Family

Stuff This, Corporate Retail America

Paper bag from a thrift store.

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.

Salty Confession

Breakfast of Champions

Everyone knows Mrs Fringe is a salt fiend. Salty food, salty snacks, salty water and salty details in fiction. Nothing like a little blood or snot to have you immersed in a story.

The tank is now mostly filled, leaving room for displacement from rock and sand. This means it’s time to add the salt. I ordered it, remembered to order a pump for mixing, heater, and thermometer. By yesterday morning I had finished leak testing the tank (all good, yay!) and was ready to begin turning my super duper pure RO/DI water into saltwater. Here comes the confession.

I’m not enjoying this part. I’ve always had used systems in the past, which meant things were all pretty much put together, and there was little to purchase at one time. But this time, I need just about everything, and these things don’t come assembled. I opened the box containing the pump for mixing the water.

What. the. fuck.

You could say with reef keeping I’m playing at being an underwater gardener, chemist or a marine biologist, you could even say I’m playing God, trying to recreate the ocean in a glass box. I’ll be honest, each of these hold their appeal. What I’m not interested in being is an electrical engineer. Sure I know the equipment I need and want, know what each thing is called, why each piece is necessary or beneficial, and what role it’s mimicking from nature. What I don’t know is how to put this crap together. Not intuitive for me. Not even looking at the diagrams on the instruction sheet. It’s like being faced with the 8000 piece Lego kits Man Child would ask me to build with him. Umm, I kept him company while he did it himself. Sort of. For about 5 minutes until I got bored and dizzy looking at the little pieces and went to make dinner.

Luckily Husband is a good sport, and put the pump together for me this morning. I wouldn’t say this is a hobby we share, and despite the fact that he enjoys when the tanks are up and running and looking beautiful, he’d be just as happy (maybe happier) if we had no creatures outside of two legged ones in the apartment. But we’re all interested in doing this safely, not having an 80 gallon saltwater tidal wave in the living room or electrical fire from equipment not installed or placed properly. That’s almost the same as sharing the hobby, no?

I will be relaxed and happy once I have everything I need, the tank is completely filled and salted, rock and sand in place. Then I can and will spend hours watching the tank–which is amazing long before the first fish goes in or the first coral is placed. Checking parameters, seeing evidence of bacteria thriving as the water cycles and rock becomes “live,” those first pods and bristle worms are honestly thrilling–“look, LIFE!” But right now? Kinda like new puppies, adorable for 10 minutes, but by the time they’ve peed on the floor for the 12th time in 5 hours and nipped the hand of every person who reached to pet them, I’m fantasizing about how much I’m going to love them when they’re finished being puppies.

*Not true for me with babies, by the way. Ohhh, those new new babies, nothing better. Until they’re teenagers, because yes, I’m just that kind of weird, and as a parent I enjoy the teenage years. I wonder what the equivalent of a 15 year old is in reef time?

Adding salt mix, one cup at a time.

Why Walk When You Can Crawl

Sculpture and quote by Nerd Child, 1st grade

Change the he to she and yup, that’s Mrs Fringe. Proof that Nerd Child was able to predict the future.

This move has not gone smoothly. In fact, I can say without hesitation this has been the most disorganized, chaotic, and s-l-o-w move I’ve ever made–and I’ve made many.

First there was the realization I was living in a clown car. Seriously, we had ten times the amount of shit we should have been able to fit in the last apartment. Then there was the fact that every time I lifted a hefty bag or moved a box, my back would cry. And then the kicker, an early flu/virus season. Art Child got sick, and then I caught it. The first day I was sick, I happened to have a meeting with Art Child’s teachers. “Sick while moving? Oh no.” “No worries, I have a strong immune system, never more than a nuisance head cold.” Mmm hmm. What’s that about famous last words? By the following night, I had 102° fever. I’m still not completely recovered, but no one else has gotten sick, so I’m not contagious, and I am improving. What I don’t have is stamina. Yanno, that trait needed to pack, move, and unpack.

We have been staying in the new apartment for the last six nights, but still have some miscellaneous crud to move up here, and then turn in the keys to the old apartment. Every morning I think, we should be able to knock this out by the end of the day, and every afternoon, round about noon, I think, oh-my-gawd-I’m-dying-I-can’t-do-one-more-thing. A model of efficiency, I tell ya.

The most welcome sight in the world.

