creeped out and frightened, and I wasn’t sure if this girl’s mother would be okay hearing about a confrontation afterwards. If I stopped, I was going to get loud. It’s a balance and a judgement call. Sometimes it’s good for young people to see adults doing the right thing, standing up for them and themselves. Other times (when the option is there) it’s better to cool off a bit and deal with situations without young people present.

So I don’t know if this guy was drunk, delusional, or bitter about sweating his balls off in 90° heat. What I do know is that he was confused if he thought this would pass without incident. This morning I had a nice chat with the site manager/foreman, who was responsive, respectful, and took me quite seriously.

a)The word “underaged” holds more than a bit of power. Those 9 letters contain many implications; ethical, moral, and legal.

b) Site workers and managers pay very close attention when you stop and speak. If you’re blocking the pass through, several workers have to stop what they’re doing. Time is money after all.

Women, we don’t have to tolerate predatory behavior, and we shouldn’t.

Moral of the day: Most annoyances can and should be ignored, some should be addressed head on. Oh yeah, and don’t fuck with Mrs Fringe.

*I reference “guys” because while I do/have occasionally seen women working on construction sites, it’s still a field dominated by men–and I’ve yet to hear a female construction worker catcalling.

Those Moments

Quintessential Guggenheim

The NYC public schools were closed this past week for the February break. I’m cursing this break when school is still in session at the end of June, but in the moment? Yeeees, so necessary. For the most part, the girl and I spent the week resting and ate half-priced-post-Valentine’s Day chocolate. But yesterday morning Husband needed to get new glasses, so Art Child and I went with him to help pick frames. Since we were going to be on the east side anyway, I figured it was a good day to hit a museum.

The Upper East side has been (marginally) more resistant to change than most other residential neighborhoods in Manhattan, so there are still a few old gems left to wrap me in the nostalgia of remember when. Like this one.

Almost makes me wish I liked egg creams.

Art Child and I said goodbye to Husband, I grabbed my camera, she grabbed her sketchbook, and off we went. The Guggenheim isn’t one of the museums we visit regularly, it is not one of the suggested donation institutions. Those types of museums can quickly blow a week’s budget. Eat before we go. No, we aren’t buying anything in the gift shop! No, we can’t go again before the installation leaves. The saving grace is that flat admission price doesn’t exclude any of the temporary exhibitions. If you’ve never been, the building itself is well worth a visit. All curves, you spiral your way up a continuing ramp to see what’s on display. Certain floors branch off to more permanent exhibits and/or smaller installments.

Every time I go I think of being there with Man Child when he was a little guy, an installation of motorcycles. Very cool, even if I still don’t understand why they were there. Mostly I think of it because Nerd Child was an infant. They didn’t allow strollers/carriages along the ramps, and Nerd Child was a champion puker–one of those babies where every spit up looked like an audition for The Exorcist– so Husband and I took turns carrying him while zig-zagging around the bikes.

The current primary exhibition is a retrospective, a collaborative effort from Swiss artists Peter Fischli and David Weiss that spans over thirty years, “How to Work Better.” Huge, the sheer number of sculptures, photographs, videos, and instillations left me overwhelmed at times. Art Child tells me I’m supposed to be. Some of it I really liked, some not so much. The first thing you see is the costumes the artists wore while making their films THE POINT OF LEAST RESISTANCE and THE RIGHT WAY. umm, ok. I didn’t take a ton of photos, I was busy trying to understand what I was seeing, but I’m glad we went.

Here’s where I love the tourists, they remember the views over the park are part of the intended experience.

In the Thannhauser Gallery there are an assortment of paintings by Picasso, Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Cèzanne, Toulouse-Lautrec, and others. Regardless of what else is on exhibit, whether it’s something I enjoy, understand or not, I’m moved and satisfied sitting in that gallery. I love Picasso, his paintings, his etchings, his sculptures. Not all of his work, he starts to lose me with swaths of his Cubist period. Does that mean I’m déclassé? Maybe just a peasant. That’s ok, I don’t mind.

One of my favorite paintings is there now. Sorry, I must have knocked the dial on the camera right before I took this photo, it’s way too yellow.

