Yesterday I woke up and smiled. 43°F felt like spring compared to the single digits I’ve been waking up to. I was exfoliating my pits trying to scrape the last bits of deodorant on, when I remembered I had a brand new stick in the closet. The sun made an appearance and stayed out all day. I walked a dog through Central Park, and enough ice had melted so the paths were wet but relatively clear. We learned that Art Child was accepted to a high school she feels good about, as do we.
This morning when I woke, it didn’t feel as warm. Sunrise came and left behind a gray sky. Disappointing, but still not bad. The mounds of snow at curbs and corners are disgustingly black and slick, but they’re melting. I took Art Child to school, and I slipped. Luckily, I broke the fall with my face.
Oh yes. I went down hard and fast, didn’t have a chance to try to break the fall with my hands. See the black chunks that look like slabs of asphalt? That’s snow in Manhattan after a couple of weeks, and I slipped on a very similar looking mound. My entire left side was covered in black muck and who knows what else. I could just cry thinking about how I’m going to get this crap out of my beautiful sheepskin fingerless gloves. I opted to go home and shower before heading to the urgent care place for X-rays. A good thing, because it also gave me a chance to stop shaking.
My face is bruised and hurts, but not broken. My arm is sore and swollen, but probably not broken. The urgent care didn’t have the right machine (?) to X-ray my pelvis, if my lower half gets significantly worse I’m supposed to head to the ER for more X-rays.
After loading up on ibuprofen and acetaminophen, I figured I’d blog about my little adventure. Turns out I’ve used up all the storage available with a free domain. Upgrade time, we’re now at mrsfringe.com instead of mrsfringe.wordpress.com–this should also mean if you saw ads before, you won’t now, and you should automatically be redirected if you’re visiting from a link or bookmark.
Oh, Sunday. It isn’t always true, but today is a blissful day of nothing needs to be done. So obviously, my best plan was to get up and stand at the stove to make 8000 pancakes. That’s ok, because I’m still in my pajamas. 9 in the morning, in my pj’s with saltwater mixing for tomorrow’s water change, I must be dreaming. My back tells me I’m not.
It’s also Man Child’s last day at home before he heads back up to school for *whee* his last semester of college.
On my way home from taking the girl to her art class yesterday morning, I took some photos. For the first time, it occurred to me why I set so many of my stories at this time of year. Let’s face it, late winter in New York–not sexy or invigorating, not pretty or enticing. The dominating colors are gray and gloom. The season of train delays and wind tunnels, when I walk with my head down, hood eliminating all peripheral vision and calculate the odds of getting clipped in the head by a chunk of ice falling from a building.
A good time of year for hibernating, spending the day without getting dressed, thinking about what we do and why we do it. Because I have this ridiculous compulsion to make up characters and write them down, it dovetails nicely with the introspection.
Yes indeed, I do have a new character who’s been knocking at the back of my brain. At the moment he’s barely more than raw, a yummy mix of foolish and ludicrous. I may have to bring him forward soon, see how he can take shape.
For now, I have filthy-New York-in-February photos for you. Enjoy. And have a pancake while you’re at it–since I took this photo 20 minutes ago, my kitchen was apparently invaded by pigeons, and there aren’t many left. I’m going back to my beach house in Hawaii fantasy.
Last week was hectic for me. Lots of running back and forth combined with crappy weather. The cherry on top involved the delays and rerouting of the train Saturday morning while I tried to get Art Child to her art class. On time was blown by the time the train arrived, it was a scramble and bonus cab fare to get her there before her class left for their field trip. Luckily it started snowing after I did my shopping, so by the time I walked into the lobby of my building, the handles of the grocery bag tore off. I didn’t really need the entire dozen eggs, did I?
I declared yesterday a day of rest. For me, anyway. Prepped breakfast the night before, and Husband ordered and picked up a birthday cake for Man Child’s girlfriend. Also, the night before. If you haven’t ever had Dominican cake, I recommend it highly. Extra heavy, often sold in terms of how many pounds (as opposed to inches) and yet delicious.
Over the top in every way, and so worth it.
