Life

Salty Confession

Breakfast of Champions

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

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

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

What. the. fuck.

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

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

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

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

Adding salt mix, one cup at a time.

Fail

Oh, the laundry basket

I should be doing laundry today. The plan was to do laundry today. Dragged Husband to the store yesterday for laundry detergent so I could do laundry today. The store didn’t have the brand/type I like, I told myself not to be an idiot and chose something else. And yet, see my basket, perched on top of the full hamper, filled with…not laundry. Behind it, my file cabinet, filled with school stuff from the kids, medical info, and old bits of manuscripts, printouts of agent info, ancient rejection letters.

The good part of this move was that it kept me too busy to think for a bit. And by think, I mean obsessing about the lack of agent responses on my manuscript. I told myself if I hadn’t heard anything by the time we were moved in, it was okay. I’m still in a bigger better space, I still have a brand new dishwasher I’m infatuated with, I still have my own, personal workspace with a desk, I still wrote a novel I’m proud of. If I don’t receive any offers, so be it, right? This end is out of my control. So what if I never make a dollar from my writing? I’m sure as hell not alone in that. I will not sit at my new desk and wonder what the point of having it is. I’ll focus on my new space, I’ll continue to fix it up, I’ll keep blogging, I’ll continue planning my tank, I’ll stay on top of the laundry.

Ahem.

Just before sunrise.

And Then This Happened

Recuperating, settling in, where do the days go? Happy Friday, Fringelings!

Welcome to my future beach house in a glass box. Remember that spot I said I was planning for a new tank? Fatigue came over last week, looked at it, and dubbed it the interrogation corner. He could have a point.

Where were you, on the night of the 25th?!

I will admit to being amused by the double take done by every person who’s walked into the apartment. I made a game of guessing a) if they would stop and stare or keep glancing at it, and b) how long before they broke down and asked. Hard to tell from this angle, but the tiled area is 4′ x 5′. Alas, I don’t get much company so the game lost its charm after a week.

Allow me to present the new future fringie reef.

Eventually this will be 80 gallons of sexy reefing goodness.

Even better, it’s in a prime viewing spot, easily watched from the couch and I can see it from my desk–though not so close as to be distracting when I’m trying to write. Assuming, of course, the rest of life settles down enough for me to write again. My desk. Have I mentioned that 100 times yet? It may not be a room of my own, but it feels pretty close.

A desk that isn’t my lap!

From this point on it will be slow going, for budgetary reasons and in the interests of good husbandry. The first commandment of reefing, “Nothing good happens fast in a reef tank.”

In case you’re wondering, poor Little Incredibly Stupid Dog hasn’t quite settled in yet. She’s still nervous, afraid of every new sound. Just breaks my heart, seeing how anxious she is.

I’d like to share her level of anxiety. Oh, and don’t tell Husband she’s on the couch.

What’s new for you?

Why Walk When You Can Crawl

Sculpture and quote by Nerd Child, 1st grade

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

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

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

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

The most welcome sight in the world.

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

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

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

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

Sure she looks innocent while she’s sleeping.

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

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

Somewhere btw 5-5:30am

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.

Pissercize

Think I can trademark the name and be the new Jane Fonda? Jillian Michaels? No? How about Richard Simmons?

The point being I am still unable (will never be able?) to go back to my old yoga routine, or walk the same distances I was–until recently–able to walk. Oh, my back, she is old. But I needed to do something to get myself moving. I wouldn’t mind the weight gain if it hadn’t cut my wardrobe down from small to pitiful. And I still wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for my head. You know, the old advice about exercise releasing endorphins and being good for mood. For me it’s true, and I really, really needed to do something to work off some of the pissy factor. I found a yoga DVD specifically for back care. The workout is short, the poses are gentle, and they aren’t held for the usual amount of time. Bonus, it’s led by Rodney Yee, and I find his voice soothing.

Did I mention the chair?

Yes, it uses props, which I’ve never used before. A chair and a strap. Part of me feels like I’m cheating, and part of me is just grateful to have found a way to get back to a regular yoga routine. I don’t think this is doing a damn thing to whittle down the thickened waistline, but it is helping my head. This and some additional meditation exercises, I’ll be singing in no time (sorry, world). Pissercize, for the bitchy among us.

It’s helping enough so I went for my annual haircut this morning. Not only got my hair cut, but made the appointment in advance, so I was able to see the hairstylist who works magic with my mop, no easy feat.

Thank you, Frank!

An added plus–he’s fun, my age group, and very politely didn’t mention that the top of my skirt doesn’t actually close anymore. Maybe he didn’t notice, I kept my shirt untucked and over the waistband. It’s possible.

Still trying to figure out getting the work done on the new apartment. The price quotes we’ve received so far are literally exorbitant. The work that needs to be done on the walls is more than I can do, but I swear we’re talking about some plaster work to repair cracks/holes, and painting. No structural renovations. Thinking about the discussion re Brooklyn roots and Barbra Streisand’s new album as my hair was tamed, I’ve come to the realization that what/who I need is Dolly. As in, Hello.

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.

And I Splutter While Crying

From The Grange, home of Alexander Hamilton

The above quote is from over two hundred years ago. Think about it, two hundred years. So why am I sitting here wondering who this American world is made for?

