Friends

French Toast and Friends

Soaking

I hope all the Fringelings and anyone visiting Fringeland is having a lovely holiday season.

I think many of us have that tradition. That one tradition that doesn’t have anything to do with gifts or how good the year was or wasn’t, it just symbolizes how you and yours see the holidays. In our house it’s Christmas French Toast. I make the custard and slice the bread on Christmas Eve, set it all to soak overnight in the fridge, to be popped into the oven and baked while we open gifts in the morning. Regardless of individual tastes, allergies, dietary restrictions, we all eat it, we all like it, and no matter what else I include for breakfast I make enough to feed a battalion. Something about is the perfect blend of comfort food and special occasion. Some years we have several visitors in the early part of the day and it all goes, other years we have leftovers for the next couple of days.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about last year at this time. I was still finishing up Astonishing. I made New Year’s resolutions. I was hopeful. I spend a lot of time–and have posted about it several times– thinking about hope vs acceptance. I don’t think the two can be separated, they’re a pair, they balance each other. This year, today, I’m more about acceptance. Continuing to work on finding peace within balance.

I began Mrs Fringe from hope. Hope of connecting, hope of writing regularly. Over the past year, I’ve expanded the blog to include some of my fiction (links to pages above). Still hope, but also acceptance of this is where I am, and where, for now, I have readers. Thank you.

I’ve also been indulging in my other pre-New Years tradition. Panic. This was an expensive year, moving to the larger apartment. I am grateful, every day, that we were able to do this, that we have more space, that I’m sitting and writing this at my own desk! and of course, the unnatural love and appreciation I have for the dishwasher. But the money seemed to fly off the balcony, chasing the blue jay who pops over to the balcony each morning for a quick hello. He’s yet to stay long enough for me to snap a photo. I turn back with the camera, and am left swearing he was just there. Much like looking into my empty wallet.

Christmas morning I was awake early. I’d say too early, but it wasn’t because it gave me an hour to sit with these.

Don’t come to Fringeland expecting marble countertops. 1960’s formica all the way!

Yessssss

The book and the mug were gifted by friends (both of whom I met online) who’ve spent time with my family and in my home, who know me well enough to give me this peaceful hour of feeling acceptance is a fine place to be. A gift I received from another wonderful friend the day before Christmas Eve: hope. And faith. By choice or by circumstance, I know many who live and live well without relatives, but I don’t know any who live well without friends.

And because my glass box is my ultimate symbol of hope, Husband and Art Child braved the traffic and got me a few new underwater friends.

orange plate coral, isn’t he beautiful?

montipora capricornus frag

blue acropora frag

I’ll be home on New Year’s Eve. Too many drunk people roaming the streets and cheering make me nervous. That isn’t to say it won’t be an exciting evening. Husband has the day/evening off from work, Man Child will be returning from his holiday travels–stepping off a thirty hour train ride–Nerd Child will be recovering from oral surgery, and Art Child will be thrilled to have both of her brothers home at once, even if they’re snoring the evening away. Sounds perfect to me.

So no resolutions for me this year, other than to continue trying to find that balance.

I’m wishing all of you peace for the New Year.

Little Things

Can I interest you in a cuppa?

Let’s be honest. Good or bad, day to day life is mostly about the little things. Hitting on the right sentence, facing the overflowing laundry basket, kiddo feeling wobbly-wobbly, it’s all those small moments. See the teapot above? I love that thing, the little ritual of spooning out my favorite tea, pouring the water in and letting it steep. Now that we’re in a bigger space, I feel like I can breathe better and enjoy those moments more frequently. Let’s be honest, the dishwasher plays a big role in all of this. Oh, the joys of planning a snack or meal and not stopping to calculate how many dishes/pots/pans it will create.

And the tank. All the little things I get to watch in the tank now–and this is well before I purchase any livestock.

Full tank shot–now with live rock to jump start the cycle!

I got just a few pieces of live rock the other day, brought them home and put them in the tank, and surprise! The first hitchhikers. A patch of bubble algae–nuisance, though you can all snicker imagining me chasing these little green pimples through the water, a small patch of zoas (zoanthid, a type of soft polyped coral that looks like little flowers)–unlikely to survive the cycle–most living critters can’t tolerate the spikes in ammonia, nitrite, and nitrate that are an integral part of a new tank’s cycle, but still made me smile, a mushroom (corallimorpharian), and two red legged hermit crabs. Hmm.

