Family

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Lorraine Carpenter in typing class at Aldergrove Highschool, British Columbia / Lorraine Carpenter participant à un cours de dactylographie à l’école secondaire Aldergrove, Colombie-Britannique (Photo credit: BiblioArchives / LibraryArchives)

Does this title ring any bells for any of my readers? I don’t remember my typing teacher’s name, but I certainly remember her voice, which managed to screech with every letter she called out. You’d think her beehive would have softened the sound. “Accuracy, girls! And boys too, I suppose.” Ah, she was a charmer.

It used to matter, how fast you typed, how accurate you were. In the days of carbon paper and white out. Oh, the excitement of electric typewriters, and the white out ribbon! I love to look at the old typewriters, have an excellent, artsy photo of one, and one of these days I’m going to find the perfect old manual in an antique store, at a perfect price, waiting for me to bring it home and display it. But I don’t miss typing on one. It was slow and often painful, needing to hit each key with the same amount of force, keys getting stuck and invariably getting my finger hammered trying to unstick them.

You can imagine my pleasure when someone refers to writing as typing.

Misprints (Photo credit: eldeeem)

Flower Child, “Mommy, are you finished typing yet?” Husband, “I thought you were still typing.” Especially since I do associate Husband with literal typing. He went to college with my brother. I typed several of their papers. After one particularly long and hideous paper, I had a PTSD type reaction for years after whenever I had need to tap out the word acetaminophen.

The past few days have thrown my writing schedule way, way off. I think my last post here on Mrs Fringe was the last semi-coherent thing I wrote. First I had the mother of all migraines, laid me out for a full day, left me dizzy for a second day. Yesterday I had a meeting during my usual writing time. I’m most productive in the mornings. It took too many years for me to figure that out, opposed my image of myself as writ-ah, tap tap, tapping away during the night. Turns out I’m in fine company, plenty of respected, lauded writers and writ-ahs work in the morning. Not least of which was Hemingway. Ah, the lore and lure of Papa.

I thought I would get back to work today, but no such luck. Flower Child was sick. Can’t get lost in fantasy land when you’re watching the clock to call the doctor’s office for an appointment. OK, done. I thought I would have time to get a few pages done, but the more days I’m away from the manuscript, the longer it takes for me to get back into my characters’ heads, and be productive. One page. One page and then it was time to take her to the doctor. In the pouring rain that didn’t stop. All day, drip, drip, squish. Luckily, once we were there, I got to find out in addition to an infection, FC has lost two pounds. Aargh!!! Two pounds is way too much for a kiddo who literally has nothing to spare.

Right now, I’d be ok with a few uninterrupted hours to practice my typing.

A monkey typing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There’s a Frog in My Keyboard

English: head of waterfrog (Rana esculenta) Français : tête de grenouille verte (Rana esculenta) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

An unfortunate state of affairs, because the letter “f” on my laptop sticks. About a third of the time when I hit it nothing appears, another third I remember to come down extra hard, and I get three fffs in a row. But I digress.

You know what I mean, when you don’t have actual laryngitis, but what comes out when you open your mouth is not reliable.

I’m taking a day off from the WIP today, because I’m not sure what my next scene is. Rather than stare at the cursor and sob, I decided to take a break. At first thought, the problem is I need a bridge chapter or so to get where I’m headed, in terms of plot and character growth. I’m also at a point in the work where as I’ve added subtext and subplot, the shape of the whole beast is called into question. I can keep it on the same light track I’ve been on, or I can take it deeper, shifting the style and tone. As I engage in this self indulgent pondering, I’m realizing there’s something horribly familiar to this line of thought. (Let’s be honest, Mrs Fringe excels at self-indulgent exercises.) Prior manuscripts? Sure, there are always points where you have to step back and think about what makes the most sense before pushing forward.

The familiarity breeding contempt, having me wonder if the whole damned thing sucks and should be scrapped? It’s the feeling that I’m on a similar page in life. Coming up on a plot twist, and just not sure how to write it, or even what it should be, but I know something has to happen.

