Humor

Good Peasant Stock

This morning I gave up. When I woke, it was 42* outside, windchill of 37*, probably 33* when factoring in the wind tunnel of my terrace. That’s right, I cried uncle and put socks on.

Sock Prayer Flags. (Photo credit: knitting iris)

I have a love/hate relationship with socks. Mostly hate. I prefer barefoot or flip-flops. I always make sure I have at least one pair of shoes that are fuzzy inside so I can delay the dreaded opening of the sock drawer as long as possible. But then…there are so many cool socks out there. Patterns, colors, silky, cozy, cushy, and itchy. Can’t forget itchy. They can be a boost on a cold morning, getting your toes warm and bright yarn to pierce a gray sky.

I always preferred barefoot. When I was a kid and running down the outside stairs without shoes on, my grandmother would yell behind me, “Fringie, the dogs make sissy out there! There’s glass!” Both true. Remember, I didn’t grow up in the country, these were the streets of South Brooklyn, no garbage cans on every corner, cracked cement, before NY was cleaned up for tourists, before the young and hip discovered the outer boroughs, before pooper scooper laws.

Here in Manhattan I don’t often see anyone barefoot outside. Once in a while, though, usually a young woman late at night or early in the morning carrying stilettos. Even I want to yell at her, “The dogs make sissy out here!”

As a teen, I would go to the beach and walk the boardwalk barefoot. The boardwalk used to be wood, no practical composite materials. Old weathered boards. At night, I could be found in my room with a pair of tweezers, picking the splinters out of the soles of my feet. By then, my feet were so calloused I didn’t feel the splinters going in or out. What did I do with my shoes while I was on the boardwalk or the beach? I can’t remember.

Coney Island, New York boardwalk on a foggy night. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now, I’ve got the feet of an old peasant. Makes sense, I am an old peasant. Doesn’t matter if I spend 99 cents or $8.00 on a pair of socks, the average lifespan is a season. Or it would be, if I threw them out once they had holes. I don’t. Not until the holes can no longer be twisted and arranged so my toe doesn’t poke through inside my shoe while I’m walking. That’s uncomfortable. I’m sorry Man Child, you got my feet.

Husband has the feet of royalty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear through a pair of socks. And he wears them :shudder: all year long.

English: Feral Goat on Island Davaar. At the time he was stood stock still and blended into the background very well. I almost walked straight past within a few feet and not notice him. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Have You Seen My

words?

alphabet soup (Photo credit: bark)

Not those, I want the good ones. The ones that make sense, build a story. With feelings and a plot and characters you want to climb inside. Words you can smell, sentences you can hear, paragraphs you can taste.

Workin’ on ’em. Story of my life. Summer is ending, and I’m in a panic. I haven’t written enough words! Too many words of suckage! And who keeps slipping these exclamation points into the blog? Pfft, lazy, lazy writing.

Sometimes the perfect words are few.

Nerd Child: “Mom, I saw an interesting movie the other night.”

Mrs F: “Mm hmm, what?”

Nerd Child: “This is Spinal Tap.”

My work is done.

**One of the Fringelings tells me she was unable to leave a comment on this post. If anyone else experiences the same, please drop me an email to let me know. Thanks!

Don’t Forget to Flush the Terlet!

toilet (Photo credit: Gerard Stolk (vers les 66))

It’s been too long since I posted, and I don’t feel very deep this morning. I haven’t worked on Astonishing in a week, and if I don’t get something done on it today, I’ll have to be flogged at dawn. So, I’ll continue with my travel theme, and share a couple of my favorite public restroom experiences while we were on the road.

For the Fringelings without dangly bits, you know how important it is to have a clean, working toilet when you stop. Fine, we’ve gotten really good at assessing this before even finding the sign, and most of the rest stops along major highways are reasonable. In the interests of people watching/listening, public bathrooms top laundromats, and that’s pretty hard to do.

Earlier this week, Husband and I went south. Just us, just for the day, a work-related thing for him. As a super bonus, I was able to meet one of my long-standing online fish freak friends. For the record, I have excellent online judgement, a super nice guy who was exactly who I thought he would be from our internet conversations. Husband and I could have spent much longer chatting with him.

Husband did his work thing, we drove around and explored the area a bit, bought a couple of heavenly cantaloupes from the Amish, and then headed back home. Stopped for dinner at a chain restaurant (not Cracker Barrel), where I–you guessed it–had to use the restroom. Now, the tables were fairly empty, but the bar was crowded. Serious drinking in progress.