Many people consider them a necessary and valuable part of the “clean up crew” in a reef tank. I don’t like hermit crabs. They’re cute and interesting to watch, until they spot the shell they like better than the one they’re wearing, and murder the snail inside to appropriate it. And then they decide switching shells and killing snails was great fun, and they go on a killing spree, ripping snails from their needed shells even when it’s a shell that wouldn’t cover their beady little eyes. But, they could survive the cycle, and in the meantime I have no snails. It’s nice to see a little life behind the glass. Couldn’t get a shot of them yet, sorry. One went half under a rock, the other is hiding at the back of the tank.

Poor tightly closed zoas, soon to melt away.

Most of the color on the live rock is coralline algae, a “good” algae that gives a nice purple color to the tank and ideally uses up the nutrients that would otherwise promote the growth of nuisance algae.

Left side

Right side

One of these days I’m going to find the tripod, still packed away somewhere. It makes a big difference in the quality of the pics I can take through the glass.

It’s Friday, Fringelings. I’m looking forward to Friday Night Madness with Fatigue and enjoying the little things. Excuse me while I go test the tank for ammonia levels. Let the cycle move forward! But no, you shouldn’t pee in the tank.

Wanna Tour NY with Mrs Fringe?

Where’ve I been? Playing tour guide, of course. I mentioned a while back one of my longtime reefing friends was coming to visit. I’ll call her Bella, because she’s a beautiful person. She came, she stayed, we walked, we rode the subways, and I laughed a whole lot. And of course, lots of eating. On a tight budget, many of the more traditional attractions are off limits, but there is still plenty of NY flavor to be experienced. Gave her a New Yorker’s NY experience, complete with 5am wake ups and a high school open house. Whaddya mean that isn’t a real tour? It’s city life once you’re beyond clubs and late night bars when you aren’t one of the wealthy and fabulous.

I didn’t take photos of all the food consumed, but I’ll just say between me and one of our other reefing friends–I’ll call him Blue, because blue is my favorite color and he’s currently sporting a fabulous steel blue mohawk, Bella was able to experience a broad variety of international flavors unavailable in her southern town. Yah, yah she says it’s a city, but population < 30,000 = a town to me. The first day was all about the food–and a little walk through Central Park.

Fall flora

And the fauna

Look! An authentic city rat. Aw, c’mon, he’s just a little one.

The second, I took her to the Met–after introducing her to the subway, Metrocards, and a city bus. The Met is my favorite museum, and the admission price is a recommended donation. In other words, you can give what’s comfortable and still enjoy the full experience. Sort of. The Metropolitan is huge, I don’t recommend trying to cover the whole thing in a day. Better to choose a couple of exhibits and take them in fully. Which we did.

Beautiful art to see and study no matter where your eyes land.

Prints and copies are lovely, but there is NOTHING like seeing the real deal in front of you.

After the museum, I had to introduce her to a dirty water hot dog and a knish in front of the steps to the museum. I don’t care what your budget is or isn’t, what the weather is or isn’t, these are integral NY experiences.

oh, the pigeons!

Bella was able to explore further with Blue, traveling by subway to the outer boroughs, experiencing a smaller gallery exhibit, and even catching the LIRR to meet with another friend and see Oyster Bay. We had a small gathering of fishy friends at my place over the weekend, such a treat to laugh in person–and of course, show off my new tank. Our Long Island friend even brought me a cup of live sand from one of her incredible reef tanks to “seed” mine. Yes, we’re nerds and proud of it.

Yesterday was her last day in the city, so I took her back to Central Park and headed uptown, then to St John the Divine–one of the most breathtaking sights of the city, in my opinion, and certainly my favorite church. Bonus, it’s another “recommended” donation, you pay what you can to enter.

How is scaffolding erected with signposts and trees already there? Like this, of course.

Outside the cathedral, I never tire of this one.