Contemplation #1 (Photo credit: Ed Yourdon)

This morning I was on the elevator with a kid whose hair looked like a cross between Don King and Gerald,

Hey Arnold! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

the best friend with the impossibly high “fade” from Hey Arnold. Man Child was about four years old when he fell in love with that show, and tried desperately to explain to the gal at Supercuts that he wanted that haircut, while I tried desperately to explain to him that his hair was a different texture, and could never be sculpted into a cylindrical afro that defied gravity.

If you aren’t familiar with it, Hey Arnold was an animated series that ran on Nickelodeon for 6? 8? years, beginning in the mid to late ’90’s. It was a great show, with fully fleshed out characters, both kids and adults, real problems, and real heart demonstrating life for members of the fringe in a big (fictitious) city.

I began the day thinking I’d like to hide from the WIP and read. Bury myself in my favorite books until I was saturated in Updike, spiked with Joyce Carol Oates, crying Magaret Atwood and bleeding Stephen King. But maybe not, maybe I should turn on the tv and find some Hey Arnold reruns to remember who I am and the pitch of my voice, as a woman on the fringe trying not to let go.

Admitting Defeat

Checkmate (The Prisoner) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, much as I hate to admit it, I’m never going to be King. Not Virginia Woolf, not Laura Ingalls Wilder. Not even a princess. And really, that’s just fine. A quiet life is appealing. But a silent one?

When I first began thinking of putting a blog together, my original idea was to have a collaborative blog, women of somewhat varying ages and perspectives, focusing on the differences between what we thought our adult lives would be, and what they are. That idea never got beyond early planning stages, and eventually I started Mrs Fringe.

But due to some recent happenings in the lives of friends, and the never ending brain crunching non-happenings in my own life, I’m thinking about those early ideas again. Specifically, the life I’m living and the Grand Canyon that separates it from the life I thought I would have. While I won’t deny I have a vivid imagination, not all of my scenarios involved a crown and scepter. I never actually thought I would become rich, never thought I would live in a palace, never thought I would lie on a bed of thornless roses. Of course, I’m allergic to roses, so that one might not be fair.

Rose & Crown (Photo credit: Sam Howzit)

But I also never imagined having to worry quite this much about finances, when I’m not living a life of extravagance. I never imagined not having a little area for myself for writing (I think I weaned on A Room of One’s Own). I never imagined I’d be living a life at 40,000 years old where I would never, ever, ever have a day off. I never imagined I would be trapped in New York, between finances and familial obligations.

I never imagined a family of five where each of the five would have such totally, completely separate needs. I know, we’re all individuals. I value that fact, Husband and I were never the type of couple that were on the phone 58 times a day when we weren’t together, I’ve tried to raise my children to value their individuality. But I didn’t think, in the twenty first century, with all the societal and personal awareness, that I would lose my own self in the process. Sheesh, I feel like a damned ’70’s cliche just re-reading that sentence. Should I go find myself? In a consciousness raising group sitting on someone’s shag carpet, drinking dandelion wine.

So now what? I write, and that’s good for me. It feels good, and part of me still believes–or at least wants to believe– there’s hope of publication at some point. But I can’t live inside my head all the time. It isn’t productive for any of my roles, and frankly, it isn’t all that fun. I’ve thought about drinking more regularly, but I’m not very good at it. One drink and I’m buzzed, in between one and two and I’m looped, useless; a full two and it’s get-out-of-my-way-I-need-my-bed!

I’m a grown up. I have a family, I have obligations, I have a budget. There is no magic answer, magic solution. But there has to be a way to make something better, at least try.

Virginia Woolf said, “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” Is it still true? I don’t think silent lives are truly silent, they’re sirens and songs no one hears.

“Who’s Afraid fo Virginia Woolf?”. 1966 (Photo credit: thefoxling)

SAD Sunday Blues

I have a very specific distaste for Sundays. Something about them has always stressed me out, it’s the day I’m most likely to feel depressed (especially during the winter), regardless of what days I was working, what’s planned for the week, etc. It doesn’t help at all that the temperature outside is dropping again, with the wind blowing garbage on and off my terrace. This is my official Sunday song:

Oh Aretha, her voice makes my heart weep. Very unfortunate that my rendition makes everyone else’s ears weep.

