City Life

Oh Mama!

This winter is feeling very, very long. I’ve barely taken my boots off in the last six weeks.

Sure they’re ugly, but they’re warm and dry.

You know I’m just waiting for beach season, but this morning it occurred to me we’re nowhere near the end of winter. Blargh. So I thought about what’s been good. Writing and editing have been very good.

Continuing to try and capture a sharp from the terrace moon pic…not as good, but getting there. This was from this morning, somewhere between 5:30 and 6am.

But not bad, getting closer.

Flower Child began art classes, excellent. Man Child has been home, which has been beautiful. He hasn’t been home for a good length of time since last winter, and I’m thoroughly enjoying having him here. He helps out, he cooks and bakes (really, really well), and he makes me laugh. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I like my kids.

Woke to fresh, home baked by Man Child cinnamon rolls the other morning…bliss.

His goal, for his time at home this winter involved driving. New York kids aren’t as driving focused as teens in other areas, so it isn’t unusual that he didn’t get a license as soon as the law allowed. But now it just makes sense, he’s been spending more and more of his time up North, and who knows where he’ll go when he graduates. So he got his learner’s permit within days of being home, and has been practicing. If staying up North is a consideration, this was certainly the winter to learn on, plenty of opportunity for finding out about driving in snow and ice.

Today he went to take his road test. Like any mother, I felt compelled to give last minute words of wisdom. With a song.

Stay the Hell Home!

Load em up and slide down Broadway.

So says the Mayor and Schools Chancellor of NY. Except wait, schools are open.

I will never understand these decisions. Stay off the roads! Visibility is terrible, the roads are terrible, trains are running but only local, dangerously cold, don’t call 911 unless it’s an emergency (no kidding!), State of Emergency…but schools are open, offices are open, just go ahead and use that magic teleporter to get to school and work, so you don’t interfere with the plows or interrupt the flow of the dollar.

There have been four fatalities in my neighborhood over the last week, pedestrians struck by cars/buses. I’m afraid to turn on the news and see what might have occurred during the storm yesterday and last night. Even today, the snow has stopped, but contrary to the image they’re showing of the street outside the mayor’s house, the streets aren’t all clean. The plows have obviously been through, or the snow would be piled much higher, but still far from “cleaned up.” And we’re back to frigid temps, so plenty of ice to go along with the snow that won’t be melting anytime soon.

Snow storm in NY photos. I would have gone into the park, but it was too freakin’ cold.

Pfft, NY, don’t let a little snow get in the way of $

Some are from yesterday afternoon, some from last night, a few from this morning.

Nothing stops restaurant delivery. This guy is “lucky” to have a moped available, most are on bicycles.

I know, it’s blurry, but I liked it.

Bless the EMTs, they’ve been going non-stop since the snow began.

Museum of Natural History, majestic no matter the season or weather.

oops, no recycle pick-up when it snows. All sanitation workers are doing snow removal/sand/salt

No garbage pick up, either. This stack will seem like a delicate wastebasket compared to what it will be in another 2 days.

oops. Being a delivery guy has to be one of the top 10 crappiest jobs during a NY snowstorm. Tip them well, NYers!

There’s a limited time for buildings/store/restaurant owners to get their sidewalks cleaned before they’re fined. Law suits have no such delay.

I have to make soup for a snowstorm. It’s the rules. Man Child baked bread to go with. 🙂

Alternate side of the street parking suspended for the day–happy car owners!

The salt, the salt, the salt. So painful on doggy paws. 😦 The ice it melts also causes pain. Can’t win for losing.

No rain, Mrs Carmichael–but plenty of snow. This is going to be a long winter, isn’t it? Stay warm and dry, Fringelings!

Friday Photos

I’m sure I intended to write a pithy, insightful post today. Sorry. The last several days have been a marathon of working on Astonishing. I typed THE END a couple of hours ago, and I’m so drained I feel gutted. Crap, I think Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is playing with my small intestine.

