Friends

All the World is Waiting For You

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.

Wonder Woman Covers (Photo credit: jooleeah_stahkey)

Bad Influence: A Feel Good Moment

friends (Photo credit: ROSS HONG KONG)

You may be surprised to learn this, but I don’t have a lot of friends. I know, I know, it’s shocking. But the friends that I have, I’ve had for a long time.

Two of my oldest friends are a married couple I’ll call Mr and Mrs Smitholini. We met in Brooklyn, long before they were godparents to my children, before I was godmother to theirs, before they were Mr and Mrs. Mrs Smitholini and I hit it off as soon as we met. Me and Mr Smitholini? Not quite as instant a friendship.

Mr Smitholini is old school. One of those guys who was born old school–before it was skool. He thought I was a bad influence on the future Mrs Smitholini, with my peasant skirts, tie-die jeans, and loose, wanton ways. “Whaddya mean ya write poetry? I’ll give ya a poem.” We had fun, though–when we weren’t each trying to convince the other (s)he was being a bad influence on (the future) Mrs Smitholini. A lot of fun. I have two other friends I’ve known longer than Mr and Mrs S. We’ve all spent a lot of time together over the years. I was maid of honor at two of their weddings, they were bridesmaids at each other’s. I, of course, was the hussy who got married in Vegas–no bridesmaids. A lot of laughter over the years–most of it completely sober, too! And yes, tears. Weddings, funerals, christenings, baby showers, wedding showers, Sunday dinners, painting each other’s homes, changing diapers on each other’s children and general tomfoolery.

Admit it, ladies. There’s nothing like the relationships you have with your long term girlfriends. Gab, gossip, and gorilla warfare over a pot of tea. Or perhaps in the very, very distant past, banana daqueris. But we won’t talk about that night.

There’s this amazing, mushy joy in seeing our children play, hang out together, and enjoy each other, as well as their “aunts and uncles.”

The four of us (Mr and Mrs S, Husband and I) are friends. Not just got used to each other’s Mr/Mrs, but friends. Mr Smitholini and I each saw what Mrs Smitholini saw in the other one. So I’ve counted him as one of my friends for many years already. And the Mrs? I can’t imagine life without her. We’ve lived close, we’ve lived far, our lives have changed. Day to day for each of us is busier, we no longer spend hours on the phone every single day, but she’s still the first one I call. We don’t get to see each other in person on a regular basis anymore, but when we do, it’s like we were together the day before.

Some of our running jokes have changed over the years. At this point, Mr S busts my balls asking when I’m going to dye my hair (if I look old, well, that makes him…not as young–Mrs S has excellent, youthful genes that have produced remarkably few gray hairs), and I tell him I’ll go platinum blonde as soon as he gets plugs.

Husband and Flower Child and I went away this weekend. We went North again, our timing as impeccable as ever, we missed the fall foliage, but what the hell, right? Mr and Mrs Smitholini said they would join us. We planned to meet at the motel, no plan to arrive at the same time. Halfway up, we were caught in a major traffic jam. Mr S called. They were also stuck in a major traffic jam. What road are you on? Same road. Where are you? Turns out we were 2/10s of a mile behind them, same lane. We had stopped for dinner, they had stopped for coffee and donuts. We were wishing we had coffee and donuts. They moved into the lane next to us. And shared.

Want one?

Yup, Mrs Smitholini passed the box out her passenger side window into Husband’s driver side window. Turns out Mr Smitholini was right all those years ago. I have been a bad influence on her. She would never have done such a thing when we met, way back when.

What could have been a miserable trip filled with why-did-we-do-this, and we-should-have-left-earlier/later/yesterday never was instead a road trip of laughter, courtesy of our cell phones and mutual bad timing.

When we got to the motel, Mr and Mrs S went upstairs before us. We got to our room, they were standing in the doorway. The desk clerk had mixed up our room keys. So while they waited for us to get upstairs, Mr S closed the window in the room so Flower Child wouldn’t be cold. We swapped keys, and then had a midnight snack together, courtesy of Mr S. Sparkling wine, red wine, cheese, crackers, other assorted goodies. And then we laughed until 2AM. The only time I’m awake for anything other than insomnia at 2am (in the past 15 years) is when I’m with Mrs Smitholini. Maybe we’ve had it wrong all these years, and she’s a bad influence on me.