Not a terrible day today, as Sundays go. If I ignore the fact that it’s been a full week since I had a reasonable and uninterrupted night’s sleep. I got a positive critique for the short story I worked on last week. Man Child helped me do the shopping before he leaves for school this evening. And yes, now he’s totally back to school, not popping in and out during his internship. The week’s gumbo is made for the dogs, Flower Child and I have at least four days worth of clean underwear, and it’s a four day weekend for FC.

I did some writing this morning, not enough, but some, back to the WIP. Whenever I have to close the file, stopping earlier than I want to, I always swear I’m going to write again later in the afternoon or evening, but it just doesn’t happen. Lose my focus, lose my energy.

So what do you do on your blah days, when you can’t just go back to bed, but also can’t be productive in the way you’d like?

Flower Child is feeling a little better, able to eat a bit again, so I made cookies. Now someone tell me how to avoid going into the kitchen until tomorrow, so I don’t have to see the pot from the gumbo and the bowls from making the cookies.

Here, have a snickerdoodle, it will help you think.

I’m pretty sure enough cinnamon will cure anything, including the Sunday blues.

Two Days Late and Two Dollars Short

Jacopo da Ponte – St Valentine Baptizing St Lucilla – WGA01452 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Saint Valentine, patron saint of love, lovers, beekeepers, epilepsy, fainting, plague, and travelers. He was one busy dude.

Since this week included Valentine’s Day and I’m writing a romance, I was thinking about romance; the ways it can be defined, the different meanings, and how those representations have changed for me over the years. Yeah, yeah, I’m a little late for a Valentine’s Day post.

I don’t remember thinking about romance or Valentine’s Day as a kid, certainly it wasn’t the standard it has become for each child to come to class with a card for each classmate and a candy stuck into each one. I don’t remember it being in our home, either. My parents were very practical people, something like buying a heart shaped box of chocolates would have sent my father up on his political soap box to deliver a long, loud lecture–possibly pulling out the Encyclopedia Brittanica for back up and illustrations. Not that he never bought my mother flowers or gifts (not regularly, but it happened), but the idea of being expected to do so because of a Saint, or worse, Hallmark, was just the type of thing to make his head explode.

Vinegar Valentine, circa 1900 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I was a teenager, oh I loved all that shit. Pretending I didn’t, of course. But really, what teenaged girl doesn’t love gifts of chocolates, flowers, white teddy bears with red ribbons, maybe a splinter of a gold charm that must surely mean dedication, pledges of undying adoration from anonymous sources? Trust me, they all love it, or some variation. Vegan, hemp wearing girlfriend? Organic fair trade chocolates. Or maybe a bong with a rose painted on it, put Sugar Magnolia on the iPod. Even the girls wearing thick black eyeliner to match flat-died black hair, wearing spikes around their neck. Stick a black ribbon around the damned box, pierce the teddy bear’s tongue and they’ll be certain you really, truly “get” them.

Romance as an adult, though. That changes. And I’m not talking about secksy times. It means different things to different people. I focus on women because I’ve got girly bits. I have to say one of the top three romantic moments I ever experienced with Husband was the first time he insisted I take my pants off so he could iron them. Strange? Certainly. But it represented something. After eleventy billion years together, though, it isn’t quite the same moment. I can identify and create romance inside my head that work for a manuscript, the off balance rush of hormones in overdrive and falling in love. Between Husband and I, we were never big on “traditional,” commercial romantic moments. As life got busier and more complex, the untraditional romantic moments have gotten lost in the shuffle. Maybe this is the stage where it would be nice to have the traditional, commercial moments acknowledged, if only to counteract the effects of SAD and sick kiddo. I find myself wondering what romance means at this stage, with frenetic days of each of us running our separate wheels inside of one cage. A bonus slice of carrot? Fresh shavings?

I don’t know, but I’m also wondering if Flower Child will notice if I steal one of the chocolates from the box I bought her. Probably not, so I won’t.