I took my camera with me the other morning and shot some New York morning photos on the way home from taking Flower Child to school. A couple of cool fog photos, and several of the ongoing and ever popular construction around the city.

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Piss and Vinegar

English: Vinegar & Olive Oil (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mrs Fringe and guilt go together like oil and vinegar. Sure you have to do all that mixing, blending, emulsifying to get them to unite, but once you do they make sense. Unlike this analogy, but I’m under the weather and Flower Child is home sick today, so that’s the best I can do. Besides, I’m a big fan of vinegar, have no less than seven different kinds in the fridge at all times.

And I just had a little mishap on the terrace. I keep a big jug of plain white vinegar for cleaning the reef tank equipment, very effective, inexpensive, doesn’t harm the critters–NOT that anyone should add vinegar to their tanks, reef or otherwise, but it doesn’t leave behind crazy levels of nitrites, nitrates or other nasties reefers don’t want measurable amounts of in our reefs. I got a huge bottle at one of those big box stores for people who like to purchase 72 rolls of toilet paper at once, and left it on the terrace. Because it’s big. And I have a small apartment. Well guess what? Vinegar freezes. And then it expands, and then the plastic bottle leaks, and then the terrace reeks of vinegar. Maybe it will keep the pigeons away.

What was I talking about? Guilt. My most recent guilt episode is one that’s old and familiar, the guilt of slow writing. Everyone has their process, I know this. Some people write faster than others. Know it. But you know when you’re already feeling low, and then you read just the right thing to make you feel like shit? And then you look for more things to read to make you feel worse because what the hell, you’ve been stuck and not making progress on the WIP, plenty of time to read about other people’s mind boggling daily word counts. They are productive. They don’t make excuses. They are working on their 87th draft of their 120,000 word manuscript–pared down from 210,000–while I continue to watch the word counter at the bottom of my page stay at exactly the same number. Which is still too far off from my 70,000 word goal of my first draft. They are disciplined, they write, they earn money, they raise children, they work out, they save the fucking whales and feed croutons to the pigeons in order to soak up the excess vinegar.

Well I was stuck. And I pondered. And then I was more stuck. And then I pissed and moaned and whined. And then I stopped reading about the fabulously prolific and closed the open Astonishing file and said I’m taking a break until I’m not. And then I found myself pondering again. Yesterday I was able to unstick myself, wrote a little.

This morning I was cruising the writer’s forum and saw this link. Hallelujah, I have found my people at last! My perfect critique partners. Ok, it’s true that all except one are dead, but doesn’t that sound like my pace? Bed, grave, is there really that much of a difference? Just my speed. Lying down is my favorite! and is there anything more secure than being in your own bed?

Couple in Bed (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was inspired, wrote more than a little today but not anything another slow writer would boggle at. Not in bed, in my corner on the couch, where I always write. Half lying, half sitting, laptop on my lap.

Come to think of it, I got a new ottoman last week . Maybe the next time I’m stuck, I can try writing from the other end of the couch.

Perfect height, on clearance!

Breaking News: Cold in NY, in January

Yeah, I know, this is more than the usual cold. Pretty sure the meteorological term is fucking freezing. Or en español, frio con cojones. But first it was strangely warm, and we saw a spectacular sunset as the temperature plummeted yesterday evening.

The view facing east, sun reflecting off of the buildings.

This being NY, nothing stops for weather (-12 windchill be damned) so it was school and business as usual today. I had an appointment that I expected to take about an hour.

Bring on the leeches!

After a quick consult, I was sent to the lab. Except the usual lab was closed for renovations, so I had to bundle up and head outside to walk closer to the river, and then register to wait. To register insurance info. And then wait for a broken printer which wasn’t fixed. And then register for the actual lab part of the lab. And then wait. And wait. Free entertainment, something broke on an upper floor causing flooding, and I was treated to an hour of alarms and flashing lights. This is a hospital and lab that is crazy crowded under the best of circumstances. Add in sub freezing temps outside (lots of accidents, illnesses, and people just looking for anything that will get them out of the cold), the second lab of the hospital being closed, and chaos on another floor, and well. Sigh.

