and God laughs. That’s the expression, right? I’m making plans anyway. Well, I’m thinking about making plans, and we’ll see what happens. There’s only so many days I can walk around sniveling before I can’t stand myself anymore.
Even Little Incredibly Dumb Dog looks bummed, and she truly is too dumb to be depressed. 😉
Several years ago it occurred to me that people need stuff to look forward to. This is a problem when you’re stuck in the endless grind of life on the Fringe. I came home from taking Flower Child to school yesterday morning to find that Big Senile Dog had gone out to the terrace while I was gone–my fault, I shouldn’t have left that door open–and torn into a bag of garbage that was left out there. Yanno, so they wouldn’t make a mess while I was out. Once upon a time he would have eaten everything in there, pistachio shells, tea leaves, and coffee grounds, while Little Incredibly Dumb Dog took care of the tissues and tea bags. She did eat all of the paper stuff, but. By now even he knows he can’t eat that stuff, so instead, all that crud was ground into and under the rubber flooring stuff I have down to protect the concrete. Fantastic.
No shame.
There I was, thinking about nothing to look forward to and how many years it’s been since I really had a day off. If you’re curious, it’s almost 19 years. Man Child will be 21 in a couple of weeks. Husband and I went to Aruba for a long weekend when MC was 2. 21 years since I had a day off *to myself.* And then I was thinking about submissions, querying, and Astonishing. The unpredictable nature of this business I’m trying to get myself into. Well, what can I realistically do about all of this? What is/can be within my control? Two plans conceived.
First, today is a #MSWL day on twitter. That’s when certain agents and editors post their “manuscript wish lists” under the hashtag MSWL, tweeting what they’d like to see come across their desks. I’m watching, in hopes of seeing magical realism, literary fiction, dark lit fic…anything that would reasonably seem like a potential match for Astonishing, and then I will query those agents. I hope. A lot of the agents expected to participate seem to be more focused on Young Adult, Middle Grade, New Adult, but I’m watching. The best part of this is no twitter pitching. I suck at Twitter. Seriously, I can’t quite get the hang of it. I’d blame my age, but that’s a blatant lie. Plenty of people my age and older who are twitter-savvy.
Second, I decided I’m going to go away for a couple of days when Big Senile Dog dies. By myself. No, his death isn’t imminent, but he is elderly and going. Could be a month, six months, two years, but it gives me something to look forward to and a chance to save my pennies. No, I can’t do this before he dies. The logistics of getting him and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog walked and taken care of, Flower Child taken care of, too much/too expensive. I mentioned this to Husband last night, I think he was horrified by my cold and calculated look at the future. The big non-secret is that he adores this dog he didn’t want more than any of us. Not enough to walk him, but adores him nonetheless.
For today, I’m going to watch the Twitter feed and create a playlist for my little eventual trip. That’s the plan, anyway.
And go out, after searching the internet for the most steeply discounted tickets you can find. When I was a kid, we used to to go to the theater on a semi-regular basis. Not like we went every month, but once or twice a year. Tickets were less costly then, with discounts you could even get good seats. Hell, if I really liked the show, I would go more than once. Maybe because of the show itself, maybe because I loved a particular lead, or maybe because someone else was playing the lead and I wanted to see them. Now? Hah! The thought of spending money to see something already seen is obscene.
Les Mis is coming back to Broadway. Flower Child’s absolute favorite. I’d love to get tickets and take her, but those tickets are way out of reach, and will be for years. I hoped for Wicked, but no discounts there either. Mrs Fringe needs a steep discount. 20% isn’t going to cut it. Anything Disney is out of the question. I know, many are well done, beautiful–but it’s so rare for us to go, just no.
Found three tickets that might or might not have caused some vertigo and a nosebleed and broke out the Metrocard.
Neon and tourists
Running since 1988, and this was the first time I’ve seen it.
Yes, it needs to be said. Pizza is sold by the slice in most places in NYC
One way to tell NYers from tourists is their pace. NYers walk quickly. Husband rarely walks more than up the block to see his mother, but when he walks he’s fast. This was my only night out in I don’t know how long, I think it’s been 3?4? years since I’ve seen a show. I took my time. Sure, he was a block ahead of me–but I had the print out to pick up the tickets. Another way to tell tourists from natives is the camera hanging from their necks. Well, see, I’ve got this blog….So perhaps I looked like a tourist last night. I don’t mind.
I love live theater, and wish I could go every month. There truly is something magical, I think it’s in the theater houses themselves, in the plaster and gold paint, the chandeliers and hundred year old exit signs.