These can be found and purchased in certain neighborhood bakeries, but the best ones come from an abuelita’s kitchen. The drawback to this is they often aren’t available in the summer–these little inner city kitchens get hot, and you’re getting whatever decorations and colors they feel are appropriate. Oh yeah, sometimes they don’t have anything to contain it.
Did I mention the icing is not so much frosting as it is meringue?
Yup, Husband walked in Saturday night with a 7 pound, 26″ round frilled and frosted cake. No box. I don’t have a container large enough. I checked the cake domes, my Tupperware cupcake transporter-thingie, I even checked the Thanksgiving roasting pan. Needless to say, it sat on Husband’s desk overnight, and I encouraged an early cake cutting in the morning. “Hurry up and finish your hash browns, Miss Music–it’s time for your cake!”
The best part is the guayaba in between the layers. Some misguided souls think pineapple is an acceptable alternative. Trust Mama Fringe, guava is the way to go.
I stayed in pj’s for most of the day, consumed enough sugar to get me off the couch and down to the laundry room–did only enough laundry to be sure clean underwear can be found this week. A perfectly slow Sunday crowned by the divine absurdism of Shameless. Appropriate, no?
Little Incredibly Dumb Dog knows what to do with a snow day.
The Northeast was expecting the blizzard of the year last night, with predictions of epic snow accumulations. The NYC DOE announced public schools would be closed for today, and the city effectively rolled up the sidewalks at 11pm Monday night. A big deal. A very big deal. Buses were taken off the streets, the trains were shut down. I took these shots yesterday around 2PM, just as the storm was picking up.
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My Facebook feed was filled with photos of empty grocery shelves and menus detailing who would be cooking what, whose schools had been canceled when, most people moaning about the snow, harrowing tales of 3 hour commutes home during rush hour, slipping and inching down the roads.
As it turned out, the storm hooked east, and we didn’t get slammed here in Manhattan. I think 6.5 inches in Central Park. Now my Facebook feed is filled with moaning and groaning about the inaccuracy of the weather predictions, how the mayor was paranoid and jumped the gun, inconvenience, no school, no work, blah blah blah. First of all, it’s weather. Regardless of how sophisticated the satellites have become, they’re called weather predictions for a reason. Second, a lot of areas were slammed–not far from each other, friends on Long Island were hit hard, some in NJ were, some weren’t. And those up North of us are still being pelted. Third, so what?
Yeah, I said it. How many of us are so important (outside of emergency workers, snow removal, hospital workers) that the world collapses and people die if we don’t get to work? How many truly believe that one snow day is going to make or break the children’s test scores? Yes, it was the wrong call in terms of how much snow we actually got here in the city. But what if they didn’t announce school closings yesterday, and we got as much snow as expected, and it was announced this morning? Well, then everyone would be complaining about the late notice, many scrambling to figure out child care. If they didn’t tell everyone to get off the roads last night? Everyone would be complaining about how long it’s taking the city to clean the streets, not to mention the inevitable accidents and cars stuck on the highways.
It was odd for the subways to be shut down, it’s true. But my first thought was for the homeless for whom the subway tunnels and trains provide a relatively warm and dry place to be during bad weather. Six inches of snow and thirty mile per hour winds has to feel like storm enough when you don’t have somewhere safe to shelter you.
Are we so entitled that inconvenience is prioritized over safety? Is it really so terrible to have a bonus day off? Many won’t be paid for this day off, it’s true, and that sucks. Many more will work extra hard, and/or extra hours to catch up later in the week. But, oh, wasn’t it delicious to sleep an extra hour or two today? To go play in the park, or cook something special, or play a game with the kiddos, or just stay warm and dry? We are the only “advanced” nation that doesn’t guarantee its citizens paid vacation time and/or paid holidays. Huffing and puffing about the inconvenience of weather seems to fit right in with that philosophy. If you don’t have a hill to trudge up backwards in the snow pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps on the way to work, find one! I don’t think anywhere in the US embodies that spirit more than New York. The show must go on, after all.
I walked through Central Park earlier, watched others walking their dogs, sledding, taking photos, and smiling. I didn’t hear one person complain about how miserable it was to have the day off, even though snow flurries started up again while I was there. And I saw plenty still at work: in small businesses, police cars, driving buses, building maintenance and doormen, running the snow plows, shoveling the walkways for brownstone owners, and yes, even delivering groceries. I really hope whoever couldn’t be bothered to wait on line with the rest of us peasants yesterday are giving big tips today.