Wanna Get a Belly Fulla Beer

Ok I’m not talking about Saturday night, I’m talking about Friday Night Madness.

Generally, Husband is off on Fridays, and he orders pizza with Flower Child while I go out with Fatigue. For this month, Husband is working on Fridays. Oh NO!! I need my hour and a half of Friday Night Madness. It’s like a get out of jail free card, only it’s bitch and moan to my heart’s content, or just sit peacefully with my beer while Fatigue moans. Plus all my favorite waitresses work on Friday evening. Blargh.

The other day, on Facebook, I was in a discussion with a group of friends about soups. Try not to be jealous of my glamorous New York lifestyle. One friend mentioned onion soup made with a dark beer base, and it’s been on my mind ever since.

So, I called Fatigue and asked him if he’d like to come here instead of meeting at the bar. Flower Child was very happy. So happy she was *gasp* willing to not have pizza for dinner. On a Friday. This may not sound like much to you, Fringelings, but in our world that is huge. She adores Fatigue and hasn’t seen him in quite a while. Thumbs up. Bought beer, bought onions, Comte, baguette, all good to go.

The weather cooperated when the day started out. Windy, sideways rain, perfect soup for dinner day! I worked on Astonishing, added about a thousand words. This took three times as long as it should have because of the damned noise. They’re STILL working on that building across the street. It’s been over a year. To redo the front and the first floor, where the retail spaces are. I could have built an entire apartment building, complete with plumbing, out of Legos by now. By the time I finished writing for the day and had Flower Child back home from school, the rain was gone, the wind was gone, the sky was perfectly clear, and it was 70 degrees outside. Of course. Well forget it, I had the makings for soup, soup is what I was making.

Except I was looking at that beer and decided I’d rather drink it than put it in the soup. White wine base it is! Shoot, then I should put in a dollop of brandy for depth. (Mrs Fringe, Flower Child, and Fatigue are all vegetarians, so I use vegetable stock, not beef. Poor, poor flesh eating Husband.) I didn’t have any brandy. Or cognac. What the hell, I added a splash of Cabernet.

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A good time was had by all, Flower Child showed Fatigue all of her more recent sketches. A lovely Friday Night Madness indeed.

Happy Saturday, Fringelings!

Today

I went here

and my head exploded at seeing the ride on mower in the quiet zone.

and my head exploded at seeing the mower in the quiet zone.

And I wore this

Turtle.

And I brought these

Green for turtles, green for mitochondrial disorders.

And then I did this

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When I arrived, there was a homeless man playing guitar next to the Imagine mosaic. There’s always someone there singing and or playing. But usually, they’re singing Imagine. Today, as I walked past, he was playing and singing Let It Be, the song Nerd Child played and sang at my mother’s funeral.

I did this in honor of an exceptionally brave little warrior. Friends across the country released balloons or planted bulbs to show support, respect, love, and mourn with a friend when we couldn’t be with her in person.

While I was in Strawberry Fields releasing balloons; a friend, along with her husband and her daughter, was laying her six year old son to rest many miles away. Too soon, too short, too heartbreaking. Mitochondrial disease is something that most people have never heard of, but those who know it, know it all too well. It’s an umbrella term, the name covering many sub-disorders, but all affect multiple systems of the body. The mitochondria are the powerhouses of the cells, bringing oxygen, converting food to fuel and energy. Some forms of mito disease are more aggressive than others, and different people are affected to varying degrees. There is no cure, not much in the way of treatment, and understanding of mito diseases is really in its infancy.

I’ve never met this friend in person, never met her son, but I know her, knew him, wept for every setback and cheered for every discharge from the hospital. I’ve already blogged about online friendships, how very real many of them are. But some have a depth I have no words for. Medical needs moms, special needs moms, the communities and friendships developed are invaluable and indescribable.

Mito sucks, epilepsy sucks, cystic fibrosis sucks, cancer sucks, neuro-transmitter disorders suck, von willebrand’s disease sucks, CDKL 5 sucks, all the assorted disorders rare and otherwise that most-people-can’t-even-name-the-color-of-the-ribbon suck. But the friendships, the support? Beautiful, pure, sometimes gut wrenching and always filled with love.