I’ll admit, met a nice bunch of folks all talking about (surprise!) the weather. One reminded me of one of my mother’s friends, very elegant older woman there with her daughter for pre-op fun. I started to worry that I wouldn’t make it home on time to pick up Flower Child. I said this out loud (why?) and the group prodded me to go into the lab and tell them. When the lab tech came out and called my name, I stood up and this small group cheered for me. Not kidding. NY is never more wonderful than when faced with a challenge/crisis–be it natural or manmade.

I felt worst for the phlebotomist, the inner rooms of the lab were so cold, my hand was literally blue as she took my blood. I was only in there for five minutes, I can’t imagine how that woman was keeping her hand steady in the middle of an 8 or 12 hour shift. Thank you! After a mere four hours, I was on my way to the subway.

The show might go on, but the streets are strangely empty today. No one is loitering outside, everyone is bundled up and hurrying to be indoors. The streets along the hospital are usually lined with panhandlers/homeless. I didn’t see one today, and I’m glad, it means they’re all inside somewhere. Even the pigeons are suspiciously absent.

Just about everyone is as bundled as they can be and still navigate the steps down to the station. I saw two exceptions. One, a woman running to the train this morning in a short skirt and heels, no tights at all. Umm, honey, I know bare legs are awesome, but no one was admiring your daring. And another on the train, sure she was cute in her short peacoat and no hat. Young women always look good. But psst,

you would have looked just as cute in boots. At least put a pair of socks on.

I took note of the empty benches in the street and waiting for the light to change when I noticed this:

Sometimes I really don’t want to know.

I’m just ready to be done for the day, and join Big Senile Dog on his tempurpedic.

Warm and cozy.

Your Call Cannot be Completed as Dialed

Phones are dead. (Photo credit: nicadlr)

Between Husband and I, we have spent oh, I don’t know…4000 hours on the phone and in the store over the past few days, trying to clear up our cell phone account. I think I mentioned in my last post, but maybe not, someone somehow used our account to purchase 4 new iPhones and add 6 lines to our account. Oh, the joys of technology, it makes life so much easier, doesn’t it?

We thought we cleared it up the day before Christmas. Then we thought we cleared it up the day after Christmas. Then we were certain we cleared it up yesterday. Our contract is up, Man Child and I are due for upgrades. Perfect timing, because the week between Christmas and New Year’s is when the cell phone stores push the sales. Yay! This was the first time in years that my cell phone didn’t completely die before Christmas in the time frame when our contract was up. Because no, I will not replace my phone until and unless I’m due for an upgrade. The full retail prices on these things are ridiculous, I don’t care if I spend 8 months with the phone held together by duct tape.

Man Child and I went into the store yesterday, ready to get new phones and downgrade our plan. We’ve been paying a ludicrous monthly bill for what we use. Woo hoo, I’m psyched, I’m finally going to get the phone I’ve been wanting for years, at the price I’m willing to pay. Which, for the record, is free. (Once I get my rebate.) It isn’t the most current model, but groovy enough for me. Only we couldn’t, because the cell phone carrier is now on the case, making sure no fraud occurs. Isn’t there an expression about that, something about a barn door, free milk, escaped horse, something?

An open door (Photo credit: Juha Riissanen)

Even though the extra lines and charges had been removed from our account, as far as the carrier was concerned, we already re-upped our plan and got new phones. I couldn’t take care of it in the store, because the account is under Husband’s name. Grrrrr. Fine. We leave, Husband calls and spends another 3 hours on the phone with the carrier this morning to clear it all up and make sure I’m an authorized something or other to make decisions and handle problems. For the record, Husband doesn’t even use this carrier anymore, because of their exorbitant prices and previous bullshit over the years. Man Child and I still use them/the plan, along with Mother-in-Law. M-i-L because it’s easier for her, Man Child because they have the best signal at and near his school, and me because they have the best overall coverage in the country, and there have been several times already when we’re out of town and Husband’s phone doesn’t work but mine does. One of us has to have a working phone all the time. Two kiddos away at school, another one with medical needs, someone has to be reachable, no?