And there in the claustrophobic stall, I heard the music of my misspent youth. Yes, from two stalls over came the sounds of a young woman puking. There are the sounds of someone who is sick, upset, and then there are the sounds of someone experienced, stealthy. Mind your own fucking business music. Quiet, but unmistakable. I didn’t see her, but I’m guessing young because of the baby bar flies falling off their stools.

Faye Dunnaway – 1970s Inspiration (Photo credit: What I Wore)

True, I could be wrong, but this was, without a doubt, the controlled retching of an experienced puker. Could have been an anorexic, but my money’s on regular drinker. You know who I mean, the gal who sits and drinks until she can’t force another drop, goes to the bathroom and empties her stomach so she can drink some more. Totally took me back to the bars I hung out in when I was in my twenties, where that was a regular sight and sound. Somehow it isn’t surprising this still occurs, and in its own way, it was perfect, because the main character in Astonishing is having a long term, destructive affair with wine.

Funny, I wasn’t so hungry by the time I returned to our table.

A couple of hours later, at a regular rest stop for coffee and bathroom. First of all, it was weird because the main entrance for the women’s room was blocked off, and I had to walk through a gift shop and back outside for access. Fine, it was well lit, other people were there, reasonably clean. I walked in just behind a woman with her young daughter. The little girl was probably around three. If you’re not a parent, let me tell you there’s a special hell in public restrooms with young children, particularly at night when they’re overtired. At three, they’re all either OCD or gleeful at the prospect of touching something disgusting. Still years away from deliberate public puking to have that eighth margarita.

This sweet pea was on the OCD side. “NO! I don’t wanna! It’s gonna FLUSH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Mom: “It isn’t going to flush until I flush it. Now sit back down.”

“NOOOOOOOO! It’s gonnnnnnnnna flush!”

“What are you doing?! Sit back down, you’re peeing on me!”

At this point, I’m feeling totally sympathetic towards mom and the little girl. I imagine meeting mom’s eyes across the row of sinks as we wash hands, giving her an encouraging smile. I’ve been there. Flushing is scary to young kids. Powerful automatic toilets that can’t correctly read the weight of small children are terrifying. Once they have the experience of unexpected suction and splash, every road stop can be a trauma.

“Don’t be a baby! You’re a baby! I’m going to put a diaper on you.”

Yeah, there went my sympathy. Kid is now beside herself, wailing uncontrollably. Three! She is a baby. I know, I know. I’m sure mom was also overtired and ready to cry, and we’ve all said things we regret. But there was something about mom’s tone that made me think this wasn’t all that unusual, and it made me sad.

The whole incident had me wishing we could just be home through a magic portal. Maybe flushed through the automatic flusher.

English: Pedestal squat toilet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Brooklyn Beach

Sand Snippets: Those disjointed words, phrases, and sentences you hear when lying on a crowded beach.

–Russian I don’t understand

–Sal, c’mere, meet my friend Maureen, she’s single.

–Ice Cold Beer, Here, Nutcrackers!

—Mira, coñaso!

–Russian I don’t understand

–and he cut her whole chest open, on her bed. She met him online, shiiit.

–Hot Pretzels!

–Are you depressed?

I’ll be happy when I get my frappucino.

–More Russian I don’t understand

–Gimme the vodka

—Pendejo

–I want an iceeee!

–Check her out

–I don’t wanna go in the water

–Fuck ‘em

–More Russian

–I hate this sand, so dirty.

Me too, and the water is disgusting.

Yeah. You ready to go in and cool off?

Yeah.

–Russian commentary from a woman watching two guys playing chess

On the Rocks, Extra Grit

Zwei Cocktails “Leap Frog” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now that it’s late Spring, we’re having some nice weather days here in NY. Not today, and not forecast for this holiday weekend, but it is that time of year. Women toss their tights, sunbathers glare at me as I walk dogs through the park, and restaurants put some tables and chairs outside to extend their seating and offer sidewalk cafes.

Stop and think about that. Al fresco dining in the middle of Manhattan. Now it’s true, we don’t have too much in the way of drive-thrus here. If I’m starving and in a hurry, you just might be able to spot me eating a slice (pizza) as I walk south on Columbus Ave. Not high on the list of dining experiences but it can work.