Above, the saving grace. Big boy sneakers. My godson has come the last couple of weekends, to help with heavy lifting, shlepping, and bringing bags o’ crud to the basement. Man Child, bless his Herculean heart, also came last week. He took two days off from school to help sort and pack, and then did the majority of the heavy furniture lifting and moving. Mr and Mrs Smitholini also pitched in, putting up curtains and ceiling fans, general assistance and wondering what the fuck happened to me.

We did get some new pieces of furniture. I have a desk! A real desk! And it’s all mine, bwahahaha! And a new kitchen table, because mine didn’t fit in our new, smaller dining space. Luckily, Husband is in the furniture business, so when we realized the new table wobbles, he was able to fix it in no time.

Maybe I should have gone with my first instinct, a couple of matchbooks.

It is all getting done though. The first several days were like camping. The stove wasn’t hooked up, the kitchen sink didn’t work, the dishwasher (hooray!) was sitting in the living room, and did I mention that my refrigerator died the night before we moved it? The wireless internet didn’t reach the living room (where my desk is), and then it was spotty. Finally I have a reasonable connection, for the moment I’ll pretend those cables aren’t slithering down the hall floor waiting to trip me.

Sure she looks innocent while she’s sleeping.

Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is very unhappy with the move and attendant chaos, and has been displaying her displeasure by peeing on the floor. Yesterday she decided it was time to meet the new neighbors. While I was cleaning, she snuck under the divider of our shared terrace, and walked into my next door neighbor’s living room. My bell rang, she came running and barking as usual. It was my neighbor, reporting the visit. Are you kidding me?! We had the same set up downstairs, she never did that.

Almost done. That’s what I keep saying. Well, that and knowing I’m getting myself a new tank as soon as possible. Besides, with the new, higher apartment comes a better view. This was our first morning, not a bad way to wake up–and no boxes on the horizon.

Somewhere btw 5-5:30am

Hasta Luego, Summer

It never gets any fucking easier.

And so it goes.

Hello Fringelings! Lots of life since I last posted. Still adjusting to life without Big Senile Dog, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is continuing to have a hard time, searching for her buddy.

I just said goodbye to Nerd Child. You’d think with the years all this would get easier, wrapping up summer, saying goodbye to the boys, school starting up again…but it doesn’t. For me, anyway. Some people say the first year is the hardest, but I disagree because after the first year, you know just how much you’re going to miss them. Supporting each boy’s desire and decision to go to boarding school wasn’t easy, but the school Man Child attended was great for him, and the school Nerd Child is attending has him happier than I ever knew was possible to be in high school. This is a big year in Fringeland. Man Child is in his senior year of college, Nerd Child is a junior in high school (though they don’t call it junior year in his school, all the boarding schools have strange and individual terms for the grades), and Art Child…Art Child begins eighth grade tomorrow.

Eighth grade means insanity here in New York. High school admissions. For those unfamiliar with the pomp and circumstance of city schools, entering high school isn’t limited to the “usual” adolescent stress of worrying about getting lost in new hallways and remembering where your locker is. It’s a process. There is no zoned high school for us, so even limiting the choices to public schools, there are tours and applications and interviews, portfolios and auditions. Because being a young teen and parenting in the city isn’t stressful enough. So yesterday, in preparation, I approached the crate. Then I spent an hour and a half sorting through and tossing out all the junk we no longer need. I thought I did this after Nerd Child’s high school admission rounds were finished, but apparently not. From what I found, I hadn’t tossed anything since I cleared out after Man Child’s college admissions.

The Crate

This is my super system for school admissions. Sure, the savvy moms use Excel spreadsheets and apps, but I’ve got a crate. The above pic is what’s left after clearing out. The latest high school books from the Department of Education, a notebook I’ve used for notes and tracking since I began this fun eight years ago, a notebook from Nerd Child’s high school process (excellent tips that are still applicable from the admissions counselor of his middle school), and acceptance letters and packages (those I could find, anyway. I know several are missing). Because mama pride. All this experience, I’m more relaxed, right? Nope. This will be the first time everything is riding on the public school admissions, and Art Child would like an arts-focused school, so much will be new again. Three different kids, interests, and abilities means different school choices. Crap!!!!

New Yorkers, of course, believe this is the best and only valid way to have their kids in the best schools, and have the best college options later. Oh bullshit. Colleges around the world–even those “top,” Ivy League colleges–are filled with kids who didn’t go to the “top” NYC schools. And I’m having an ongoing panic attack thinking of many of those not top NY public schools that kiddos are assigned to when they don’t make their choice schools. Can’t I just go back to the beach and stay there, eyes closed and iPod in my ears? I may not have done anything fabulous or gone on vacation, but I will miss this summer.