Rest in peace, sweet boy.

Someday

I can do a lot of dreaming looking at this photo, how about you? ~Mrs F

Late August. Time for the annual panic, “oh no, the school year’s about to start.” I’ve been walking around saying this summer has felt particularly odd because of the cool weather. Lies.

Summer is just never long enough for me. If it isn’t cool temps, it’s temps that are too hot, or too rainy, or too many obligations or too many deaths. Just not enough, which is an old and familiar song for me. The theme of much of my writing, the guilty chorus that whispers about my parenting, the peek at my word count at the end of each day’s writing session, the ever ready want of more.

The other day I went with Nerd Child and Flower Child to my godson’s Eagle Scout ceremony. Induction? I don’t know, scouts aren’t a big thing here in Manhattan. My suburban friends reassure me that scouting exists here in the city, but I’ve never met any beyond a small, half hearted cub scout group when Man Child was in 1st grade, disbanded by Christmas.

Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges (Photo credit: honus)

It was very sweet–though I know better than to use the word sweet in relation to an almost seventeen year old boy– and made me feel old and nostalgic. We took the train to Brooklyn and the Scout’s grandmother, where I sat with my kids on her couch in the living room I spent hours in as a teenager. Not too many people from my past have stayed in Brooklyn, let alone the same house, so it was very alternate reality feeling. We met up with a friend and traveled the rest of the way to Long Island. There I saw more friends, and watched my kids goof around with theirs, and felt the absence of a good friend’s son who passed away last summer.

Obviously more goes into the Eagle Scout thing than I understand, Godson and parents were very, very proud. Local politicians and reps attended and gave brief speeches and congratulations. A snapshot of a lovely moment.

I also missed Man Child. Between boarding school and college he’s been away a lot, and I did get to see him this summer, but he’s already back in the dorm. This is the first time he hasn’t come home to be “home” over a break, and it’s damned weird.

Kind of maudlin today, aren’t I? Did get to the beach with Flower Child yesterday, which felt good, but didn’t quite recharge me in the way I had hoped. A family of three, two parents and a little girl of about 4 years old settled next to us. I couldn’t believe the amount of shit they had with them for two hours at the beach. Six towels, two large shade umbrellas, three huge bags of toys, sunscreen, and snacks: three people. The little girl was covered neck to calves in one of those bathing suit/lycra sun coverall things. I swear Flower Child and I saw bathing suits that looked just like it in the museum last year, what women wore at the turn of the twentieth century. This was not a fair skinned family, but you would think they were albino (am I politically incorrect, is there a more current term?) with the amount of sunscreen they slathered on. I’m not going to mention their little disagreement with the lifeguards about the safety of their sweet pea, and the rule against life jackets/swimmies in the ocean. I know it seems counterintuitive to the Backyard Pool crowd, but really. Big waves, riptides, small children, you don’t want them at all out of reach and where they can’t safely stand.

I know we’re all so much safer than previous generations, fewer kids will find themselves in the dermatologist’s office with a skin cancer diagnosis, but widespread Vitamin D deficiencies weren’t a thing when I was using baby oil and iodine instead of SPF 8000, either.

Listened to Creedance Clearwater Revival on the way home, remembered when that was my favorite beach music. When I had to turn the tape over it was time to flip and freckle my other side. I used to work odd hours, at the time I lived in South Brooklyn and worked in either Manhattan or downtown Brooklyn. In the summer, if I was working overnights I’d leave work and head straight for the beach, get a few hours of sleep and sun before heading home to eat, nap, and go back to work. Swing shifts, I’d get up early, get on the train and go back to sleep on the beach, leaving just enough time to shower before work. Thinking a lot about those days as I work on Astonishing, tapping into those old work experiences and certainties that I would, when I was ready, be a published author.

It’s ok, you can laugh, there was no internet then to tell me that isn’t how it works.

How Do You Measure A Year?

I knew it was coming, knew it was coming, and now, WHAM! My blogoversary has snuck up on me. Yup, today is one year since the “birth” of Mrs Fringe.