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And watching Art Child listen to Stevie Ray Vaughan with Husband this morning? Priceless.
Happy 2015! My immune system seems to be taking the year off. A very snuffly and low key couple of weeks. I did leave the neighborhood a couple of times with Art Child and Nerd Child, found a few bits of my old remembered New York through the new glass and steel skyscrapers that continue to pop up everywhere.
What have I been doing in between blowing my nose and thinking about blogging? Catching up on reading. The other day I finished a novel that stunned me with its beauty.
In contrast, I also found myself at *gasp* a shopping mall a couple of weeks ago. I hate having to go to malls, I swear the air is a toxic mix of plastic and tranquilizer dust. But I suppose it was worth it, because I now have two pairs of jeans that fit and don’t have holes, and when we walked through the parking lot I saw this.
I wonder if he felt the same sense of being in the wrong place.
Which made me think of this song, an old favorite:
Anyone who reads Mrs Fringe or knows me in any other role knows I’m opinionated. If you know me well or agree with a lot of my thoughts, you might say I’m passionate. If you don’t, you might think ugh, that Mrs Fringe is such a bitch, I wish she would shut up already. But the quote I used for my high school yearbook said something like, “It often shows a fine command of the English language to say nothing.” I’m certain there were quite a few classmates surprised by that one, because I never shut up back then. I had to get kicked in the the teeth by life a few dozen more times before I really learned it. While I believe in the truth of that quote even more than I did back then, I still believe in the power of words. Of having an informed opinion and not being afraid to share it, while understanding opinion is not the same as fact.
Obvious, right? I mean, I’m a blogger ferchristssake. I think. Can I call myself a blogger if I don’t earn any money from it? Maybe it’s more like my fiction, where until and unless I’m published I prefer to say I write than I’m a writer. Fine. I blog.
Do I still opine too much? Probably. I’m not special, an expert in anything, or even formally educated. Who am I for anyone to take my opinions seriously? I’ve even been quiet on the writers’ forum. I’m not a grammar whiz (my unholy love of commas is well documented) and if I knew what made for publishable writing I’d be published.
In my little corner of Fringeland these days, most people I know are having opinions and sharing them; talking about racism, police, Eric Garner, Ferguson, protests and riots and what’s going on in our world right now. Yes, our world. Not just our city, our state, or even our country. This is our humanity. Some aren’t talking. Some are too genuinely busy with more personal crises, and some don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss these issues, some can’t because of their employers. Some are tired of talking about it and seeing it on the TV. I stand by what I said when I blogged about Ferguson–I think we need to talk about this. The grand jury’s decision in the Eric Garner case coming so closely on the heels of Ferguson is a clear illustration.
I’ll be the first one to say I don’t understand what happened with the Eric Garner case, don’t understand how anyone can see that video and say well, it’s a shame but that’s what happens when you resist arrest. Or he shouldn’t have been selling loosies. He wasn’t violent, not an immediate threat to anyone. I don’t understand how I’m seeing people argue that he didn’t die as a direct result of the chokehold placed on him. Every report I’ve seen says the medical examiner declared his death a homicide. Yes, his other medical issues were contributing factors, but not the cause. If any of my readers can cite a reputable source disputing this, please share a link.
Not all police are corrupt, or overzealous, or poorly trained. That doesn’t mean none are. Not all people are racist. That doesn’t mean none are. These things don’t balance each other out. Because police officers A and B came to the aid of persons of color C and D doesn’t mean police officer E didn’t harass person of color F. Or in too many cases, worse. And any number of these cases is too many. Police are human, yes. They deserve to be and keep themselves safe, absolutely. But something has gone wrong if they don’t feel confident they can peacefully defuse a situation and arrest someone who is unarmed and outnumbered.
I also don’t understand when I see people quote Martin Luther King while complaining about the protests occurring. Not talking about looters or violence, protestors. Just a little disconnect.