So, Man Child and I went back to the store this morning. Picked out our phones–again–go through a thing with the salesman. He was pleasant, but of course, trying to make the best sale he could. I get it, this is how he pays his bills. But no, I’m sure we can and are going to downgrade our plan, and no, $350 worth of protection plans aren’t worth two free cases. Really. I’m sure. M-i-L doesn’t need or want a smart phone. I need a lower phone bill each month. OK, we establish what info we need transferred from our old phones to the new ones, and the salesman begins to process the order. But wait!

A stopped press (Photo credit: slambo_42)

First, I get a phone call on my cell from the fraud department requesting permission to process the order because our account is now flagged. Thumbs up. Surprise! Order still can’t go through. There’s a mysterious something pending on our account. A mysterious something we didn’t authorize or pay for. Ummm, get rid of it? The salesman, who started out so smooth and friendly when I first met him on Saturday afternoon, is now growling into the phone with whatever department is supposed to take care of this, stabbing the digit keys with his index finger as he dials. Again. and Again. Apparently, they’re just as quick to disconnect calls from store employees as they are customers. Seems to me if you’re a phone company you should be able to transfer a call without disconnecting it, but perhaps I set the bar too high.

While he’s on hold, I try to convince him he should give us free phone cases for our troubles, while he looks me straight in the eye and explains it doesn’t work that way, how it isn’t really our loss or trouble, it’s the phone company who took this huge hit, so there’s no reason to expect any courtesy/compensation. Really? This is my fault that someone, somewhere, didn’t make an effort to confirm it was truly Husband making these HUGE purchases and changes to our account; an account we’ve had with them for ten years now–for phones they charge hundreds of dollars for, that cost them about 10 cents to make? No reason for a major phone carrier to extend courtesies despite the fact we’ve now wasted many, many hours on this? Heh.

At this point, I’m losing it. This is too much like shopping, and I’m starting to look and feel like a 9 year old with a serious case of ADHD who didn’t take her meds. I should be home. Sleeping. Playing with Flower Child. Writing. Reading. Listening to Nerd Child tell me about his most recent research on something serious and intense that I don’t understand but love hearing his passion. Anything but standing in the middle of this fucking store getting absolutely nowhere.

Man Child goes out and gets us coffee. While the salesman on the phone is dealing with the vortex of the fraud department, we chat with another salesman who had helped me the last time I got a phone, over two years ago. Seems like a genuinely friendly young man, we chat about New York and life while pretending the other salesman isn’t about to have a stroke on the phone with fraud and my head isn’t about to explode from this ridiculous level of bullshit. I take the opportunity to do some shameless self promotion and plug Mrs Fringe, Man Child goes out and brings back breakfast. Our salesman, still on the phone.

We’re now back home, with one very costly migraine, but no new cell phones. Why? Because now the fraud department is being extra cautious, and even though I was added as an authorized user/decision maker/bill payer this morning, they decided I can’t exercise my glorious power of handing over my debit card, with my name, and my identification, without Husband either there in person or on one of the cell phones from this plan. Husband is at work. With his cell phone, which is not one of the ones from this overpriced quagmire of a cell phone company.

Thirty minutes. I’m willing to give thirty more minutes to this tomorrow, before I tell this company and their fraud department to kiss my rapidly spreading middle aged butt (not the individual store or salesmen, because they were quite nice and did what they could from their end) and go buy a phone elsewhere, with a month to month contract. In case of emergency, send smoke signals.