I’m in the midst of a dental emergency, and whatever they gave me at the dentist this morning is wearing off, so I’m going to keep this short. Also without all of the links I had intended to post. Just go ahead and check out my blog roll. Really. Every single blogger on my roll is someone whose words I read, someone I respect, someone with something to say, through words or images, that touches my heart.

English: Toothache 13th century corbel head on St.Andrew’s chancel arch http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/771085 suffering with toothache for around 750 years whilst his friend opposite grins unsympathetically http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/771095 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I began Mrs Fringe in the hopes of giving myself a safe place to navel gaze, vent, be honest, and get my writing synapses connecting again. It has fulfilled every one of these hopes and much, much more. I didn’t know if anyone would be interested in reading what I had to say, and that was ok. Did I hope my ramblings would reach a few people? Of course I did. Hell, I fantasized about one of those sensational “hit it” blogs that result in legions of followers and a book deal. I also fantasize about winning the lottery. But I don’t buy lottery tickets, I blog. So here we are, one year later. No legions, no book deal, but the reality is that I have more followers, made more friends, had more great conversations, met more interesting people than I ever thought could/would really happen.

I also completed a manuscript, Wanna Bees–that I’m now querying–and have begun another one. I submitted a few short stories, wrote a few more.

Mrs Fringe may not be an overnight sensation, but for me, it is a rip roaring success. Because of you, my readers, my Fringelings, who have stopped to check out a post and stayed to become a member of Fringeland. In my opinion, a blog is only as good as its community, and we’ve built a hell of a little community here together. Thank you, for visiting, for following, for joining in the conversation whether you agree with my opinion or not. All are respected, all have been respectful, and all are welcome.

I feel honored and humbled by each and every “follow,” each and every person who takes the time to comment. Very few of the people who have become a part of Mrs Fringe are people I know “in real life.” Hell, even among those few, most are people I’ve met online, through blogging, special needs moms communities, or writing.

In this year, I’ve written 177 posts

Gathered 234 followers

Received 3, 386 comments

Had 11, 675 views

from 91 countries

Been asked to guest blog by people who stumbled upon my blog.

Been Freshly Pressed once

Gotten more joy, support, laughs, tears, and warm fuzzies than I thought possible.

Remembered what it is to be a person, an individual, a woman thinking about the world with something to say.

Last August, one of my posts was chosen for Freshly Pressed. It was two days after I posted, and I had no clue why I suddenly had all these comments waiting for me. A new blogger, I had no clue what Freshly Pressed was. I don’t consider it one of my “best” posts, but being recognized among the WordPress community was, in an overused and abused word, awesome. I like to think that one day, with more posts under my keyboard and a greater understanding of what I’m doing here, it will happen again.

Confession. I am a bad blogger. Good bloggers have a posting schedule and stick to it. I don’t. Good bloggers show their readers they care about and respect them by paying for upgrades. I do care about and respect you, but I haven’t paid for upgrades. sorry. It’s a budgeting thing. Good bloggers have one very specific focus, so viewers/readers/followers know right away what type of blog it is, and what they’ll be reading about each time. Oops. Good bloggers don’t use expletives to get their point across, and certainly never in their titles. Shit.

Have I said thank you clearly enough? Muchas gracias.

And now, I’m going to see if I’ve got any pennies left in my bag after today’s shakedown at the dentist. Maybe someone still sells this.

English: “Cocaine toothache drops”, 1885 advertisement of cocaine for dental pain in children. United States. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Braggage: Warning, Sap Ahead

No Whining (Photo credit: bepositivelyfit)

I do quite a bit of whining here, if you hadn’t noticed. I happily tell you I’ve got plenty to whine about. It’s a life, like anyone else’s, and I’ve got a few bright spots too. The beauty of a novel that makes me cry because I’ll never write anything as masterful, getting to know a new friend, writing a story, a scene, a sentence I’m proud of, the mango I cut open this morning that was absolutely perfect.

But most braggage centers around my children. I’m broke, overcrowded, overtired and frustrated, but in so many ways I hit the lottery when it comes to my kids. They’re good people, all three of them.

Man Child isn’t coming home for the summer. I miss him like crazy, but he has a wonderful job opportunity–one that came from his hard work. the good impression he makes on others, and the fact that he has proven himself to be trustworthy and a hard worker.