I posted exterior shots here on the blog several months back, now I’ll take you inside. In addition to the incredible architecture, stained glass, community classes offered, and private school (love the way you hear children singing and giggling from below as you walk through the cathedral), it is used as a gallery, and there are usually a few temporary exhibits on display in addition to permanent ones.

One more exhibit I want to revisit before it leaves–and take Art Child and Blue with me–It’s a collaborative effort of interfaith and international artists (along with some other photos of the Cathedral mixed in):

Bella had only one request for me this visit, she’d heard me mention, maybe seen photos, of the rice pudding I make. No problem. It takes hours to cook, but it isn’t labor intensive. I made it on Sunday while she and Blue were out sightseeing, since they planned to come back here for dinner. Of course, my oven has been acting up, and when I dished out the pudding, more than half my arborio grains were, well, crunchy. Oops. We were still able to share and enjoy my favorite part of the new apartment. Sunrise or nighttime, clear or cloudy, it’s a hell of a view.

A Good Morning

I see you lurking.

True, my eyes are bloodshot as usual, but when I woke up and went out on the terrace, I had a moment. A really good moment. I could see stars. Several–the sky was that clear. And dark.

I was able to do my abbreviated yoga routine without hurting myself, another plus.

I know the summer is really over, because I’m sitting here with hot tea instead of iced. Still took Art Child to school wearing my shorts and flip-flops, though.

In between yoga and waking the girl, I found this on the table. He did it. Husband found the absolute perfect card for my annual 29th birthday celebration.

The new new math. Or, if you prefer, the new middle aged math.

I was able to get a decent amount of crap sorting and tossing accomplished yesterday, only 3,493 more piles to go! Unreal. How does so much shit accumulate? I look around and swear I don’t want any of it, I’m going to throw it all away. Then I start sorting through, and can only convince myself to part with half. I can weed through the kids old schoolwork. I don’t really need every test, homework assignment, and nursery school painting. I can’t throw away Man Child’s 9/11 journal: his eight year old perspective on what happened from a child’s point of view here in New York, in the days and weeks following the attacks. I can’t throw away Nerd Child’s book from kindergarten, which he dedicated to himself, because he did the work. I can’t throw away Art Child’s early art, or the eleventy billion logs, notes, and receipts that comprise her medical history. I can’t throw away the Christmas card from Husband, assuring me the prior bad year would soon fade from memory. (lies, by the way–crystal clear) I can’t throw away my old, snail mail rejection letters. Can I? Maybe I can. Though they are safely tucked away in the file cabinet, it isn’t like they’re making a mess.

I went up to the new apartment, stared down the ancient monster of a range that comprises half the kitchen.

Chocolate pudding brown. When it was in style, it was called coppertone.

In case you’re wondering, I’m going to bring my beautifully plain white stove upstairs with me. The work is being done. I’m not sure how we’re going to eat for the rest of the year, but most of the major cracks and holes in the walls have already been repaired.

I haven’t worked on my short story in several days, and doubt I will today. I’d like to, but there’s more crap sorting to do. I’m still waiting on agent responses for Astonishing, and as I sort crap, I can imagine my little email bing is notifying me of an offer, and fantasy-stock my soon to be real (maybe, I hope) new tank. One of my friends is making plans to come and visit later this fall. Whee! We’ve never met in person, but after years and conversations, photos and laughs, she’s as real to me as Fatigue.

Anxiety, crap, and all, I’ll take these moments.

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.

Not So Great Escape

I left this view,

Bricks, bars, and concrete, just a hint of green.

and this mourning pup

If she could, she’d be dressing herself in black from head to tail.

And spent a couple of days looking at this view

Pool!

Ok, maybe it’s true that an overnight in the suburbs with Art Child isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I imagined a vacation this summer, but I take what I can get. I needed to get out of the city, away from the waiting and waiting to hear about the apartment, because I’m a peasant. And apparently peasants aren’t worthy of timely responses, regardless of how much money is involved. And a couple of days of laughter with friends are always a good thing. Besides, look what I got to snack on while poolside

Blackberries!

once I valiantly fought off this guy

Ok, I waited for him to finish and fly away, but I was still brave.

I floated in the pool, felt my freckles multiply, and watched Art Child turn blue having a great time

Don’t be silly, I don’t sub skate, but it makes an excellent flotation device.