I was thinking opera glasses would have been a perfect accessory. Do they still make/sell those?
Yes, these not so little touches are everything.
Beautiful, isn’t it?
I would like this over my front door.
The show, of course, was lovely. Flower Child gripped her armrests throughout (we were pretty high up for sure) but loved the music, the costumes, the singing, the trip to the lobby during intermission and the peek at the orchestra seats, lol.
A few photos of Times Square as we walked back to the subway–and perhaps an explanation for why Mrs Fringe can’t tell a star from a photo flare from a smudge on the camera screen. It’s bright in the city–even at 9:30pm on a mid-winter night.
That’s what I think of, when I think of Valentine’s Day. Remember that scene from The Rose? Bette Midler playing a Joplin-esque character, breaking down on stage as she tries to croak out Let Me Call You Sweetheart. That and the fact that St. Valentine is the patron saint of epilepsy. Ya caught me, a true romantic. I’m also allergic to roses.
flowers for Flower Child. We need the pop of color during this endless stretch of gray and snow.
Husband is away, so we won’t be doing our normal Valentine’s Day celebrations. Oh wait, we don’t normally do anything. I don’t think we ever have done anything special for VD. We just aren’t that couple, never were. We’re both bad at stuff like that, cards, remembering specific dates, anniversaries. How many years are we married, Husband? I think it’s 43,000 years, but I could be off by a year or two. We’ve known each other for-ev-er, were friends for a long long time before anything else.
I think without getting into the realm of the spiritual, after my insane devotion to my children, I believe in the healing and strengthening powers of friendship more than anything else on earth. Friendship can come from our significant others, siblings, children, parents, classmates, workmates, online, any of the many places we humans interact. I’m very lucky to have some wonderful friends in my life, and wish that everyone could say they have at least two great, long-term friends.
Too many people are out there feeling they are alone, and “holidays” like this one seem to magnify those feelings of loneliness.
So it feels fine for Husband to be off doing his thing on Valentine’s Day, and for me to not-celebrate by having Fatigue over for Friday Night Madness. Because…friendship. In honor of low days, snowstorms, downwardly mobile lives and overly commercialized holidays, I decided comfort food is in order for tonight.
That’s right, mac n cheese. My version of macaroni and cheese involves whatever cheeses I happen to have in the fridge.
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Feel free to come join us at the cyber table, Fringelings, I’ve even got a few beers on the terrace. Happy Valentine’s Day.
One of those days, yanno? Can’t quite get myself going. I’m certain much of it is because I was sure yesterday was Thursday and woke up thinking, “At least it’s Friday.” Surprise for me, it’s only Wednesday.
The girl saw the puzzle doctor yesterday, not so much fun.
Man Child went back to school. We’re going to miss him, but I know he was more than ready. For a last hoorah, he made bear claws with Flower Child.
Why yes, they do taste as good as they look.
One last dinner, I made a stir fry. Actually two, one for the vegetarians and one for the flesh eaters.
In between writing projects, I feel a little bit adrift. This is fine, I’m not ready to start a new WIP (though there is a little seedling of an idea trying to put down roots). It’s good to rest and recharge before getting lost in a new world. The only problem is it leaves me looking around at my real world, noticing the dust on the furniture, the stains in the sinks, and the fucking freezing temperature outside.
I would like something tangible to look forward to. I have to think about what it can be. Something realistic and within my control. Any ideas?
In the meantime, I give you my latest attempt to capture the moon. This batch seemed more fuzzy than the last batch, but I’m fascinated, trying to figure out what the green splotch is.
Is the green thing a star? Planet?
Sorting through the moon photos put this song in my mind, and it doesn’t want to leave. I figure if I post it here, I’ll pass it on.
and the Coca-Cola company. For turning over the rock, and allowing light to shine on the racism that is alive and all too
Statue of liberty (Photo credit: rakkhi)
well in America.
I didn’t watch the Super Bowl, didn’t see the commercial that caused waves in our amber GMO enriched grain until this morning. If I was a gambler, I’d put money on the idea that many of the same people shitting themselves over a Coke commercial featuring people of color! language other than English! would consider me suspect, not a real American for the simple fact that I’m not a football fan, not a sports fan at all.
That’s what America’s all about, right? The Pilgrims came here so they could chase a ball and drink beer without any pesky brown people, or hearing anything other than the dulcet tones of English. Such a pure language, developed in a magical place without any influences from any other nasty, discordant languages. Mmm hmmm.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not too highbrow for football. I was annoyed there was no new episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta last night–I assume because they didn’t think they’d get enough viewers. I know, I know, RHoA, more brown people. Black women. If it makes you feel better, dear racists, I found that out after eating a slice of apple pie. My dessert, after a dinner of arroz con habichuelas.