I did have a couple of pieces of good news last week. *drumroll please* The larger apartment came through. Oh. my. God. I have no idea how we’re going to get it habitable and still have enough money to eat this year, no idea how we’re going to get packed and moved without the boys here to help without my back literally breaking, but it’s going to happen. Even if I have a stroke from the price quotes I’m hearing for painting and floor installation, it will happen. Even if they don’t fix the toilet that’s currently doubling as a fountain, it will happen. And luxury of luxuries, a second toilet, a little half bathroom. Two! I’m so thrilled by this the ~~first~~ ~~second~~ third thing I did was go up and scrub that toilet. The first was sweeping, the second was bathe Little Incredibly Dumb Dog, who was gray and sneezing after spending a few hours up there with me. The thought of moving into an apartment that won’t immediately be covered in a layer of dog fur is…strange. Maybe not bad, but strange. (the little one doesn’t shed)

Another bit of good news. I had applied to be a mentee through the WoMentoring Project, and received an email from the agent I applied to for mentoring, and yes! I/Astonishing was chosen. What, specifically, will this mean for me and Astonishing? No fucking clue, but it won’t be bad, and could potentially be fantastic. Actually, being chosen is already fantastic. Funny, because when I wrote the essay for the application, I was thinking about all my application essay experience–writing parent essays for kiddos’ school admissions. And I’ve written many, many of those, each school has their own special set of essay questions. Hmmm, if I never earn a dollar for my fiction, maybe someone will pay me a dollar for admission essays. (Kidding of course, that would be unethical.)

Last week Mrs Smitholini and I celebrated thirty years of friendship. I suggested matching tattoos, but for some reason Mr S didn’t care for that idea. So we went to see Wicked. Just Mrs S and I, like two grownups, a perfect show to celebrate friendship.

So as the season gets ready to change, changes in Fringeland. Good stuff, nerve-wracking stuff, life.

RIP, Big Senile Dog

He was a great dog.

That is all there is to say.

What Was I Saying?

I swear I had a post in my head ready to go, just needed to sit down and type it up. Now that I’m at the keyboard, I can’t remember one word of what I intended to blog about.

Long and busy days here, though I’m not sure what I’ve been so busy with. Not much fun happening, behind on laundry and the fridge is alarmingly empty. Must be mid-summer. Art Child has been busy with her art intensive, and I’ve been trekking all over the borough for drop off and pick up. The other day, I had to meet her in the East Village. A fun neighborhood, one of the few left in Manhattan that still feels like New York, art, artists, small businesses. We weren’t in the fun part, but I got a couple of photos.

Rainbow brownstone

Love this, and I’m not the only one.

What better place for a small theater than an abandoned Catholic school?

Some neighborhoods still have interesting graffiti

Hi there.

To get to that area from my apartment is kind of a haul, required train transfers and many flights of stairs to get from one station to another without leaving the subway and having to pay another fare. By the time we got home my back was on fire. I was just starting to relax into one of the back meds when I heard that siren call, “Mom, the toilet’s overflowing!”

Does everyone else have low flow toilets now also? Low flow saves a lot of water, theoretically. Unless you try to flush more than one square of toilet paper. Because that requires many flushes, and often an overflow. I don’t know what the heck happened, but this was more stopped up than I’ve seen in years. And I couldn’t lift the damned pail to force water down. The good news, Nerd Child got a complete plumbing in NYC lesson. The bad news, the many hours it took to clear the clog.

The whole thing earned me a day at the beach, no? Maybe.

Nice view of the new World Trade Center on our way to the Holland Tunnel.

Oh, I went. With Husband and Art Child, so we went to one of the NJ beaches, supposed to be cleaner and nicer.

In the parking lot, some lovely plantings around.

It was going to be a perfect beach day.

It just didn’t quite work out the way I hoped.

When we got our stuff spread out and settled, a cloud settled on top of us and the wind increased.

Then we realized the family next to us was the Loud Family. The cloud will pass, right? Those kids will go back in the water, right?

So I took a little walk with my camera.

The cloud passed and those kids did go off somewhere. Then we realized it was the mother–who did not wander off again–who was making the most noise. Then another cloud came.

But okay, the family left, yay! Everywhere else the sky looked blue. Surely this massive gray cloud above us was going to move off any moment.

It started to move off, then it came back. And the Louder and Larger Family settled right next to us, complete with screaming children and mother spraying sunscreen in futility against the wind. Thanks, my sandwich was missing something.

Story of my fucking life.

Backwards Skate

Hellooo Fringelings!