Woman Ironing, by Pablo Picasso. Can I say it again? I love this painting. From his Blue Period, there’s something about it that has always drawn me in. I don’t remember the where (pretty sure it wasn’t the Guggenheim) or when (I was a child, for certain) I first saw it, but I will never be tired of this woman. When I hear people refer to a work of art speaking to them, this is one of the paintings that comes to the forefront of my mind. Maybe I always knew I was destined for drudgery. And scoliosis. And shadows. Take a closer look with me, the shadow along her neck is delicious, makes me shiver.

Everything you can’t see in her eyes, but see in her curves and angles.

This was the first piece of the day that Art Child chose to sit and sketch. I can’t say what I enjoyed most, being able to sit down and enjoy the Ironing Woman, the girl sitting at the end of the bench and sketching her, or the museum visitors stopping to watch her sketch for longer than they looked at the painting in question. Perfect moment.

After we had moved on, and were back to Fischli and Weiss, I felt my phone buzz. A text from Nerd Child, frustrated and disappointed about a lost opportunity. No fault of his own, one of those life-happens things. Still, I’m a mom, which means through the life experience that enables me to understand the whys, hows, and frequencies of disappointments, my heart aches for each of my kiddos, every time they’re faced with one. In the middle of the gazillion clay sculptures I happened to be standing in front of a representation of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. I walked past the donkey to the inner wall of the museum and looked down.

Something had clicked for me, and the artists’ spent Rat and Bear costumes lying on the lobby platform made sense. Trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t, philosophical questions that don’t have a right answer–or any answer at all, dreaming about success. Yeah, these are the things we need to do, to experience, the questions we need to ask. These are the moments we need, perfect or otherwise.

Nesting

This pair has been hanging out on the water tower across from my apartment all morning.

This pair hung out on the water tower across from my apartment all morning.

The crows seem to enjoy today’s fine flurries. They stuck around, cawing and calling and circling until the flurries stopped.

It’s that time. That time of year, when I start thinking about how nice it would be to get away by myself. Still haven’t done it (not since I had children, anyway), but I think about it. A little while ago I even looked up writer’s retreats for 2016. They lose their appeal after about 3 minutes of web surfing. Wooded settings, steep price tags, set meal times, and evening conversations with strangers. Feel me shuddering through the keyboard? Creating my own retreat, though, that would be lovely. Just a few days. Coffee, tea, salad, and Cheetos should cover all the necessary meals/food groups. Maybe some salt and vinegar chips. On a beach, because if I were to be overcome by the glory of uninterrupted alone-time and therefore not get any writing done, I’d still be happy.

It’s also that time when I’m thinking about writing. A lot. I know myself, what it means when I can’t stop thinking about a poem, a photograph, a song…and I know what’s next; obsession with the next manuscript. You know when you hear women talk about nesting in the later stages of pregnancy? I never did that. I do it before getting serious about a manuscript. Why? I dunno. It isn’t like baking or being caught up on laundry and grocery shopping beforehand makes a damned bit of difference by the time I’m a month in, but I do it anyway. Feels like dropping down to a low gear in order to drive up a steep hill without stalling or getting caught at the red light at the top. Not that it works, life provides red lights with regularity, and god knows I stall out all. the. time. while I’m writing, but that’s what it feels like for the moment.

So I’ve been thinking about Emily Dickinson’s “I’m Nobody.” I always loved this one, no matter how many times I’ve heard and read it.

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one’s name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!

I’ve never been Somebody, from my vantage it seems like there’s power in it. But there’s freedom in being Nobody, do you think? Maybe not, maybe it’s just one of the not-so-little lies we tell ourselves, along the lines of poor-but-happy.

A few weeks ago I took this photo on one of the (thankfully) few bitter cold days we’ve had this winter.

Lost? Forgotten? Abandoned?

The flowers, this photo, a complete story by itself. But which one? My first thought for a caption was something like, “Screw you and your cheap-ass bodega flowers!” Such a frigid morning though, maybe they dropped from fingers so numb the person carrying them didn’t realize they lost them until they were fumbling for their Metrocard two blocks later. The neighborhood where I took this shot is a busy one, home to a large social security office, a few social service agencies, and several thrift stores. Maybe they fell from the cart of someone’s wheelchair, or the little basket that sits across the top of a walker. Maybe they were dropped as someone late for a date grabbed the first available cab they’d seen in twenty minutes, or maybe, maybe, maybe. So many possibilities, and those are just a few of the more mundane ones.