We have a problem, not “just” one rogue incident. The very fact that we have clear videotape of Eric Garner’s arrest and I’m still seeing such polarized responses shows our problem. But shelving the discussion? Being afraid to take a stand, have an opinion, because it might be uncomfortable? Because we’re tired of it? Because we don’t want to believe racism still exists in this country? That isn’t a fine command of the language.
I care, and I like knowing the other people in my world care, too. Our words do have power. And our opinions matter.
You know those moments when you have so much to say you don’t know what to say? Yeah. But I believe we need to keep saying it, keep talking about it. My Facebook feed has been a steady stream of memes, quotes, and misquotes revolving around race, the Ferguson verdict, police and guns. It’s exhausting, often disheartening, sometimes nauseating, but I’m not closing the tab and I’m not choosing to unfriend the people who are clearly on the opposite end of the political spectrum from me. I have friends who are, and I understand their choice.
I’m going to branch off from the verdict itself, it’s been covered and continues to be covered by people who understand the intricacies of the law much better than I ever will.
One evening a couple of weeks ago, Husband and I were watching a prerecorded concert with a variety of performers. I’ll tell you the truth, I found the majority of the performances to be lackluster, and I was just marking time until a show I wanted to watch came on. Something quality, probably one of the Real Housewives. Mid-yawn, someone with some passion came onstage. My first thought, oh look, it’s Eminem. Immediately followed by my chastising myself for being racist, just because it’s a white rapper doesn’t mean it’s Eminem. It was, but that isn’t the point. The point is the assumption.
I’m sure some people are out there who are so evolved they don’t make assumptions at first glance, but most of us do. That’s why those memes are so popular–one picture, brief caption, all our assumptions fill in the blanks. What those assumptions are grow from our ideology, affiliations, backgrounds, socio-economic class, and race. I know there are memes I’ve liked posted by people who attribute a completely different meaning to them.
“It isn’t about race.” Yes, it is. When white kids are taught to be respectful of the police while kids of color are taught not to speak, not to question, not to move, it is. When the people harmed by laws, policies, and assumptions are disproportionately people of color, it is. The same way laws and policies that affect women’s bodies are indeed about women, limiting their options and freedoms. Do these laws, policies, and assumptions affect all? They certainly do. Especially the poor and working class, people for whom choices are already limited, which is why I never understand when people I know are struggling financially support policies that ultimately make life harder for themselves and their own families. Why, when posting quotes and discussing police brutality, would anyone focus on those few looters? a) it just gives them airtime, b) they truly are few in number, a fraction of those who are protesting peacefully, c) I don’t know anyone who supports looting. Peaceful is not the same as quiet, and it shouldn’t need to be. Sometimes noise has to be made in order for the issues to be heard.
Here in Manhattan everyone lives shoulder to shoulder, but that isn’t to be confused with racial and/or socio-economic harmony. This morning Husband and I were talking about an apartment building in the area that’s been under renovations for quite some time. The building used to be all affordable housing, but they opted out of the program that kept it that way. This has happened with quite a few buildings here in the city. Some tenants have been able to stay, others have been booted out. This building is creating a new entrance. I guess they weren’t able to boot everyone out, Husband and I are assuming the old entrance will now be a “poor door.”
If you aren’t a New Yorker, that expression may be unfamiliar to you. Building developers like tax breaks. To get the big tax breaks, luxury buildings offer 20% of their apartments to less privileged families, “affordable housing.” Pretty cool. We used to live in one of those apartments. Not exactly the same as the other apartments, our countertops weren’t granite, the bathroom fixtures weren’t marble, but still lovely. I want to be clear, those affordable apartments aren’t free. Much lower than market rent, but if you live more than 40 miles from New York, Boston, San Francisco or LA, odds are your mortgage is equivalent or less than our rent was. There was a private gym and community office available for an annual fee. We didn’t use those, no big deal. But some of these buildings have added “poor doors.” Yanno, for the peasants like us to use. No big deal? Yes, it’s a big deal. Legal segregation. Wasn’t separate but equal determined to be against the constitution a long time ago?