Nerd Child comes home next week. I’m a lot more excited about this than he is. The fancy shmancy school he attends has turned out to be a perfect fit for him. Yesterday he called and told me he won an award for character and leadership.

Earth (Photo credit: tonynetone)

Flower Child couldn’t be sweeter than she is. She cares about the world and all of the people in it, honestly confused as to why people ever do harmful things to each other and the earth.

I woke up thinking about this stuff, feeling okay. Summer has arrived here in NY, ooh, bliss of a comfy old summer dress and flip flops. I even decided to spend a few hours pretending if I spent long enough Googling, I’d figure out how we’d be able to move to a beach town where we could afford a house, find employment, and have good health care for Flower Child.

Lily Tomlin (Photo credit: Larry He’s So Fine)

Instead of knock knock, my reality announces itself with a ring. First, my pharmacist called. Yes indeed, we have a close enough relationship that he called to say hey Mrs F, it’s Pharmacist, I’ve got a Led Zeppelin CD here for you that you and Husband are going to love. Ring ring, hi Mrs Fringe, it’s pediatrician’s office, the second round of paperwork for Nerd Child’s summer program is here for you to pick up. Yah, great, thank you so much, I’ll be there. First I’m going to try to finish the edits I’ve been trying to get through. Ring ring, Mrs Fringe? This is super special futuristic lab doing the next round of genetic testing the puzzle doctor ordered, we need your credit card information before we start running any of the tests. Fringelings, I can’t tell you how I love hearing other writers smugly announce that if writing is truly important to you, you can and do make time every day. Ring ring, Mrs Fringe, this is Puzzle Doctor’s office to confirm Flower Child’s appointment for next week. That appointment was canceled. No, you’re still on the schedule. It was supposed to be canceled. Well, we’ll have to speak with Puzzle Dr assistant and find out, I’ll call you back, ok, Mrs F? Sure.

Flower Child wasn’t feeling well this afternoon/evening. Not feeling well in a way that makes me nervous, but not a crisis. I was supposed to meet Fatigue, Husband was home, I was only going across the street for an hour…so I did. The day started out so promising, damn it–I wanted that feeling back! If you were wondering, the nectar of the gods is a cold glass of gin and lemonade. Until the stranger sitting next to you begins eating your french fries. Then it’s just time to give up. It’s a life, and tomorrow is another day.

And the Winner Is…

Bingo! (Photo credit: jadensmommy)

Hey Artist, Got a Dollar?

Submitted to the Reader’s Choice blog 5 minutes ago. Thanks to all who played along and cast a vote! I have wonderful friends, both online and off.

It’s 7PM on Friday of a three day weekend, woo hoo! I’m getting ready to meet Fatigue for Friday Night Madness in a little while, and I am more than ready. Ready to go be a grown up for an hour, and ready to happydance. Don’t worry, kids! I’ll limit my dance to a squirm in my seat, it’s so upsetting to the 20 somethings when they see a middle aged woman get excited. I’m lowering my cholesterol through exercise–and then I’ll raise it back up with an order of nachos. I know there’s a pint of beer waiting for me, I hope it doesn’t go flat before I get there. I’m certain it won’t be warm, because it’s about 2 degrees here in New York tonight.

Why am I happy? Because today, for the first time in a long time, I felt my rhythm while I was writing. Not just tweaking, editing, revising, not just forcing my butt to stay still and write, but really felt it. This WIP is a romance, but the setting was one I originally conceived of a few years back for a magic(al) realism short story. I’m going to try to graft the two seeds, growing them into something new for me. Will it work? I’m really not sure, but I’m very, very excited, in that way that only a woman who likes to play with characters inside her head can be.

WTF? (Photo credit: mayhem)

On the High Wire

high wire 1 (Photo credit: _gee_)

That’s Mrs Fringe. You can wave, but I won’t wave back, or I’ll surely lose my balance before I’m at the halfway point.

I’m just going to ramble on a bit this evening. Every time I sat down to post today, the phone rang or Flower Child needed help, so whatever ideas I had for a coherent post are gone. I am sending out apologies to my fellow bloggers. Adding a daily fiction writing block to my schedule, in addition to blogging and those other couple of things I do has me working hard on my time management skills, and I need to catch up on what everyone else has been doing.