At this point, I don’t know if I’m more angry, sad, or disgusted. I do know I wish we were a smarter country. Smart enough for everyone here to understand we are a nation built on the backs of immigrants, after stealing the land from the Native Americans already living here. Guess they didn’t count, since they didn’t speak English. Guess what? You, in your racist spouting household probably have traditional meals included in your pure American Thanksgiving dinner that are actually throwbacks to your family’s heritage. Potato salad? German. Pasta? Italian. Butter cookies? Norwegian. Corn? Beans? Squash? The three sisters are Native American, and you should stop serving all three because Native Americans certainly aren’t what you mean when you talk about real Americans. And I’ve got another little surprise for you, all the rhetoric you’re spewing, about these Mexicans/Domincans/Haitians/Koreans/fillintheblankins, you know, the crap about not learning English, not becoming American enough for your taste, their strange foods, the way they’re taking your jobs and your wimmenz…not original or new. The same tired fearful and fear mongering lines have been spouted for two centuries of immigration. I’m very sorry to tell you, the good old days weren’t what you think they were.
English: A Turkish immigrant in New York (1912). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I wish we were smart enough to understand that we are not an isolationist nation and never were. I wish we were smart enough to understand that instead of trying to fit everyone into a cracked mold that’s a figment of stultified imaginations, we need to move forward, leave this nonsense behind. I wish we were smart enough to understand that the affordable air travel, internet and cell phones have brought us more than resort vacations, Candy Crush, and sexting. We are living in a global economy. Guess who’s going to get ahead in a global economy? Those who are able to respect cultures other than the one they grew up in; those who speak more than one language, those who aren’t terrified by the sight of someone who has different skin color, eye shape, hair texture, religious beliefs, clothing or customs than their own. Those who don’t vomit hatred because their sacred game has been tainted by nothing.
That’s right, I said it. Nothing. You’re up in arms because the ridiculously priced commercials selling shit you don’t need during a game dared to show America as it is, not your fantasy of what it should be.
I just got off of the train. On the subway I hear English, spoken with a broad number of American accents. I hear English spoken with accents from Ireland, England, New Zealand, Pakistan, Guyana, Australia, South Africa, Ghana, Jamaica, Zimbabwe, Kenya, Papa New Guinea. I hear Spanish, Italian, French, German, Hebrew, Arabic, Tagalog, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Tagalog, Portuguese, Hindi, Vietnamese, Yiddish, Polish, Serbo-Croatian, languages from Scandinavia and languages from Africa. I don’t know who was born here, who’s an immigrant–documented or undocumented–who’s a tourist here to pump thousands of dollars into our economy. Shocking though this might be, I don’t care. It’s beautiful to my ears, part of being an American in New York.
I’ve spent quite a bit of time in New England, including the more rural areas where it’s truly rare to see a person of color or hear a language other than English. Also beautiful, also part of America. I’ve spent time down South, where outside of the major cities you don’t hear as many different languages, but still a few, and see many people of color. Beautiful. I’ve spent time in the Southwest, where there are more Native Americans, and I heard bits of languages rarely if ever heard in NYC. Beautiful. Time in the Pacific Northwest, where I heard more Norwegian words and influences than I hear in the east, heard languages and saw faces originating from Alaskan Native cultures. Beautiful. To me, that’s what makes America. It’s vast, our population is huge and mixed, influences from all over the world are seen, heard, and felt in our in language, music, food, and clothing. My America isn’t more or less American than yours.
I want to be clear, when you say things like “I don’t mean you,” you do. You mean my children, my family, my friends, my neighbors. When my kid is chosen for a job over you or yours, it isn’t and won’t be because of looks or last name. It will be because he has always and continues to work his ass off, speaks three languages, knows how to be respectful and appreciative of all cultures and focus on commonalities in our global economy.
I’m not a politician, not a sociologist or anthropologist, not an academic, not in marketing or advertising. I’m not a mover or shaker in any circle, no impressive degrees, haven’t traveled the world, really not that smart. A plain old gal living on the fringe. But I know the commercial that prompted this latest round of bullshit has nothing to do with anything you’re whining about. It’s about the Coca-Cola company wanting to reach the broadest possible audience, so the next time you’re in front of a display in the store, choosing between Coke and Pepsi, you spend your dollars on Coke. And I will. Or I would, if I drank soda–or pop, or coke, depending on what region of the US you’re in.