But I would like someone to explain to me how they think it’s a good idea to pay for a restaurant meal and drinks, and sit outside on Broadway. New York is a whole lot cleaner than it used to be, but it isn’t clean. The amount of dirt in the air is measurable (I know this because the windows in my apartment are usually open, even ten floors above the street a lot of dirt drifts in daily). Ask any person in the city wearing open sandals or flip flops what the soles of their feet look like at the end of the day.

Stephansplatz in Vienna, Austria. Pedestrians walking by. In center a young woman sits on sidewalk barefoot, with the dirty soles of her feet towards the camera. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t forget the tons of pedestrians checking out what’s in your dish as they sneeze past.

I’m not saying I never/have never had a meal outside in the city. I’ve done my share of picnics in the park with the kids. And there’s a lovely cafe in Riverside Park we used to go to. Out of budget now, but it is a nice afternoon option. Grills and tables under a cement dome that provides shade and cooler air, it feels like a public barbeque. Fancier tables are right alongside the Hudson River.

Back to those sidewalk restaurant extensions. There are trees planted along most avenues, growing from square cutouts in the sidewalk. Pretty, and if they’re big/old enough, they offer a little shade and fresh breeze. You’re really appreciate that nice oak three feet away from your table when the dogwalker goes past with a pack-walk. The standard poodle especially loves that tree. As does the mastiff and St Bernard. Splatter splish.

If it’s a popular time of day/evening, don’t forget the press of people waiting for a table. Don’t rush, they’re fine waiting. New Yorkers are much friendlier than tourists expect, they’re happy to provide entertainment. The foodies–or the picky eaters–will deconstruct the contents of your plate and debate the merits of sitting at an outside table. Many are comedians, and crack jokes about how hungry they are, offering to share your meal.

Bon apetit!

English: Looking east across Broadway, past Tom’s Restaurant, down West 112th Street on a cloudy afternoon. ZIP 10025. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dog Poop Picker Upper

Poop Scooping Bag Instructions (Photo credit: reinvented)

Last night I was out with Fatigue for Friday Night Madness. While we waited for our beers to arrive, we caught each other up on the bits and pieces of the last couple of weeks since we were last out. I talked at him, telling him what’s happening with my writing, he talked at me, telling me what’s happening with his singing. A nice evening, the bar wasn’t too crowded, all our favorite waitresses were working, and as usual, the customers were a cross section of our neighborhood. $16 a pint hipsters sitting at one table with a table of $5 pitcher drinkers next to them.

I was pleased to have a funny story to share with Fatigue. Earlier in the day I was cruising the writer’s forum, and came across a thread looking for some ideas for humiliating jobs that a character might have. Jobs that would be super embarrassing, easy targets for being looked down upon, lots of opportunity for humor. Yanno where I’m headed with this, right?

English: Pooper scooper detail at end of the Cherry Blossom Festival Parade in Washington, D.C. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

No less than three people volunteered the idea of dog poop picker upper. Now it’s true, lots of opportunity for comedy in this, and it doesn’t have quite the same ring as “My Son The Doctah,” but we all do what we have to do. Fatigue is a singer, who walks dogs to pay his rent. Mrs Fringe is a Mama, a writer, and walks dogs to put the pharmacist’s kid through college. Yes, dog poop picker uppers. Try not to be jealous, as we spend our days skipping through the rain and snow, laughing and examining dog poop. Sure it’s a shitty job, but someone’s got to do it. *rimshot*

But we were laughing last night, assuming the posters were young enough to not intend any harm or insult. It’s innocence, to see these types of jobs as throwaway. We ate, and then chatted for a bit with one of the waitresses. The one who serves us beer on Friday nights so she can continue working on her doctorate during the day. Bar maid, ditch digger, lawyer, nit-picker and poop picker upper, we all do what we can and what we have to. Everyone has a story, whether we’re living life on the fringe, or just appear to be.

Cheers, Fringelings!

English: Paulaner Dunkel (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Limerick Tuesday

Limerick – MÓR Disco, Every Tuesday (Photo credit: infomatique)

Yes, yes there is such a thing as Limerick Tuesday.