I’ve felt like I’m up on a high wire for quite a while now, but with my new commitment to, umm…what was that again? Oh yeah, me. And writing…it’s a little different, because I’m trying to add in a bit of style and stay upright, not just hanging on with my pinkies. I think starting to blog was me opening my eyes. I’ve yet to look down. In case you’re wondering, standing up feels great, but it’s a whole lot harder than keeping my act limited to not letting go.

Vwoop. That’s the sound of another safety net being whisked away. Man Child leaves on Monday morning to start an internship. I’ve been trying to get as much done as possible this weekend while I’ve still got him here. Groceries, dry goods, and the best pizza in the neighborhood, because they don’t deliver. Shocking, isn’t it? A NY pizza place that doesn’t deliver. I’d be fine if the guys on the next block with the tasteless, rubbery cheese pizza didn’t deliver. Protip: If you come to visit and want really good NY pizza, go to Brooklyn.

I did have an excellent adventure yesterday morning. Can you guess?

How about now?

Grand Central Station. I haven’t been there in eons, but I went yesterday, and had the pleasure of meeting Caitlin Kelly, of the Broadside Blog. For the record, she is every bit as smart, sophisticated, and lovely in person as she seems to be on her blog. I had a blast. We got to know each other a bit, and spent a while talking about writing, ideas, life, and careers. I walked away feeling energized. Yup, Mrs Fringe being a grown up woman.

Flower Child was home sick from school, but Man Child was able to postpone his plans and babysit. Thank you! Even the rain held off, so I was able to wear my favorite boots. Why are my favorite winter boots suede? Because they’re awesome, I can’t believe you needed to ask.

I miss that too brief period in my life when I was actively involved with writers groups, attending conferences and taking myself seriously in a way that resulted in a lot of fun. Hence my high wire routine. It’s definitely harder than it once was (hell, getting up from the floor is harder than it once was), but I’m doing it.

Hey 2012! Don’t Let the Door Hit You on Your Way Out

Cartoon showing baby representing New Year 1905 chasing old man 1904 into history. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It had moments, but overall, for me, 2012 sucked. Starting Mrs Fringe was definitely a highlight; it was my way of stomping my spread out and beat up old foot, saying,”Yes! There is still a me.”

This New Year’s, I’m going to pretend there’s a possibility that life will be better, and I will have more moments. And by better, I mean not any worse. I’m old enough, had my ass kicked enough, to know this won’t happen magically. The problem with downward mobility is picturing it as a spiral, the pure golden spiral of mathematics or the spiral galaxies of the universe.

English: Golden spiral in rectangles. Português: Espiral dourada dentro de retângulos. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In other words, a somewhat predictable, plottable course. I don’t think plottable is a word, but it suits my purposes, so I’ll call it poetic license. But for most of us living on the Fringe, it isn’t (assuming your descent isn’t the product of addiction, cause that’s a different sort of blog). It’s more of a roller coaster without the ups. Squeaking along wheels shrieking and scraping against the tracks, and then a plunge that drives your teeth into your tongue and cracks your shoulder blade against the too low back of the seat. But somehow, no matter how painful the ride is, you stay seated, following the directions like a good sheep, “Do Not Unbuckle Safety Belt While Ride is in Motion.”

I haven’t made any New Year’s resolutions in a gazillion years. It feels so Hallmark to me. But I’m thinking…gift giving at Christmastime is Hallmark, in and of itself. However, I received some amazing gifts this Christmas that made me leak in their acknowledgement of Mrs Fringe as someone who counts. Here , here, and I can’t thank you enough here. Also, here. So out of this commercial and Hallmark tradition came something beautiful and human. The New Comfort Food cookbook had me thinking about the importance of being ok with being me, being grounded enough to say trying something different doesn’t mean becoming someone different. I’m going to test this, and see if maybe I can make a resolution or two in order to recognize my own humanity. I have three days to decide on a resolution or two, I’m thinking one will involve regular writing submissions.

Do you use the new year to make resolutions?

If I can figure out how to unclench my jaw, and get my brain to release my fingers from their death grip on the sides of this box car, I’m going to search my pockets for the tickets that must be hidden, and try a different ride.