What does romance mean to you?

valentine! (Photo credit: maximolly)

Off With Her Head!

Queen of Hearts (Photo credit: Ana Kelston)

Please and thank you. If you aren’t in the US, or in the northeast of it, we’re gearing up for a blizzard. As of this moment, it’s a snow/sleet/rain mix here in the city, the blizzard conditions will start later this evening. Gross, but the bonus is that the jackhammers are quiet for today.

I had a meeting at Flower Child’s school this morning. It went very well, assistive technology has come through, thanks to her fabulous team this year. We needed this to go well on several levels, it’s been a rough week for her; her good streak ended. Good news though, right? I come home and think I still have plenty of time to write before it’s pickup time. In peace and quiet. Ahhh. For about a minute.

English: Hammer drill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s this, you ask? Well, it’s the hammer drill being used right above my freakin head in the apartment above mine. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear my sobs providing the rhythm for the bass of the drill. The walls in my building are concrete. No, I’m not confused, I am referring to interior walls, so any holes need to be made with a serious, loud, powerful tool.

This week has been, well, life, I guess. My father in law passed away, which was expected, and I’m glad his pain is over, but still very sad. He was an absolutely lovely man who was well known and liked in the community and loved by his family. For the past few days I’ve been hearing his distinctive whistle in my head. When Nerd Child was a little guy, and my f-i-l was passing our building, he would stop and whistle up, “Coquito!” Nerd Child would stop whatever he was doing and run to the window, throwing whatever he had been holding down to the street. Those child safety bars only prevent an actual child from passing through them, not the paraphernalia that accompanies children. Good thing the man always wore a hat, or his head would surely have been dented by a lego more than once. He had a distinctive smile, the kind that let you know where the phrase “ear to ear grin” comes from. It’s a warm fuzzy to say Flower Child inherited his smile.

I did write this week, though nowhere near the word count I intended. It is what it is, maybe the coming week will be a bit more steady.

How was your week?

I Hate You! But I Need You.

Sun en face (Photo credit: Forsetius)

Early morning. I have a complicated relationship with my alarm clock–not so affectionately known as the egg–and sunrise. I am not an early riser by nature, but I’ve learned to be. Much as I love my bed, I am not and never was someone who could jump out of it and be out the door in twenty minutes. I need my coffee, I need to sit in peace before I start the day. And then I need more coffee.

This trait is one of very few things about my life and myself that hasn’t changed with time and circumstance.

When I was younger and lived by myself, I was one of those people who needed two alarm clocks; one by the bed, and one across the room that would ring after I had hit the snooze on the one by the bed three or four times. Between years long issues with insomnia and a work schedule that was very inconsistent, I needed both of them. Let me just say, the ability to sleep through multiple alarms combined with being neurotically prompt can make for some very unpleasant mornings.

During the week, I get up between 5 and 5:30AM. Weekends, it depends how stressful the week has been. The more stress, the more I stick to the weekday schedule, even if the laptop tells me it’s Sunday.

old alarm clock (Photo credit: K. Yasuhara)

Husband thinks I’m crazy, because technically, I could get another hour to an hour and a half of sleep each day. (To be fair, there are many reasons Husband thinks I’m nuts, but I’m comfortable writing about this one). I need time to myself, by myself. Does this make me a selfish person? Maybe it does, but I still need it. Am I bleary eyed and exhausted long before I can go to bed each night? Yup, but I’d rather have the time alone than the extra sleep. Trust me, I’d be a whole lot crazier without this time.

Added bonus, the jackhammers haven’t started that early in the day. You know, the background music of the city that never ever ends.

You would think that by this point I’m a morning person, but I’m not. I do like sitting on the balcony and watching the sky get pink as the sun rises.

Are you a morning person? Night person? My favorite shift to work was a swing shift, either 4-midnight five days a week or noon-10 four days a week. What about yourself hasn’t changed, through marital status, careers, parental status, etc?