It’s been a little bit since I last posted. You know what they say, if you don’t have anything nice to say, then shut the fuck up. Really it’s just been hectic. Nerd Child is home for the summer, which is wonderful, and Mother in Law is in the hospital, not wonderful. On the bright side, she’s recuperating, getting stronger each day. Art Child is not finished with school yet, the NYC public schools are in session until the end of June every year. Just making sure that even with a late start to summer weather, the kids and teachers have plenty of sweltering days in the classrooms.

This has, of course, all involved a lot of back and forth and running around. Yesterday, Mother in Law told me I need roller skates. I agree, and would like the ones I had in middle school/high school, with the emerald green wheels and matching green sparkle laces and furry green pom poms. Yes indeed, I was stylin’ those Friday Nights at the Roller Palace. For some reason, my clearest memories involve the inevitable point in the night when someone’s wheel would bust off, and there would suddenly be a thousand little ball bearings rolling across the floor.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuFLTFCp7ps

Alas, my wheels are long misplaced, and I suspect if I tried, I’d be skating backwards when I tried to go forward.

Yesterday Man Child called me to touch base, and maybe, just maybe, give me a little nudge along the lines of, “Hey Ma, wtf?! You haven’t blogged.” So I brought my camera earlier today, to catch a few pics of St John The Divine, and the ~~assault~~ construction taking place on its grounds right now. In my opinion, this cathedral (Episcopal) is one of the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful, in the city. Interesting, too. Construction began in 1892, and has yet to be completed. The campus involves something like 11 acres, and they offer a lot of free or inexpensive programs and classes for the public. They also house one of the fancy private schools of NY. Somehow, they’ve found themselves running with a deficit. There was a huge fire over ten years ago, and if I had to guess, I’d say they’re still trying to make up for the cost of restoration and clean up. Several years ago they leased a corner of the property, and allowed an apartment building to be put up. Now comes another one, this one much closer to the church itself. As I walked around with my camera, able to see in through the back along Morningside Ave, it broke my heart a little. They don’t have official landmark status, and I’m not familiar with the politics of this type of thing to know why, but somehow, seeing the excavation for the foundation up against the gorgeous granite and carvings, it feels wrong.

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Four Fingered Discount

Sometimes we all need a helping hand.

I try not to blog about the kiddos too much on Mrs Fringe for two reasons. One, this is my spot to be me–all of me, not just mamaing, but certainly being a mom is a big part of me. Two, their privacy. This week is my girl’s birthday, though. And it’s a big one. So we took a trip downtown and went to the art store. A new one for us, haven’t explored it before. Flower Child was given all the time she wanted to look at each pencil, eraser, and every other thing that I don’t know what they’re called or how they’re used, but she does. And she saw the manikins. I know they’re useful, but all these little things add up in price. She saw this hand, missing one finger, and asked me if I thought they’d give it to us for fewer dollars because it had fewer fingers. I told her to ask the manager. She did, and he did. Thank you!

Of course, she has a long list of things she would love for her birthday. But…budget. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t summon a unicorn. We do the best we can. One of the things on her list was a name change. She wants to be called Art Child here in Fringeland, instead of Flower Child. I can do this, and I think I should. Here’s a drawing she’s been working on for the past week.

I love this. Not quite finished, but I say this definitely = a name change, don’t you?

I continue to be blown away by her developing talent. She pours her dreams onto the sketch pad, uses her charcoals to smudge them into something visible, something tangible, something I can feel.

I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot these days. How, as someone who writes, a wannabe, I take bits and pieces of what I see, hear, and feel. I inhale them, taste them, smoosh them together, let them harden, and then tap them with the keys on my laptop until they crack and the cracks become stories. Written dreams that turn into personal dreams of connecting with readers, publication. At this point in my life, dreaming isn’t enough. A head in the clouds doesn’t protect you from the potholes under your feet. Work needs to be done, mamaing needs to happen, life has to be lived.

When we left the art supply store we walked down 23rd St. I looked at the old YMCA and wondered what happened to the dreams of the young men who stayed there years ago, before it became a trendy Crunch gym.

Yup, the one that inspired the song.

But for now, I want Art Child to dream. I will watch out for the cracks in the sidewalk.

Busy Busy Busy

Bee macro (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Yesterday was a busy day. It was also the first day I was able to stand somewhat close to upright with pain that’s manageable, so that’s ok.