Mr and Mrs Smitholini and I had dinner outside, and had a visit from a neighboring family.

Mr and Mrs Tick dropped by

with their children, Lyme and Disease

The four legged members of the household were particularly happy for the company.

She let the guests know exactly where they should go

while he watched her

and he wished they would both stfu and let him enjoy his massage.

Later in the evening, Mr. Chic–artist and model extraordinaire, third born of the Smitholinis, about to return to his art college– gave Art Child a trim. Her bangs are now perfect, she is beyond thrilled, and all is right with the world.

The following morning, I tried to snap photos of the bluejays chasing each other from tree to tree, but they were too damned fast. On the way home, we stopped in a new to us fish store, where Mrs Smitholini and I drooled over the gorgeous and healthy fish and coral. They even had frag tanks with very reasonably priced pieces (“frags” are fragments of coral reef colonies, a more budget friendly option than buying entire colonies for your tank, not to mention the thrill of watching a tiny frag thrive and grow into a colony in your very own slice of the ocean). I had a long chat with the manager about the latest in LED fixtures for the best coral growth, and then, in the back, I found they had the tank of my dreams. THE tank. 80 gallons of shallow reef goodness. I inspected the glass, the silicone, inspected the cabinet under the tank, climbed a ladder and peered into the back chambers. Mrs Smitholini stopped me from actually climbing into the tank. She’s always been my voice of reason.

Look At Me, I’m A Person!

Party of one

This is my morning. Every morning. I begin each day on the terrace with my coffee and my phone for a morning email check in with a friend–“ready?”– who lives many states away. Whichever of us is awake first sends the first email and cybercup.

But there’s a new and important difference to this little tableau. Can you guess what it is? Until yesterday morning, I didn’t have a real grown up sized chair, or this cute table. That’s right, for the past seven years I have woken up anywhere between four and six AM, gone onto the terrace, and sat down with my coffee and phone, pretty much on the floor, no table.

What do I mean by pretty much on the floor? This.

See the difference?

Yes, I’d been using the low-slung reject beach chair–rejected for the beach because the back can’t be adjusted/reclined. Why, Mrs Fringe, wasn’t your butt cold sitting on that in the winter months? Yes, yes it was. Mrs Fringe, didn’t that aggravate your back over the past year, when you’ve been dealing with the back pain from Satan? Yes, yes it did. When I first moved into this apartment, a little patio set went on the list. But yanno, the list is long, and things like a real outside chair for myself fall way down to the bottom of the list of needs and wants that never stops growing. We’re still waiting for an official *go* on the larger apartment, but it seems like it is going to come through, and this would push a patio set that much further down the list. Because budget.

Initially, I didn’t really mind. First of all, how could I complain when I actually had an apartment with a terrace? And you all know how much I love the beach, so I would sit in my little chair, close my eyes, and pretend I was on a beautiful beach somewhere else.

When Mr Smitholini first saw this, years ago, he laughed and told me he was going to bring me the sandbox from when his kids were younger, so I could really live the dream. Not a bad thought, really. It became a running joke, every time I spoke with Mrs Smitholini on the phone, every time they came to visit. They don’t come very often. Let’s face it, driving and parking in the city sucks, we are 8000 people and creatures in a two bedroom apartment, and their family of seven squished around the dining room table in addition to my family of five creates an, ummm, cozy dinner. They have a spacious and beautiful home in the suburbs, so it’s more frequent that we go to visit at their house.

Until about two weeks ago, it had been a couple of years since they were here. Life, work, twelve people’s schedules…not so easy to coordinate. But then they were here, in dress clothes because they came over after a family function. Mr Smitholini wanted to sit on the terrace to have his cigar, and I, the hostess with the mostest, offered him the beach chair. He was a good sport about it, Mrs Smitholini and I sat on the ground, but, ummm, suit + beach chair + middle aged bodies + middle of Manhattan = not so fun. We went to visit them two days ago, and Mrs Smitholini had this present for me.

A real, grown-up patio set. Two (matching!) chairs and a table. One of her kiddos even put it together for me before we got there. Squee! It isn’t just the furniture that’s a gift, the past two mornings have been a gift to my back, as I settled with my coffee and phone, watching the sun rise.