I’d like to tell you I use this time to pray or meditate or contemplate the meaning of life, or even bond with the dogs, but I don’t. I use it to just sit quietly, make and drink my coffee, zone out, and enjoy the peace. I stare into the tank and watch for the pink streaked wrasse to wake up–he starts cruising, hunting for pods between the corals as soon as the sky lightens. Sometimes I surf Facebook, but I don’t post at that hour. I used to use that time to write, but it’s never successful as a long term writing plan, because then I’m missing that me time. It is the only time of day when I can, somewhat consistently, get the living room to myself. Five people on different schedules and a small space, you have to be creative.

And willing to sacrifice sleep.

Live on coffee and flowers (Photo credit: thomasheylen)

Thank you, Walt

This photo depicts Walter Elias Disney’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ok, I admit it. I was a tad overambitious when mapping out my writing plan for the weekend. A three day weekend! While I am getting back in the habit, and I’m pleased with the progress I’m making, I don’t have the stamina I once did. A really good writing day leaves me fried the following day. So…I didn’t get a whole lot of words down yesterday. I did, however, hammer out some plot points that had been nagging at me, so that counts as something. And I made enough dinner to have leftovers for tonight.

That means the only chore that had to get done today was making the week’s gumbo for the dogs. No, no, don’t look over at the laundry pile. All the stars aligned, I had the breakfast in the house that Flower Child actually wanted to eat, and plenty of milk for coffee. And then, when I sat down to write, and Flower Child wilted, exhausted from being awake for 30 minutes, we found Mary Poppins was playing on the Disney channel. After Mary Poppins came Lady and the Tramp, and after Lady and the Tramp came Hercules, and after Hercules came Alice in Wonderland, and now Aladdin is on. Hear that? It’s the blissful sigh of a productive writing day, gumbo made and cooling, the girl happily snuggled on the couch with Little Incredibly Dumb Dog watching movies, Big Senile Dog snoring to provide the background music.

I’m a Disney fan. Not politically correct, but true. I like most of their movies, and have truly happy memories of vacations at Disney World with Husband and the fringelings when they were younger and we had enough money to take a vacation every other year. Sure, there’s also the memory of having to go to the first aid station with Nerd Child when he was an infant, and one of Husband’s chest hairs got wrapped around his eyeball in a way that required medical attention. I think that was the same stay when I got heat stroke our first day there, between 8000% humidity and nursing. But the next morning, I was on Dumbo with Man Child, what could be bad?

I’d like to think I’ll be able to write a little more after Flower Child goes to bed, but I doubt it. On the other hand, I’ve got an overwhelming urge to listen to Grace Slick. Any day that ends with Jefferson Airplane is a good one.

Cuddling With that Late Night Booty Call: Want

Deutsch: Irische Hard Shoes, auch Hornpipe Shoes oder Jig Shoes genannt. Jig Shoes. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Warning: Defensive post ahead.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked past a favorite shoe store, recently renovated so the ambiance matches the price points. In the window was an absolute wantwantwant Pas de Rouge shoe. So much so, I took a picture with a phone, posted it to my personal Facebook wall, and had fun with friends dreaming about $400 shoes. (for some reason I can’t transfer pics from my phone to this blog, sorry) Fun? Yes. Silly? Absolutely. But there’s something about a sole full of awesomeness that some roundheels like myself can’t deny. Resist, sure, but not deny.

But here’s what I’m thinking about today. We’re expected to deny our wants. As women, certainly as women with children, we’re supposed to forget about our pesky little wants, dreams, and desires, at least until all children our grown and gone. I’m not talking about ridiculously expensive shoes, but the other stuff. Like writing, or painting, or photography (except of our children), or going back to school, or a vacation that isn’t educational. Even hobbies are relegated to after the kids are asleep. You know what? After the kids are grown and gone is a long, long time. Add in a special needs child and multiply this by eleventy billion.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It doesn’t seem so long at first, when they’re babies, toddlers, and young children, and your days meld together with feeding and changing, soothing and crooning. Hell, just looking at this photo makes my boobs tingle, preparing for a non existent milk letdown, and it’s been years since I nursed.