Can You Hear Me Now? (Photo credit: jeffsmallwood)

Too Tired for Words

So I’ll post photos instead. A long day today, lots of running around starting to get ready for the holidays (yes, I’m behind–big surprise). Man Child came with me and we met Flower Child’s class at the annual trip to the ice skating rink, spent time checking out the fabulous artisan booths set up at Columbus Circle, and then waiting for Nerd Child’s bus to arrive. And waiting. Lots of standing and waiting.

A friend made a comment the other day, how pretty the city must be with snow. Mmmm, for about a minute. So, the first batch of photos are from this past weekend in New England, the second batch around the city today. Check ’em out, and post your thoughts on snow in the city.

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It’s now been 2 days since I worked on Astonishing, my back is crying, and I still haven’t bought a Christmas tree. But I’ve got all 3 of my chickadees home for the holidays, and Man Child is making dinner tonight. This is a fine moment.

Rubbish Wars

[Garbage carts protected by police during a strike, New York City] (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

Life in an apartment building has its own ~~rules~~ ~~mores~~ entertainment.

If you’re unfamiliar, each floor has its own little garbage room (used to be the incinerator room until incinerators were banned), with a closed chute behind a door. Some, like in my current building, have an actual little room, with shelves for recycle items, others just have a door concealing the chute. Shove your garbage bag down the chute where it drops to the bottom, compacted into huge garbage bags that are then brought outside by building staff for the sanitation workers–who, by the way, work a physically demanding, thankless yet SO important job, spend their days being honked and cursed at by the same people who left their old entertainment unit on the street to be lifted, broken up, and taken away. Like magic, except it isn’t.

In any case, back to the garbage room. Sometimes they get a bit messy. Or even dirty. Something drops, an elderly person can’t muscle their bag into the minuscule chute, someone *gasp* puts a bottle on the shelf that’s supposed to be for paper recycle, the recycle piles up because the porters are busy outside with snow removal/salting the sidewalks so no one busts a hip…yanno, atrocities like that. At this time of year in my building there’s a serious backdraft in the chute itself, so every time you open the little door bits of detritus fly out and scratch your eyes. Sometimes a few pieces of whatever from someone else’s floor/garbage even escape and flutter to the floor of your garbage room. Can you imagine? What is this world coming to?

Shock of the Hour (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Here’s the thing about living in an apartment building, living in a densely populated city. You have to be polite. Accepting. Tolerant. Don’t let your kids run screaming up and down the halls, it’s just rude. Don’t jump up and down and bang on the walls. People live over you, under you, on either side. Don’t behave as if the hallway is your front yard. It isn’t. No matter how considerate your neighbors may be, there are still things you have to suck up and deal with. Some of your neighbors will be musicians, singers. You’re going to hear them practicing. This could be nice, could be a time when you aren’t feeling well and wish you could nap, could be absolutely awful yowling that makes you wish for the music of a cat in heat, it’s life. Sometimes you’re going to smell cooking that makes you wonder what the fuck are they eating in there? Sometimes you’re going to hear the screeching of a cat in heat, or a dog barking. Other people’s children. The competition of three tvs on different channels in different languages blaring because they’re all in the apartments of senior citizens with fading hearing who don’t like their hearing aids. The stench of what has to be the worst skunk weed in the world. The annoying yapping of someone saying a long, protracted goodbye to their guest, or catching up with another neighbor right outside your front door–Bonus points when that makes your dogs nervous and they start barking so said neighbor can now complain about your barking beasts. All of these things are life in the big city.

But then, one neighbor, two neighbors, well, they forget it’s life in the city. And start thinking they’re in the suburbs, president of the homeowners association, ready to take a ruler and measure everyone’s grass. So they leave a note on the door of the garbage room, “Dear Neighbors, let’s keep this floor clean. There was a piece of paper on the floor inside the garbage room this morning . Clean up after yourself.” Then someone else chimes in, adding to the original note, “I agree!”