I don’t consider myself an outdoorsy gal, but I need to start my days like this. Sun, rain, or snow, I have to be outside. My beach house will remain a fantasy, but I figure out what I can to get my imagination there with the pesky reality of my body being here in the city. Time on the terrace, forever friends, and soon I hope, another little slice of the ocean in a glass box.

So here I sit, on a grown-up chair, like a real person on the terrace. My laptop even fits comfortably on the table, coffee cup to the side. Are you ready for coffee?

Bubble Bubble

Macbeth and Banquo with the Witches by Henry Fuseli (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It was a long week here in Fringeland.

I’m still waiting to hear back about the fulls that are out for Astonishing, and still waiting to hear about the apartment. I could send more queries, but I don’t want to. Not yet. Frankly, I can only hold so many details about who has what in my wee brain before I’m overwhelmed, and this feels like my limit. Sure, I have it all written down, keep notes and dates, but still. Nothing like endless waiting to make you feel insignificant. Passive. For someone who writes, passive is a cardinal sin. Good stories, good characters, have readers turning pages because they want to know what happens next. Nothing happening, pouring the ninth cup of coffee? Yawn. If I were a character, I’d write myself out of the manuscript, or make horrible things happen to force myself to act.

Clearly, the answer was to start writing that story I’ve been thinking about. Never mind that I wasn’t ready to start writing. For a lot of people who write, that is the answer. So I opened up a fresh blank Word document, and started writing. I didn’t write the whole story, but a lot of it. And it sucks. Because while this method works for many, it doesn’t work for me. Not for short stories, anyway. I have to be ready, the characters need to be complete and clear in my mind, even if I don’t actually know exactly what they’re going to do until they’re doing it.

I have some very kind and generous followers here in Fringeland. Kind and generous enough that I would bet $5 that two of you read that last paragraph and thought to yourselves (whether or not you’ve read any of my fiction), “it doesn’t suck, Mrs Fringe is being too hard on herself.” Nope, I’m not. Sometimes I write things that I think are pretty good, and sometimes I write things that I know should be burned, never to be seen by readers. It’s part of writing, and in my opinion, it’s an important skill to have.

But between the unending waiting, the passivity and the suckage of that short story, I had a couple of those days. Odds are if you write, you have them yourself. The ones where you’re convinced that you have nothing to say, no grace when saying it, and every file in your thumb drive is evidence of your inability to phrase a coherent sentence, let alone craft a story someone would want to read. This then leads to, “that’s why I haven’t heard back from the agents. It isn’t because it’s conference season, or because there’s been 15 strains of crud viruses tearing through the city and I’ve seen many of those agents Tweet about being sick, and it certainly isn’t because they’re busy working for clients–you know, the ones that allow them to pay their rent, eat, and read queries and requested material. No, no. It’s because of the unbelievable level of suck in my manuscript.”

And then I had a day where I was laid out with the mother of all migraines. I’ve gotten them for years and years, very familiar, and this might have been the worst one I’ve ever had. My skull felt like a damn eggshell for about 24 hours after it ended.

Last night Fatigue came for dinner. Turns out I wasn’t yet ready to enjoy a beer, but still, it was a nice evening, and after Art Child went to bed I read him the next two chapters of Astonishing–our current Friday Night Madness routine. We’re past the halfway point in the manuscript, the tension is tightening, and Christina (main character), well, Christina is starting to really feel the effects of her drinking as she makes poorer choices, and the lines between real, surreal, and plain old alcohol warped perception become more blurred. Fun, the last scene I read to Fatigue ends with a quote from Everything’s Coming Up Roses from Gypsy. Fatigue is a cabaret singer with an amazing baritone, and after I finished–you know I didn’t sing the lines with my Edith Bunker voice–Fatigue sang them.

And I had this moment. Because Astonishing doesn’t suck. It was a good scene, a good couple of chapters, and there is enough there for me to still believe this manuscript will be the one. It was the right time for me to write Astonishing, and I think it is the right time for Christina’s story to be read.

Pick-Up

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.

¡A Tu Salud!

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.