My belief that children come first is strong. Most of us deny ourselves a lot of wants, put off needs, because the kids come first. It’s what our biology and our society dictates; in my opinion this is as it should be. I know it isn’t just women who put certain wants off until the kids are grown, most of us, male and female, are on limited budgets, and many of us have to either give up or put dreams aside until the immediate responsibilities are fewer. Being last is okay, as long as I’m still in the race.

But since I began blogging about my newly rediscovered determination to get back to a regular writing and submitting schedule, more than a couple of my female followers have made reference (both on and off the blog) to wanting to do X, and waiting to do X until the kids are gone. Feel free to jump in and tell me you’ve heard otherwise, I’ve never heard a man say he’s waiting to investigate and pursue a hobby until the kids are gone. When I read the stories of writers who have been successful after having children, but before the kids are gone, they’re a little different. Both male and female showed tremendous drive, dedication, and passion. The men talk about coming home from their day jobs, locking themselves in whatever little nook they can carve out for themselves in their home, and writing. Women talk about coming home from their day jobs, supervising homework, making dinner, doing the bedtime thing, and then going to whatever nook they’ve carved out for themselves. Or, if they were SAHMs, writing during naps and loads of laundry. And of course, eating all those bon bons. Who needs sleep, right?

I don’t know about you, but when I sleep and dream, it isn’t about juicy younger men or my formerly perky parts. It’s about space and time for myself that isn’t shrouded in guilt.

English: A photograph of an engraving in The Writings of Charles Dickens volume 4, Oliver Twist, titled “Oliver at Mrs. Maylie’s Door”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think it’s valid, sensible, and important to recognize the difference between wants and needs, and then further breakdown to prioritize these needs and wants. What I don’t get is why this is supposed to equal no wants or dreams. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I recognize that I live in this spoiled American society and I am a spoiled American. I don’t have a McMansion and don’t want one. I also don’t want to live in a hut, with just enough grains of rice to keep me going, foraged Pepsi bottles strapped to my feet with woven grass. I hear those are terrible for dog walking.

Rompe La Cabeza

Question mark made of puzzle pieces (Photo credit: Horia Varlan)

In English, the word is puzzle. In Spanish, the phrase is rompe la cabeza, or rompecabeza. Translated literally, “breaks the head.”

Flower Child is my puzzle. A beautiful, delicate, complicated puzzle. For now, and for far too many years already, trying to put these pieces together…the Spanish feels more appropriate than the English. Breaking my head, trying to make sense of what is and what’s to come for my sweetness. The modern medical world is an absolute maze; so basically, it’s wandering through a labyrinth, trying to locate puzzle pieces, and then getting lost in an attempt to trace back to see where they might fit.

I used to like jigsaw puzzles. I found them relaxing. I had a teacher who used to call those types of hobbies mental masturbation. Made sense. But now? No, the very sight of those stamped cardboard pieces induces a PTSD type reaction.

English: Image from The Great War taken in an Australian Advanced Dressing Station near Ypres in 1917. The wounded soldier in the lower left of the photo has a dazed, thousand-yard stare – a frequent symptom of “shell-shock”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Except for one teeny tiny contradiction, it isn’t “post” anything. I live it, we as a family live it, every day.

This morning I didn’t get up at 5AM and work on a story, or Mrs Fringe. This morning I got up at 5 to go over paperwork and organize copies of medical reports. Another visit to a new specialist, this one specializing in the puzzle pieces that make up each of us. Three hours of going over medical history–Flower Child, me, Husband, Nerd Child, Man Child, and extended families. If you’ve never had the pleasure, it’s the emotional equivalent of sucking down a chocolate milkshake when you’ve got a molar in dire need of a root canal. A quick physical, looking, bending, measuring, hemming, hawing, instructing, and note taking. Then a trip down to the lab, and 80 reminders to FC about “girl power” while waiting for a blood draw, and of course, the positioning of the doll, the iPod, and the negotiating about what the treat will be afterwards.

The testing least likely to yield information is expected first, in three to four weeks. The rest of the results should be back in four months. Follow up appointment in six months. An extra vial of blood was drawn, in case nothing useful is found in the testing done today, it will be used for round two of more detailed testing, taking another 6 months for results. Now we play the hurry up and wait game.