Now the porters have to stop and scrape tape carefully off the door from where the note was hung, so a round of complaints about scratched paint doesn’t begin. This is a large building, there’s always something that needs to be done, fixed, or cleaned, and the guys that work here do a pretty good job. Next day, a new note, handwriting getting shakier, you can feel the moral outrage building, “There are LEAVES on the floor, clean up your garbage!” Hmmm, maybe someone’s kids aren’t coming to visit for Christmas. Those leaves could be from something thrown out on this floor, or they could be from an entirely different floor, blown out of the chute when the door was opened. Next day, there’s soil on the floor of the garbage room, and yet another note. At this point, I’m guessing the soil was spilled purposely. The whole thing is incredibly obnoxious. Maybe soil thrower’s kids ARE coming home for Christmas, and now they have to entertain grandchildren. Who knows?

Another day, another very small whatever on the floor of the garbage room. Maybe something fell off the recycle shelf, since the building employees have been doing outside work to deal with the snow and ice. Another note, red pen this time–I guess now the note leaver means business, less passive, more aggressive. And they stapled the found trash to the top of the note. Which means they picked it up and brought it into their home, found a stapler and a red pen to complete their self assigned mission. Someone else jotted a message in response.

Raffle tickets, symbol of moral turpitude everywhere.

If I get involved, I’m going to get a rectangle of astroturf and put a white picket fence around it for the shared hallway side of my front door. The dogs will likely pee on the turf, but hey I’d be beautifying our floor, right?

Life, Blogging, and Nelson Mandela

The Pen and Sword (Photo credit: DavidR_

Mrs Fringe is not a blog about blogging. It is not a blog about writing. It is not a blog that tells readers how to save the world, raise perfect children, or make the perfect soufflé. Really, it isn’t, check out the “About” page, I claim no expertise and never have.

I touched on this in July, but I’m a little mushy today, so I’m going to write about it again. I began blogging to have a space to be honest and in the hopes of getting myself back into a regular writing schedule–without undue or unrealistic pressure. In navel gazing mode while I grocery shopped this morning, I realized I have achieved these goals, and hope to continue to do so for a long time. The blog isn’t huge, I don’t earn a dollar from it, no agents have sent me sekrit coded messages promising me contracts, but I feel pretty darned good about it.

I get upset by things. I probably shouldn’t because I’m a grown-up and a realist but I do, because I’m a human being with a vivid imagination. Like the complaints going around the building and the neighborhood again, about the local homeless shelters. It’s absolutely true, these buildings, programs, and the people who utilize them are far from ideal neighbors. They need more staffing, support, mental health and drug treatment services. Many of the residents of my building and immediate neighborhood are older people who marched for equal rights, civil rights, against war and nukes and in support of love and peace. Hell, half of them comprised the Occupy Wall Street gatherings. So how come they’re banding together now to close down the local halfway houses, block the homeless shelters? All these years, all this awareness, and still, too few are willing to acknowledge the homeless as more than a nuisance. Definitely not to acknowledge these are human beings, only wanting to hurry up and call them someoneelse’sproblem.

Those pesky homeless guys, the woman staggering down the street? This wasn’t their dream. But this is their neighborhood, and for many it has been since long before Rudy Giuliani cracked down on “quality of life” crimes, Disney took over Broadway and Times Square, and small business owners were squeezed out in favor of 8 gazillion chain drug stores. I’m not glossing over the-way-it-used-to-be; the dirt, the crack vials and shared needles, the squeegee guys hammering on car windows when the bridge and tunnel crowd was trying to get home, the Girls! Girls! Girls! you had to walk through to get to the library.

Description unavailable (Photo credit: Runs With Scissors)

Yeah, it was dirty, sometimes it was scary. Rents were always crazy here, I remember hearing about 8 girls sharing a 5th floor walk up when I was a kid 40,000 years ago. Now the rents have shot from crazy to obscene. The real estate bubble didn’t actually burst here, just sagged a bit. Firm as ever now.

How can it be that I read posts the other day from more than one privileged young American toting the value of sweat shops as opportunities for poor kids?