If you follow Mrs Fringe, you know I indulge in the occasional political rant. Generally, I try to limit myself to rants directly related to women, both because I’m not a political scientist and because it’s exhausting and ultimately ineffectual to be angry about everything all the time. I didn’t intend to blog about Ferguson, there are many others doing so who are better informed and more eloquent. Yesterday I was watching an interview with Al Sharpton about what’s happening in Ferguson. One of the most, if not the most, polarizing people of the country. I found myself agreeing with every word coming out of his mouth. Reverend Al, voice of reason? Has he mellowed? Have I become more radical? Or is what’s happening so egregious he is exactly the right person to speak for We The People?

The segment kept cutting to clips of interviews with others, and on the whole, it didn’t seem meant to be an inflammatory piece one way or the other. Until I saw/heard someone representing the authorities of Ferguson, and he said they just wanted to keep order (good), not allow looting (excellent, the thugs who take advantage of these situations should not be allowed to profit, or take the focus off of why people are protesting), and make sure the people gathering don’t become a large crowd (huh?). What the fuck was that? I don’t follow every news story around the world every day, but I’m pretty sure I’d have heard if the First Amendment had been ratified to revoke the right to protest.

The death of Michael Brown is a tragedy. For him and for his family, something no family should have to experience. But I believe it isn’t solely a private and personal tragedy. Because his death and the clusterfuck that’s been happening since represents something much larger that’s been happening in this country, and impacts all of us. Fear, racism, loss of liberties.

Individual police officers/forces acting as judge and jury? I’m not sure how new that is. Fact or fable, I remember hearing stories when I was younger about neighborhood pedophiles being “taken care of.”

Also not new, authorities pushing back against protestors, breaking out tear gas, swinging batons, turning on fire hoses, protestors being beaten and swept into “paddy wagons” (is there a more current term for these?) for mass arrests. Those halcyon days of yore weren’t quite body to body peace and free love. Anyone else have an ear worm of Kent State?

The world has continued to change. America has continued to change. People have not changed.

Our police forces around the country are growing ever more militarized. I’m all for reusing and recycling. But that extra military equipment, armaments being handed to local PDs? Doesn’t make sense to me. At all. This equipment is designed for war. War. Soldiers are trained in how to use/not use this equipment.

More than anything, technology has changed. Weaponry available is well beyond anything our forefathers could have imagined. Freedom of the press now means the ability to see and hear exactly what is happening with instantaneous recordings and distribution. All this change, and yet the question is the same as it was two hundred years ago. Who is this America for? Maybe it’s time to evolve and grow, not just react to change.

Offramp

It wasn’t falling, I shot it for a strange angle.

The other night Husband and I went to a concert. This is the first concert I’ve been to since we went to see Robert Cray in 2002 (smaller venue). Sure I’ve seen Fatigue sing and school performances, but these aren’t quite the same as a big, all out ARE YOU READY performance. In all honesty I didn’t feel like going, my thoughts were with Big Senile Dog. But Husband had already purchased the tickets several weeks ago. And frankly, I’m fairly certain that if I had died and Husband had tickets to see Pat Metheny, he’d have been in seat 118 that night. We’ve both seen him quite a few times. Long, long, long ago.

If you’ve never seen him live, I recommend doing so. He’s an amazing guitarist and composer, and I can’t think of anyone else who could get onstage and play a 42 stringed guitar and not have it be a “look at me playing a 42 string guitar!” Nope, just beautiful and passionate music, as always. Bruce Hornsby (w/Sonny Emory) opened for him, which was incredible. I say opened, but not really, it was more like they joined together to add another 53 dimensions to the show.

Did I mention it’s been a long time since we we went to a big concert? Ok, not Madison Square Garden big, but big enough. Seems like some things have changed since back in the day. No cloud of grass, puddles of beer, and squeals of excitement to guide you from the parking lot to your seat. Orderly lines of well dressed men-and-women-of-a-certain-age smiling and strolling to their seats clutching plastic (covered) cups of wine with straws stuck in them.

Bruce Hornsby has aged well, he sounds better than ever and looks fantastic. Pat Metheny seems to have found the fountain of youth, he hasn’t aged at all. Seriously, he looks exactly the same and his god-like fingers haven’t slowed at all.

There was one shocking difference in the then and now of this show. No, I’m not referring to the way my salt and pepper hair and Husband’s bald pate blended right in with the other heads in the audience. People were continually getting up and walking in and out of the theater. To go to the bathroom, I assume. Come on, people. I know we’re all older, bladders and prostates aren’t what they used to be, but for fuck’s sake, cross your legs and hold the wine! It was like being in a musty bar with a mediocre house band playing. Sure, Bruce Hornsby puts everyone in mind of the Grateful Dead shows of yesteryear, but this wasn’t a nine hour show where two thirds of the audience is tripping on acid and don’t know whether they’re inside the arena or out.

I had taken the bus to get to NJ and meet Husband, cutting it close in terms of time. It was hot in the station, and I wanted an iced tea. Guess what? I didn’t get one, because I knew if I did, I would surely need to pee halfway through the concert. Don’t tell me all these people couldn’t hold it. If this had been a Broadway show, it would’ve been a very similar crowd. I didn’t see dozens of people drifting in and out of Les Mis, holding the theater doors open while they chatted with the ushers.

PS: To the woman sitting in front of me, your boyfriend/companion/husband didn’t forget where his seat was (you don’t forget when you’re in the second to last row). He ditched you for a better seat.