You know those friendships. We all have them. Pick-up friendships. The people you don’t see, or don’t speak to, or don’t see an email/post from for months and months, and then when you do it’s like you saw them last week and it feels so…good. They are the sweetness in life that leave us smiling, seemingly small but full blessings within the frustrations and drudgery of day to day life.
I saw one of those friends this evening, Honor, and in fact I think it was from him that I first heard the expression, of friendships being like a game of pick-up basketball you find on the public playgrounds of the city. Just walk onto the court and start playing. He was a teacher of Man Child’s years ago, and over the years became a friend to Man Child, a friend to all of us. I call him Honor because he is one of those rare people who lives his principles, always kind, always thoughtful. He was raised by a mother who believes you never show up at someone’s house empty handed. Old fashioned? Yup. Unnecessary? Absolutely. And completely lovely.
A frigid, snowy night. Could there be a more perfect gift?
After a little catching up, Honor, Man Child, and Miss Music left to go out for dinner. They went to a local restaurant that’s about to close. Priced out of the neighborhood after more than thirty years. Oh New York. I’m sorry I won’t get the opportunity to go in before they’re gone, but I didn’t realize they were closing in time to plan. Ah well.
I didn’t get to have my favorite sandwich one last time, but Flower Child and I were treated to our favorite live music.
Thank you, Nerd Child!
Now all is quiet. I’m just watching the snow coming down, waiting to hear if the public schools will be closed tomorrow. Thinking about the WIP, turning a few ideas over in my mind. Tomorrow I write. And continue avoiding the mirrors, I got my hair cut today. Blech.
It’s coming down hard and fast, a snow day is feeling possible.
Français : Adèle of Champagne (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Happy New Year, Fringelings!
I was looking for an appropriate quote to inspire me for the coming year–or at least inspire me for a New Year’s post, and I found this:
“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”–Theodore Roosevelt
I think that’s what I did over the course of 2013. Not a banner year, but hell, those don’t really exist for those of us on the fringe, do they? Still, not a bad year. Bad moments, scary moments, disappointments? Oh yes, plenty of those. But also some lovely moments, and I find myself further along on the path of acceptance, a là Theodore Roosevelt. I did what I could with what I had, where I was.
I wrote. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote a few new short stories, two of which I’m pleased with. I held my breath and closed my eyes and posted one of my stories for all to see here on Mrs Fringe. I finished a WIP, Wanna Bees. I edited, I revised. I wrote a query letter for it, and did some half-hearted querying of it. It’s a light, romancey magical realism/urban fantasyish piece. I participated in a twitter pitch contest with it. Lesson learned, twitter pitching is not for me. And then I stopped querying it. Another lesson learned. I want to be that light hearted, romancey love conquers all woman who believes I can and will have it all. But I’m not. I’m a quirky old gal who will do anything for the people I love, adores each of my children so much it makes my heart ache, prone to the blues when I don’t get enough sunlight, with a tendency to think too much while wondering why, how can it be, and what if.
I want to write what (I think, I hope) I’m best at. So I put Wanna Bees to the side, and began a new WIP: Astonishing. I wish I had the magical combination of freedom, discipline, and a decent night’s sleep every night to produce a reasonable word count every single day. But I don’t. I’m more than 3/4 of the way through the first draft, and at the moment, I’m stuck. Pondering, as my friend Buzzie says. I swing between thinking I’ve really got something here and being convinced this is the suckiest suckage I’ve ever committed to paper (or keyboard) and I’m completely delusional to think any agent will ever be interested, let alone a publisher willing to put money towards it. Literary fiction, for God’s sake–something a good number of people don’t believe is a real thing, and assume anything categorized as such is code for pretentious, bloated, navel gazing prose. Still, I haven’t given up, and don’t plan to. A few people I respect and value who’ve seen excerpts have been very encouraging. They like it. Ask if it’s finished–because they want to read the rest. Completely cool, and completely terrifying.
I kept blogging, through times when necessity dictated more sporadic posts, I doubted anyone was reading, doubted whether any of my words should be out in cyberspace. Through Mrs Fringe I raged, I railed, I giggled. I’m glad I did, I’m glad you’re here, and have no plans to stop blathering any time soon. I made and deepened several friendships through blogging and through the writer’s forum.
All three of my kiddos are doing well. Moments of breath holding, nerves, fear, yup. But no out and out medical crises this year for them or Husband, woot!!