I stopped halfway through putting this post together to go pick up the girl. In Grand Central, when you walk through the tunnel connecting the tracks for the shuttle and the 4/5/6, there are several abandoned “windows.” I can’t remember if there used to be stores behind them, or what they were originally for, but now they’re lit empty boxes, good for backlighting the various street performers and religious groups that stop in front of them. Today I was walking past and saw this.

MTA worker with dreams of being a display artist?

Clandestine spy code? Pre-arranged tableau signaling the all clear for a passionate liaison between an engineer and a station inspector? I think, if I were writing this into a manuscript, I’d have to add a crow.

PTSD of Snow

Everything on mute.

It’s well documented that I hate winter but really, it’s just the cold. I never minded the snow, always figured if we had to have sub freezing temperatures, might as well have the beauty and quiet that comes with snowfall. There’s always something a little magical about snow, not to mention the throwback to being a kid, hoping for a snow day. And let’s be honest, if you live in the city, it’s likely you skip the bad part of snow–shoveling. (Unless you have a car and park on the street, in which case you’re screwed.) Sure if you have a brownstone the steps and path need to be shoveled, but it seems like most hire that work out. It has to be a LOT of snow to interfere with public transportation or cause any real inconvenience. Say, for example, 26.8 inches, like we saw yesterday. Even with that, we were warned well in advance (though we didn’t expect as much as we got, it isn’t like we were expecting a dusting), and it was a Saturday, no school anyway and many people off from work.

Look what we get in exchange, clean and lovely scenery, cool ice patterns, etc.

All good, right? Biggest concern dodging the icicles and avalanches of snow sliding off the rooftops in the days after the storm, as they melt just enough to slide off and hit the ground–or the nearest head. Except not anymore. Every step on the snow, every glimpse of an ice patch…makes me think of the ice patches I won’t see, how hard those snow piles are after sitting on the curb for a couple of days–or weeks–and flash back to my face hitting the ice last spring, when I fractured my everything. Ridiculous. I’m not young, but I should be too young to be literally worried about busting a hip. Should be.

Maybe I should just stay in and write. Winter has traditionally been my most productive time in terms of fiction. I think it’s the excessive heat pumping through the radiators, puts me in just the right stupor to lose myself in my imagination. Except. Recently every time I open the damned file intending to do more than read the few pages I’ve got, I flash on the mountain of rejection letters I’ve accumulated over the years for various projects. Dear Fringie, Intriguing story, great characters, thanks so much but no thanks and good luck.

Maybe I’ll just kick back on the couch and watch Netflix with Art Child. Mmm hmm. Remember the avalanches I mentioned? Sometimes they happen and you hear them during the storms, from winds blowing and drifts settling. They make quite the sound on impact, and mostly it’s just background noise, though sometimes it can be startling, depending on the size of the chunk of snow, and how far it has to fall. A few years back Art Child and I were home during a storm, and there was a particularly loud snow-muffled thud. It wasn’t snow. Someone jumped from the roof. Despite all the years and storms where those thumps were just snow and ice, now I jump.

Nervous staying in, nervous going out. I took the girl and the camera and went to the park this morning. I’m too damned old to be scared of boogeymen, especially when they’re decked out like Frosty.

Click on the photos if you’d like to see them full-size. Happy Blizzard, Fringelings!

: Perspective

: Such a pretty block, in every season

: Trees and shadows, the snow provides an excellent canvas

: The Pool is one of my favorite spots in Central Park, a little (manmade) pond

: The Pool was frozen today, though not enough to step on

: Waterfall feeding from the pool

: At the edge of the pool, where the ice began

: Poor swings, ignored in favor of sledding today

: I swear the mayor said something about keeping the fire hydrants cleared of snow.

: Who needs steps? Guess they’ll sled down to work on Monday.

: Remember when I said you’re screwed if you park on the street?

: Not even a blizzard gets between New Yorkers and their restaurant deliveries.

The Kitchen is now Closed

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

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

First came the molasses cookies.

Then came the oatmeal cranberry chocolate chips.

Photo by Art Child

Pause to absorb some tank serenity.

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

clown trying to convince the urchin to move

On to the chocolate crinkle cookies.

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

The first step is the killer. Chopping and chopping

End of chopping, walnuts on left, pistachios on right

Glaze of honey, oj, cinnamon sticks and cloves

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

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

not so secret ingredient for the dough

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

End result, drizzled with the glaze.

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

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

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

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

Mini pies with the excess curry and crust

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

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

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

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

Yesssssss

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

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

Living in the Real World?

City Streets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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