How do I get from race and Ferguson to poor doors? The majority of those living under affordable housing regulations are people of color. I live in a neighborhood that’s pretty active politically, including quite a few senior citizens who remember and marched for civil rights. But somehow, though those poor doors have been challenged, they’re still here, still being included in plans for new buildings. New buildings, of course, that are built on properties that used to be rented by people living on limited incomes. I’ve yet to see any multimillion dollar brownstones owned by the affluent being razed to make way for luxury buildings.
Injustice is injustice, a young black man is more likely to be shot by police than a young white man, and when an us/them mentality is allowed to spread, it’s only a matter of time before them includes you. So yes, I’m exhausted, disheartened, nauseated, and so so sad we’ve yet to truly move forward.
I like things, it’s no secret. I even like stuff. But what. the. fuck. America? The insanity known as Black Friday wasn’t enough. Ok, I’m not a Black Friday shopper, but lots of people are, I’ve known several who find it fun, and a few who see it as a type of sport. Now more and more stores are opening on Thanksgiving. Shop, shop, shop for more shit you don’t need and no one wants while you’re in your growth-hormone-laced-turkey stupor, so there won’t be any pesky common sense to get in the way. A couple of days ago I saw a clip on the news about a mall in Western New York that will be opening at 6PM on Thanksgiving Day (and I’m willing to bet if there’s one mall doing this there are more doing the same)–and any retail stores that choose not to open will be fined somewhere in the neighborhood of $200 an hour for every hour the mall is open that the store isn’t. Apparently these fines are somewhat common, written into lease agreements at many malls across the country. Opening on Thanksgiving Day, though, that’s new(er).
What is wrong with us? These big box retailers are the pimps driving BMWs with flashy rims, and we the consumers are the black-eyed, split-lipped prostitutes shivering in the cold and dirty slush waiting for the bus at 5AM. I don’t know that I think Thanksgiving with its false myths of blissful Pilgrims and Native Americans singing Kumbaya together over pumpkin pie is so sacred. But it is supposed to symbolize something, a day to reflect on who and what we have, enjoy our friends, families and communities, what our society is and what it stands for. If you’re a cynic like myself, your immediate thought is of the big money involved in those Thanksgiving Day football games and the gluttony encouraged on TV screens across the nation.
This is New York, city of convenience. Public transportation, grocery stores, drug stores and restaurants being open 24/7, 365 days a year is nothing new. I used to work in social services so yes, I have worked every holiday. I’ll even admit I didn’t hate it. In fact, it was lovely, and those holidays affirmed the work I did mattered, because these were human beings I worked with, not diagnoses, and workers and clients had a good time cooking and eating together. Sure there was always someone who would decompensate and need to go to the ER right before I was about to go off shift–but that’s why I was there, why the work was meaningful if not lucrative–and good God, draining doesn’t begin to cover it.
That said is why I’m very aware not everyone can or should have the holiday off. Social services, medical services, residential treatment services, police, firefighters, public transportation, emergency crews available for public works, these can’t all lock the doors and turn the cell phones off. Sometimes the service provided is more necessary than dinner with Cindy Lou Who. But buying the latest video game console? The perfect sweater for an ugly sweater contest? Really, that can’t wait until the morning? People who work retail are among those who can least afford to take a stand and say “I’m not coming in to work on the holiday,” yet they already see their loved ones least, since they work evenings, nights, and weekends.
I posted last week about my city adventures in the Met and St John the Divine. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, these great enduring works of art–hundreds, some thousands of years old, still revered, still relevant, artists and works still remembered. This being the case, why are artists (visual, actors, musicians or writers) still treated with contempt, as if what they offer society has no value, unless, of course, they’re hugely financially successful? Or dead. Maybe I’m just a flaky mush but I went back to St John yesterday, to bring my godson and Art Child and spend time again with “AMEN: A Prayer for the World.” And I was moved, on the verge of tears again from the works of these modern artists from disparate cultures, an exhibition about respect and understanding, our shared humanity.