I will never be happy living hand to mouth in a cramped apartment, will never stop dreaming of a beach house, will never be blasé when faced with a mountain of medical bills, will never stop wishing I could do more and be more for my kids, will never stop wishing I could be more productive with the hours in my day, will never stop questioning the worth of myself and my words without the validation of a dollar; will keep dreaming of a dishwasher, a yard and garden, my own washer and dryer, a pert nose and perky boobs. But somehow in the year 2013, I did what I could, with what I had, where I am.
I hope to say the same in 2014, and I wish the same for all of you; my followers, my Fringelings, my friends.
Here we are, post Christmas and pre New Years and I have a confession to make. I had a fabulous Christmas.
Here I am, just like Wonder Woman. Except for the boobs.
Excuse the pj’s. See those fingerless glove thingies? They’re warm, and fabulous, and I loooooove them. Actually, when it comes to the stuff of gifts, I kind of racked up this year. I feel embarrassed by my good fortune. Everything I received was something I’ve wanted for a long time, or would have wanted if I thought of it, and I’ve got a goofy grin looking at the boxes and bits of wrapping that still litter the living room. Fringelings and Husband, also happy.
As you can tell, I’m not one of those who obsesses about the placement of each ornament.
As I get older, I’m getting better about letting go of things that don’t matter. I used to spend way too much time and effort picking just the right tree. This year we gave Nerd Child money and sent him to the corner to pick one. He is not one to obsess over these things. Guess what? It was absolutely fine. Decorated and hung with our old familiar lovelies, it was more than fine, it was a perfectly Fringe-y Christmas. Ornaments from places we’ve visited, different times in our lives, gifts from friends and family.
A handblown ornament I loved was knocked off by one of the beasts. Smashed. I wish it hadn’t, but it’s ok. Here I am, proof of emotional maturity. We won’t mention the huge meltdown I had when I didn’t see my cake stand when I woke up in the morning. Guess I’m a work in progress, after all. Turns out Man Child put it away in a place I didn’t think of, to protect it from Big Senile Dog, since he doesn’t seem to realize rules still apply, old or not.
She’s another favorite. That’s the bonus of choosing smaller trees, I only hang favorites. 🙂
During the day on Christmas Eve I was able to run over to my friend’s apartment and bring cookies for her and her husband. These are two of the kindest, smartest, most generous people I’ve ever known. They gave me a lovely gift, but having them in my life is a gift unto itself.
Normally, I make a big breakfast/brunch on Christmas Day (mostly prepped the night before), and we spend the bulk of the day in our pj’s chilling, playing with new stuffs, and an open door for whatever friends and family would like to drop by. Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog plant themselves next to the table, just waiting for something, anything, to be left unattended.
She scored a tissue, he’s holding out for bacon.
This year Man Child did all the breakfast prep on Christmas Eve. Good thing, because I hurt my back and just could.not.stand. for any more kitchen prep. Would have turned into a throwback to the Christmas mornings when I was pregnant and on bed rest–Christmas bagels. After the opening of the gifts, 8 gazillion cups of coffee, and breakfast, we took our time and then went to have dinner with Mr and Mrs Smitholini and their crew.
It’s been a long time since we were all together. And by all, I mean the five of us and the seven of them, plus Mrs S’s brother. Why yes, Mrs Smitholini and I were both quite, ummm, fertile in our younger years. Our kids spent a lot of time together growing up. We used to trick or treat together every year, when the Smitholinis lived in one of the outer boroughs, and I have a photo of the crew on their front steps, in costume, for about 10 years straight. Every year there was at least one more. At this point the age range is from 12 up to 22. Most not really kids anymore, all with their own lives and schedules, and a rarity to have all in one place for the day.
I hope everyone had some peace and laughter during their holiday, whichever holiday you celebrate. A moment where you felt love, kindness, and general silliness.
So yes, it was a beautiful day, peace and laughter and thankfulness. I would appreciate it regardless, but we had a particularly stressful few days beforehand. There was a glitch with our health insurance that is about 1/2 an inch from complete disaster for us, and then discovered someone hacked into our cell phone account and added 6!! lines and purchased 4 iPhones on our account. Life, keeping it real.
I woke up early today and spent an hour and a half scrubbing the stove of the blackened, greasy remnants of the past weeks’ cooking and baking frenzy. I should be working on Astonishing right now, but I’m a little stuck. Again. I hoped the fumes of bleach and Easy Off would trigger some ideas. No such luck. I’m thinking about New Years, goals for 2014, but not quite ready to write them down.
Not exactly Wonder Woman. Not a wonder, not changing the world, no satin tights. But all in all, not a bad close to 2013.
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.
mrsfringe 