So where is the compassion? How does someone reconcile “not in my backyard” liberalism with the wailing and gnashing of teeth over the death of Nelson Mandela? I’ve read many, many lovely quotes from Mandela over the last 18 hours. Read many heart warming tributes about what incredible contributions he made to our world. 95% of those tributes include qualifiers, “he wasn’t perfect.” No shit. He was a human being. An incredibly strong, impassioned, brave, fallible human being. But it seems we shouldn’t be human. Not if we’re living on the streets, not if we’re fighting for social justice, not if we’re regular old gals.

I’m the first to admit, I’m not that brave. Or that motivated. Or that strong or that smart. I am not a revolutionary, don’t feel John Lennon’s “Imagine” is my personal anthem.

Mrs Fringe is, however, my little ragged thread of the world. A thread for patching, a thread for connecting. I received a beautiful message this morning from someone who recently found Fringeland. One of my stories made her happy, she connected with it. Over the time I’ve been blogging, I’ve been fortunate enough to receive quite a few notes along those lines. Recently a friend who is also somewhat of a mentor even said that she believes Mrs Fringe has allowed me to hone my voice in my fiction. Nail it. Well, she didn’t say nail it, because she’s way more elegant and eloquent than I will ever be, but that was the gist. I think she’s right, and I wanted to take today’s post to say thank you to everyone who reads, comments, follows, and encourages.

I haven’t written a bestselling novel that opens my nation’s consciousness. I haven’t ended apartheid or led a nation, I haven’t built a homeless shelter or washed the feet of those who walk the streets without shoes. I haven’t even occupied Wall Street. I’m not likely to do any of those things. I do try to be thought-full, to share a smile with others who are living on the Fringe, offer a voice, and more than anything else, remember that I’m a human being, and so is everyone else around me. Thank you for giving me a space to do this, and responses that let me know we do all affect each other.

English: Crystal structure of human DNA polymerase lambda (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Comedy of Errors, Thanksgiving Style

Turkey (Photo credit: wattpublishing)

Ah, the day before Thanksgiving. A happy, happy day. Nerd Child came home for Thanksgiving break, he’s been making us laugh for the past four days. Man Child and his girlfriend Miss Music got home last night, long after I fell asleep–how beautiful to wake up to all my chickadees at home.

A day for finishing prep work for cooking and debating whether or not it will be worth going to see the balloons being blown up tonight. I’m quite behind on the cooking this year, left too much for today. The only things ready are my cranberry sauce and stuffing. After taking Flower Child to school, I went straight to the store to pick up a pork roast. That’s right I said pork, I’m not making a turkey this year. Came home from the store, began mincing garlic and toasting fennel seeds.

I needed the salt. From the top shelf. Too lazy to take out the stool, I stretched. I don’t think of myself as petite. In my mind, I’m a glorious six feet tall. Except not in reality. So trying to reach the container of sea salt, I knocked against the glass bottle of vanilla. I don’t know about you, but I’m not into serving bourbon vanilla glass shard infused pork. I didn’t even think, my left hand shot up to catch the bottle before it could hit the counter and smash all over the spices and garlic. My kitchen is teeny. This type of incident is more than a nuisance when the space is so tight. It can take out an entire meal. SCORE! I did it, caught it in mid air with my non dominant hand. This is the part where you say, “Gee, that Mrs Fringe is swell and multi talented.”

Did I mention the crack? Yes, that was the sound of my hand when it hit the bottom edge of the cabinet door before catching the vanilla. Right between the two knuckles of my pinkie and ring finger.

Then Man Child and Miss Music came back. They had gone to move her car. Those friendly folks from the impound already moved it for her. It was late, it was raining, they didn’t see the full sign.

No parking: We kind of really mean it (Photo credit: caruba)

Husband went with Man Child and Miss Music to the impound. Nerd Child went with me to the urgent care center. I think dinner may be a little late tomorrow.