Husband works retail. His store is closed on Thanksgiving, but if they decided to open, he would grumble, I would bitch, and then he would go to work. Because rent. Maybe the saleswoman helping you find the laptop you want this Thanksgiving is a mom who is paying a babysitter more than she’s making for the day because the regular sitter is with her own family, or the daycare is closed. Maybe the cashier is an artist who thought he was going to be able to spend the day sculpting. Maybe the floor manager is just fucking tired and had hoped for a day off before the insanity of Black Friday began–because yes, she does have to be back at the store at 4am the next day. The executives who decided the stores should be open? They’re home. Or on vacation. Maybe they’ll stop in and benignly thank the peasant workers for their service. They’re most certainly not trying to figure out how to cook, clean up, offer a holiday experience for their children, beg for child care, calculate how they will pay rent/mortgage/utilities and then go stand on their feet and smile politely for 14 straight hours.
I received this solicitation in the mail the other day. I don’t have much, but I think I’ll write a check.
and drop it in the mailbox on Thanksgiving.
We each have a voice in this country, as individuals and as a greater community. Our voices are heard when we vote, and at this point in our consumer-based society, I believe our voices ring out most clearly through our wallets. People can tsk tsk all they want. The only message being conveyed if you shop on a holiday is that it’s a good, profitable idea for the stores to open, and the people working don’t matter. I’m asking the Fringelings here in America (who don’t have to work on the holiday) to speak out by staying out of the stores on Thanksgiving. Read a classic novel, listen to music, plan a trip to a museum, watch It’s A Wonderful Life. Use the day to make a statement about what you believe matters. Unless you have to work.
Where’ve I been? Playing tour guide, of course. I mentioned a while back one of my longtime reefing friends was coming to visit. I’ll call her Bella, because she’s a beautiful person. She came, she stayed, we walked, we rode the subways, and I laughed a whole lot. And of course, lots of eating. On a tight budget, many of the more traditional attractions are off limits, but there is still plenty of NY flavor to be experienced. Gave her a New Yorker’s NY experience, complete with 5am wake ups and a high school open house. Whaddya mean that isn’t a real tour? It’s city life once you’re beyond clubs and late night bars when you aren’t one of the wealthy and fabulous.
I didn’t take photos of all the food consumed, but I’ll just say between me and one of our other reefing friends–I’ll call him Blue, because blue is my favorite color and he’s currently sporting a fabulous steel blue mohawk, Bella was able to experience a broad variety of international flavors unavailable in her southern town. Yah, yah she says it’s a city, but population < 30,000 = a town to me. The first day was all about the food–and a little walk through Central Park.
Fall flora
And the fauna
Look! An authentic city rat. Aw, c’mon, he’s just a little one.
The second, I took her to the Met–after introducing her to the subway, Metrocards, and a city bus. The Met is my favorite museum, and the admission price is a recommended donation. In other words, you can give what’s comfortable and still enjoy the full experience. Sort of. The Metropolitan is huge, I don’t recommend trying to cover the whole thing in a day. Better to choose a couple of exhibits and take them in fully. Which we did.
Beautiful art to see and study no matter where your eyes land.
Prints and copies are lovely, but there is NOTHING like seeing the real deal in front of you.
After the museum, I had to introduce her to a dirty water hot dog and a knish in front of the steps to the museum. I don’t care what your budget is or isn’t, what the weather is or isn’t, these are integral NY experiences.
oh, the pigeons!
Bella was able to explore further with Blue, traveling by subway to the outer boroughs, experiencing a smaller gallery exhibit, and even catching the LIRR to meet with another friend and see Oyster Bay. We had a small gathering of fishy friends at my place over the weekend, such a treat to laugh in person–and of course, show off my new tank. Our Long Island friend even brought me a cup of live sand from one of her incredible reef tanks to “seed” mine. Yes, we’re nerds and proud of it.
Yesterday was her last day in the city, so I took her back to Central Park and headed uptown, then to St John the Divine–one of the most breathtaking sights of the city, in my opinion, and certainly my favorite church. Bonus, it’s another “recommended” donation, you pay what you can to enter.
How is scaffolding erected with signposts and trees already there? Like this, of course.
Outside the cathedral, I never tire of this one.
I posted exterior shots here on the blog several months back, now I’ll take you inside. In addition to the incredible architecture, stained glass, community classes offered, and private school (love the way you hear children singing and giggling from below as you walk through the cathedral), it is used as a gallery, and there are usually a few temporary exhibits on display in addition to permanent ones.