It’s the fourth Tuesday in February, when I want to post something, but I’m too dazed to write something deep or clever. Why am I dazed, you ask? It’s the effects from the overwhelming stench in the cab I took with Flower Child when I picked her up from school. She was tired, there was some type of brouhaha happening on Broadway that resulted in many police cars whizzing past with lights and sirens going. Seemed like the perfect day to splurge on a cab. I’m pretty sure that cabdriver must have had a pico reef hidden in the trunk, because that was the gut clenching, every muscle recoiling smell of dead sea critter.

Luckily, I already made some progress on the WIP today, so I’ll just give the update in limerick.

There was a young lady called Frag Hag

Who lived in a magical grab bag

But one day her reef

Gave her such grief

Her virtue; Twas lost to a scumbag!

Jester’s sceptre (Photo credit: sleepymyf)

Freezing In a Puddle of Sweat

Frozen Hydrant (Photo credit: FlySi)

It’s freezing in the Northeast this week. Specifically, it’s freezing here in the city. Seeing as how it’s January, not a surprise, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant. This is the time of year when Mrs Fringe wakes up and says a prayer of thanks to the inventor of long underwear, quickly followed by a daydream about Bora Bora.

Layer up, take the dogs for a walk, come back home and work intricate algebraic equations trying to determine how many layers it makes sense to remove when I have to go back out to take Flower Child to school in 30 minutes.

Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, right? Put on 50 layers and stop whining. Come on over to my apartment, sit down, I’ll make you a cup of coffee and you’ll defrost in no time. In fact, you’ll defrost so quickly your fingers and toes will experience a lovely burning tingle before you register you aren’t numb anymore. Then your nose will plug and buzz from the dry heat being pumped up at outrageous levels through the radiators. You’ll start to shift uncomfortably on the couch, as beads of sweat pop up, try to roll freely down your lumps and bumps, but instead get trapped by the aforementioned long underwear. We’ll engage in some witty repartee.

You’ll say, “Holy shit! It’s hot in here.”

I’ll agree, try to explain that these tall buildings send a tremendous amount of heat in the winter in order for the heat to reach the top floors; and to make life bearable for the senior citizens who live on those top floors, with their thin skin, all alone in their four bedroom apartments. “Would you like me to open the terrace door a little wider for some fresh air?”

Three minutes will pass, you’ll be on the couch doing what looks like the pee dance once more, look miserably at the open terrace door when the sweat under your bra line freezes the wire to your skin, and wonder if it would be unreasonable to ask me to close it a little.

Two more minutes will pass, you’ll mumble something, unable to think of and verbalize a coherent excuse in your stupor, then you’ll stumble out the door.

I will do what looks like a happy dance when the door closes, but is actually a contortionist act, removing several layers. Cooler, and gives me access to scratch, scratch, scratch at my skin, the dryness from the indoor heat leaves me itching like a 3 year old with chicken pox. I decide it’s just as reasonable to scratch off the top 8 layers of skin as it is to take off the top 8 layers of cold weather gear.

News Flash–Heat Bad for Productivity (Photo credit: moria)

Oh yeah, now I’m feeling comfortable. I make a cup of tea, dance around in my long johns because it’s silly, and then have a productive hour or two where I write. Time to layer up and walk the dogs again. The cold air in the lobby feels great by the time I get off the elevator. Sadly, standing outside in 11 degree temps while the dogs sniff around, not so great. Bring the dogs back up, take off layers, half an hour or so to putter, or clean, make a shopping list or call in med refills. Put layers on, go to the grocery store. Come home, top few layers off, put groceries away.

Layers on, walk to the school to pick up Flower Child. Grateful for the fur hat I got from my mother. Yes, yes, fur is bad, it isn’t politically correct, but it is warm. Arrive at school, wonder if my fingers are in fact frostbitten. Get the girl, walk to the train station, look enviously at the lady hailing a cab in a full length mink. Go down the steps, wait for train on the 500 degree platform. Get home to the 87 degree apartment, rip off layers from myself and the girl. Make her hot chocolate and assess if her temperature is coming back up to her normal range within a reasonable time frame. Do what needs to be done, homework, dinner prep, etc.

Oh look, it’s time to walk another dog. Layers back on, trek to pick up the dog, walk along the edge of the park. I eye the dog, and ponder how I would look in a mutt coat. Is there enough for a hood? This hat isn’t a really good fur, and doesn’t sit too snug, so the frigid air is wrapping an ace bandage of dried sweat from the overly hot apartment around my head. Time to walk home. By now my brain is frozen, and I’m hallucinating a polar bear. You know the sweet, sad one from the Central Park Zoo, lives on Prozac? I’m ready to disembowel said polar bear with the daggers that are my icicle fingers, and drape myself head to toe with the still steaming skin.