Took the girl to school, came back home and went with Nerd Child to the grocery store, to buy soft, no-chewing necessary foods. He was getting the first round of braces put on in the afternoon. Did what I needed to do around the house, checked my email 80,000 times in hopes of query/requested material responses (nothing, seems like all agents left for the Bologna Book Fair yesterday), he left for the dentist, and I went to pick up Flower Child, planning to meet him at the office.

Because I was going to be out of the neighborhood, I figured I’d bring the camera. I remembered to charge the battery, remembered to bring the camera. Being me, I didn’t remember to put the freshly charged battery back into the camera. Sigh. Still everything seemed to have gone well for NC, and I signed all my dollars, present and future, over to the promise of straighter teeth.

Last night I had a beautiful first. A different type of Friday Night Madness. Man Child came in for the weekend with Miss Music, and we went out. For a beer. A legal, ordered in my favorite bar beer, with my 21 year old. Should it feel like a big deal? I don’t know, but it did. There was something so…sweet…about being able to have this nice, normal, adult moment with my oldest. Miss Music also recently turned 21, Husband was home and came with us, truly a moment. When we left the bar, Miss Music told me she had read Astonishing (I had emailed the file to Man Child) and loved it. YAY! I want to hear specifics–feedback from the perspective of a young person– but they are, after all, 21, so they continued on for more of a night out than a beer with the parental units, and Husband and I went home.

It’s a funny thing, this writing. There was a thread on the writer’s forum the other day about “stage fright,” not wanting to share work with others. I don’t feel that way. I want to be read, share, get feedback. Sure there’s a serrated edge flutter in my gut when I hand over a manuscript–will they like it? hate it? yawn their way through because it’s boring? think I’m the weirdest motherfucker ever and never want to speak to me again? not respond at all (the worst, to me)? But it doesn’t stop me from handing it over. I wrote, now you read. In my mind, that’s the contract.

Yesterday at this time Nerd Child was sprawled on the couch, relaxed and watching videos on his laptop, laughing. This morning he’s sprawled on the couch, relaxed and watching videos on his laptop, laughing. Guess he’s ok.

Brackets04 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t Make Me Laugh

Seriously, it hurts. But I couldn’t stop myself from laughing a few times this morning. This is what I woke up to.

Feel like baking this morning?

The other night I made banana pancakes for dinner. Well actually, I made the batter and got them started, and then had Nerd Child make the majority, because I couldn’t stand upright to flip them. I also couldn’t reach to put the ingredients away, and haven’t paid enough attention to notice said ingredients were still on the counter.

Dumb freakin dogs. Why? I swear I feed those bozos every day, twice a day, and then they get treats multiple times per day in addition. 5:15 in the morning, I could barely walk, there was no way I could bend to sweep and wash the floors. And by no way, I mean physically no way. Over the years I’ve noticed the severity of many illnesses and injuries are contextual. In other words, if I had options, I’d have said I physically couldn’t get Flower Child to/from school the last couple of days. But there’s no choice, so in fact, I could and have done it, albeit slowly and painfully. But this? Even the thought of attracting roaches couldn’t get me to bend and stretch in the ways necessary to clean this up. Luckily Husband woke up when he heard me cursing, and got most of it.

Big Senile Dog went to his bed and kept his eyes away from mine, pretending he had nothing to do with it. Mmm hmm.

Who me? This isn’t flour, it’s umm, coke, yeah, it’s coke. The pugs down the hall threw this party and…

Ok. Now I’m on the couch, feet up and coffee in hand. Open my email and find a rejection for a query. Not just any rejection, but one that was so nice, personal, and friendly, I thought it was a request. Took me two times reading it through to realize it was, in fact, a rejection. I don’t think I’ve ever met this agent, it isn’t likely I wouldn’t remember, but maybe I have, the note seemed that friendly. Or maybe he follows Mrs Fringe.

I don’t know why it struck me as funny, but it did. Maybe it’s part of always being braced for “the worst,” as I go through the query process. Silly, because I have never experienced “the worst.” No one has ever responded to a query of mine in a way that was rude, disparaging, or questioned my abilities. And while I haven’t received any offers (yet!), I’m doing pretty well in terms of requests for more material.

This was turning out to be a banner day, and it wasn’t even 6am. Sometimes you really do have to laugh.

An hour later, Flower Child is awake and getting ready. And continuing a running conversation. The one where she tells me bits and pieces of her interactions at school. I’m continuing to pretend it’s possible to get socks on without bending.

“And you know what else he asked me.”

“Hmm, what did he ask you?”

“Is it true that white people don’t get cold? Why did he ask me that, what should I tell him?”

See what I mean about the universe conspiring, and having to laugh?