One more exhibit I want to revisit before it leaves–and take Art Child and Blue with me–It’s a collaborative effort of interfaith and international artists (along with some other photos of the Cathedral mixed in):
Bella had only one request for me this visit, she’d heard me mention, maybe seen photos, of the rice pudding I make. No problem. It takes hours to cook, but it isn’t labor intensive. I made it on Sunday while she and Blue were out sightseeing, since they planned to come back here for dinner. Of course, my oven has been acting up, and when I dished out the pudding, more than half my arborio grains were, well, crunchy. Oops. We were still able to share and enjoy my favorite part of the new apartment. Sunrise or nighttime, clear or cloudy, it’s a hell of a view.
I suppose I should have dusted before taking this photo, heh.
Happy Friday, Fringelings. It’s Halloween, and I’m feeling nostalgic this morning. Maybe not nostalgic because no, I would not want to set the calendar back thirty years, just looking/thinking back. That means the iPod is cranked– sorry neighbors, hope you enjoy some morning Doobie Bros.
Art Child has been working hard to get me into the Halloween spirit, and I’m just not feeling it, no matter how many fun sized candy bars I’ve eaten. I always loved this day with my kiddos, so much fun planning and choosing the right costumes, the perfect accessories, the appropriate offerings for every age/dietary restrictions of trick or treaters who showed up at the door. And let’s not forget 8000 viewings of the Nightmare Before Christmas. “Oh yes! I am the Pumpkin King!” I’ve found Halloween to be a whole lot more fun as a parent than as a kid. I don’t know if it’s a neighborhood thing or times have changed, but we definitely didn’t dress up and go trick-or-treating for as many years as the kids around me (including my own) do now. Plus the costumes are better. I remember two choices as a child, raid mom’s (or dad’s) closet, or wear one of those godawful masks from the drugstore that left you walking blind and bleeding from little nicks the plastic gave. Halloween makeup meant your mother let you put her lipstick on, if you were lucky the powder, too.
I’m looking at the bags of candy I’ve got ready to dump into the bowl.
You didn’t really think I was going to give the Snickers away, did you?
Charleston Chews were my brother’s favorite. Maybe this is what has me looking back. They used to come in these long, long bars. He would sit down after school with a Charleston Chew, a bag of Wise butter-flavor popcorn, and a glass of water. Daily. One year, I think the last I went trick-or-treating, he took me. Naturally, we went down the block we weren’t supposed to go down first thing. As I remember it, I had gotten to ring one bell before a group of older, bigger boys spotted us and began heading our way. My brother pushed me into someone’s yard and closed their gate to keep me out of harm’s way, saying something warm and loving like, “don’t you fucking move,” and was then egged and shaving creamed head to toe by those boys. I was untouched, half terrified and half thrilled by the drama. My he-ro. Every little girl should have one. After self defense lessons, of course.
My mother was one of the keep-the-blinds-closed-and-pretend-you-aren’t-home moms. I’m definitely not one of those, and hope I never will be. It’s all very civilized here in the city, anyway. There’s a sign up sheet left at the guard’s desk for several days before Halloween, and after school today copies of the list showing which apartments are willing to receive trick-or-treaters and when will be distributed. Older people can be funny about the Halloween costumes, even the ones who open the door and give candy. They seem to stop looking at what the kids are wearing, just throw out guesses. Overheard from one senior this morning, “Oh, how beautiful! Are you a princess?” The child was wearing furry ears and a tail.
So in my oh-my-God-it’s-been-how-many-years? mood, I started surfing Facebook. I saw the page of someone I went to high school with, and did the thing I said I was never interested in using Facebook for. I sent a friend request and a message. I’m guessing the request will be ignored (different last name than I used to have) and the message unseen, as FB told me the request will go to his “other” folder, since we aren’t friended. I didn’t even know the “other” folder existed until recently. Shocking as this might be, I was kind of a fuck-up in high school. He wasn’t, and is now successful in his field, while I scarf the Halloween candy hours to ensure I have to go back to the store and buy a bag of whatever is left that the kids will make faces at. Remember, that one old lady who always gave those Bit’o’ Honey bars?
Well ok, maybe I’ll share the Reese’s. But that beer tucked away in the back of the fridge? Mine, after the bell stops ringing.
mrsfringe 