English: A male polar bear (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Go home, do the evening thing, alternate sweating with standing shivering on the terrace, unwilling to strip down to the long johns yet, because I still have to walk my dogs for the night. Dog poop is super easy to pick up when it comes out already frozen.

Not So Shiny Anymore

broke in boots (Photo credit: patricia kranenberg)

Getting comfy, some scratches, some stretching, a few dings to make it homey. Yup, this is my 100th post. Happy Centennial to Mrs Fringe!

I was wondering what I would to to celebrate my 100th, and Diana, of Talk to Diana, completely came through in her Wednesday post. She wrote about this excellent neato-groovy-cool WordPress site, Reader’s Choice. Wordpress bloggers can nominate their favorite post (yes, favorite post from their own blog) and have it featured, reaching a larger audience. How cool is that? I like this idea. I enjoy blogging, and I love obsessing over my stats, watching my audience grow and having new people join the regulars in the comments section.

So, that’s what I’m going to do to celebrate my ~~pigheaded~~ sticktoitiveness. Also, my poetic license with the English language.

Does Reader’s Choice really have a wide reaching audience? I have no clue, but that’s okay.

After all, these boots were made for walking. But I’m asking for my Fringelings’ help. It’s only fair, because this post is as much a celebration of my Fringie followers as it is Mrs Fringe. Thank you!! I’m going to list a handful of what I think are my favorites, and I’m asking you to help me decide by casting a vote. Or nominate one you think I overlooked. You can do that here in the comments section, by commenting on Mrs Fringe’s Facebook page, or Tweet @MrsFringe–I’m not sure how to link to Twitter, you can go through the little Twitter symbol on the left side of the page here. If you haven’t already signed to follow me on Twitter, or liked me on Facebook, it’s a perfect opportunity. I reserve the right to change my mind, go with the post that gets the most votes, or the reader who presents the most convincing argument. I had a harder time than expected, choosing which ones to post. Obviously I’m too in love with the sound of my own voice.

In no particular order, all posts were chosen for one of three reasons; a) I liked how it came out, b) I had fun writing it, or c) I remembered the title:

Once Upon A Time

Is It Trash Day

Hey Artist, Got A Dollar

And, Have An Orgasm

Maiden, Mother, Crone

Is It Appropriate to Mourn A Glass Box

Blogging With A Scarlet B

The End

First draft of the short story, finished.

Confetti, Times Square (Photo credit: StuartMoreton)

I’m working on graphics, because I want the pages to have unicorns watermarked on them when printed. The unicorns will be bright blue, to make the reading of the royal purple print easier on the eyes. I’m going to ask the people here at WordPress how they made the snow appear on the blogs during the holidays, because I want glitter to positively bounce off the screen.

As you know, Bob, I was sure to describe every last detail, so my readers don’t have to get stressed out using their imagination, or trying to make personal connections. My protagonist has long golden locks, aquamarine eyes, and legs that go all the way to her slender feet. And a prettily heaving bosom. Also, she’s as pure as the driven cornfield, though sometimes her naughty bits tingle alarmingly. She sighs, whispers, pleads, and gasps, but never says. That would be boring. She does it all beseechingly, but endearingly. Nothing ever happens, and there’s no plot, so there’s no confusion when the aliens pop out of her concave belly and threaten her hero’s throbbing manhood. It’s wholesome in the way only urban and edgy can be.

Barbie_01 (Photo credit: MarinaCr)

I have Copyright in the header of every page, next to my pseudonym, Pink Peony, so no one steals my brilliance. They can do that right through the Googles these days. Now I’m going to put together an email and will cc it to every editor and agent listed in the Publisher’s Marketplace, 2003 edition. Don’t worry, I’ll let them know to act fast, before someone else signs me. My children and husband–who all loved the story, by the way–are standing by to field phone calls. Frankly, I’m surprised I even have to send it out. My words are GOLDEN! like my heroine’s hair.

So…yes. Mrs Fringe did finish the first draft of a short story. And it does have much suckage, lots of telling and not enough showing. But it has a beginning, middle, and an end. It’s a start.