Life

Busy Busy Busy

Bee macro (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Yesterday was a busy day. It was also the first day I was able to stand somewhat close to upright with pain that’s manageable, so that’s ok.

Took the girl to school, came back home and went with Nerd Child to the grocery store, to buy soft, no-chewing necessary foods. He was getting the first round of braces put on in the afternoon. Did what I needed to do around the house, checked my email 80,000 times in hopes of query/requested material responses (nothing, seems like all agents left for the Bologna Book Fair yesterday), he left for the dentist, and I went to pick up Flower Child, planning to meet him at the office.

Because I was going to be out of the neighborhood, I figured I’d bring the camera. I remembered to charge the battery, remembered to bring the camera. Being me, I didn’t remember to put the freshly charged battery back into the camera. Sigh. Still everything seemed to have gone well for NC, and I signed all my dollars, present and future, over to the promise of straighter teeth.

Last night I had a beautiful first. A different type of Friday Night Madness. Man Child came in for the weekend with Miss Music, and we went out. For a beer. A legal, ordered in my favorite bar beer, with my 21 year old. Should it feel like a big deal? I don’t know, but it did. There was something so…sweet…about being able to have this nice, normal, adult moment with my oldest. Miss Music also recently turned 21, Husband was home and came with us, truly a moment. When we left the bar, Miss Music told me she had read Astonishing (I had emailed the file to Man Child) and loved it. YAY! I want to hear specifics–feedback from the perspective of a young person– but they are, after all, 21, so they continued on for more of a night out than a beer with the parental units, and Husband and I went home.

It’s a funny thing, this writing. There was a thread on the writer’s forum the other day about “stage fright,” not wanting to share work with others. I don’t feel that way. I want to be read, share, get feedback. Sure there’s a serrated edge flutter in my gut when I hand over a manuscript–will they like it? hate it? yawn their way through because it’s boring? think I’m the weirdest motherfucker ever and never want to speak to me again? not respond at all (the worst, to me)? But it doesn’t stop me from handing it over. I wrote, now you read. In my mind, that’s the contract.

Yesterday at this time Nerd Child was sprawled on the couch, relaxed and watching videos on his laptop, laughing. This morning he’s sprawled on the couch, relaxed and watching videos on his laptop, laughing. Guess he’s ok.

Brackets04 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t Make Me Laugh

Seriously, it hurts. But I couldn’t stop myself from laughing a few times this morning. This is what I woke up to.

Feel like baking this morning?

The other night I made banana pancakes for dinner. Well actually, I made the batter and got them started, and then had Nerd Child make the majority, because I couldn’t stand upright to flip them. I also couldn’t reach to put the ingredients away, and haven’t paid enough attention to notice said ingredients were still on the counter.

Dumb freakin dogs. Why? I swear I feed those bozos every day, twice a day, and then they get treats multiple times per day in addition. 5:15 in the morning, I could barely walk, there was no way I could bend to sweep and wash the floors. And by no way, I mean physically no way. Over the years I’ve noticed the severity of many illnesses and injuries are contextual. In other words, if I had options, I’d have said I physically couldn’t get Flower Child to/from school the last couple of days. But there’s no choice, so in fact, I could and have done it, albeit slowly and painfully. But this? Even the thought of attracting roaches couldn’t get me to bend and stretch in the ways necessary to clean this up. Luckily Husband woke up when he heard me cursing, and got most of it.

Big Senile Dog went to his bed and kept his eyes away from mine, pretending he had nothing to do with it. Mmm hmm.

Who me? This isn’t flour, it’s umm, coke, yeah, it’s coke. The pugs down the hall threw this party and…

Ok. Now I’m on the couch, feet up and coffee in hand. Open my email and find a rejection for a query. Not just any rejection, but one that was so nice, personal, and friendly, I thought it was a request. Took me two times reading it through to realize it was, in fact, a rejection. I don’t think I’ve ever met this agent, it isn’t likely I wouldn’t remember, but maybe I have, the note seemed that friendly. Or maybe he follows Mrs Fringe.

I don’t know why it struck me as funny, but it did. Maybe it’s part of always being braced for “the worst,” as I go through the query process. Silly, because I have never experienced “the worst.” No one has ever responded to a query of mine in a way that was rude, disparaging, or questioned my abilities. And while I haven’t received any offers (yet!), I’m doing pretty well in terms of requests for more material.

This was turning out to be a banner day, and it wasn’t even 6am. Sometimes you really do have to laugh.

An hour later, Flower Child is awake and getting ready. And continuing a running conversation. The one where she tells me bits and pieces of her interactions at school. I’m continuing to pretend it’s possible to get socks on without bending.

“And you know what else he asked me.”

“Hmm, what did he ask you?”

“Is it true that white people don’t get cold? Why did he ask me that, what should I tell him?”

See what I mean about the universe conspiring, and having to laugh?

Rough Waters

Waterfall near Eyvindarmul (Photo credit: martin_vmorris)

Wow. This has been a great stretch for Flower Child, which is awesome. Unfortunately, not a great stretch for me. Truly, if it’s not one thing it’s another.

I was doing well, working that yoga routine every day. But exercise is a funny thing, kind of addictive. The more you do, the more you want to do. So I added some aerobics to the yoga. A little step, a little boxing. I love the boxing, you really feel the work out, and it makes me feel powerful. Just in case you’re starting to be impressed, don’t be. This is all done with the Wii Fit, no real gyms, yogis, or boxing gloves involved.

Boxing gloves Español: Guantes de boxeo Français : Gants de boxe (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

First day, second day, third day, great. Oh, that fourth day, the one where you’re feeling cocky, “I can do this, I will do this, I am what-the-heck-was-that!” Ok, pulled something in my back. Not good, but not terrible, take a couple of days off from the yoga and aerobics, no problem. And it was going that way. By early yesterday I was feeling improvement. But. Then I did something. Like stood up. Or turned. Or breathed.

And triggered an unwanted acquaintance. This isn’t a pulled, sore muscle, this is fire and ice nerve pain that runs from my neck to my foot, it hurts to sit, stand, or lie down. Walking is a lot of fun. Every so often I’ll step down to feel like someone just plugged me into a wet socket. Whee! This morning, I actually called a physiatrist I’ve seen in the past. In keeping with the frozen white waters I’ve been skidding along, she had a personal emergency, no appointments until next Monday.

This morning I was limping behind the beasts when a car stopped at a light right next to us. A perfectly respectable looking woman discreetly made up and salon perfect hair dye, I’m guessing in her mid fifties, sitting in her silver Volvo. With Tom Petty blasting through the cracked back passenger window. Yes. A perfect moment, perfect song while I tried to figure out how to balance myself so I didn’t fall over while picking up the poop.

You Talkin’ To Me?

Put up yer dukes! (Photo credit: sirenbrian)

It seems like most everyone I know and see is either on edge, depressed, or downright cranky. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the beginning of Lent and people are adjusting to the lack of whatever they’ve given up, maybe it’s just me, like channeling like and all that.

For all the bad rap New York has had over the years, it’s a pretty civil town. I rarely see fights or arguments among the over 16 crowd–excluding drunken slurs.

Yesterday I saw three. One on my way to the subway, after dropping off Flower Child. One man was standing with his kiddo, yelling and cursing at a woman trying to catch a cab with her kiddo. Then, as I was getting on the train, another woman getting off the train was loudly berating a man standing by the doors for not getting out of the way quickly enough. Then in the afternoon, two men were all in each other’s faces. These weren’t young men or kids, these were two grown-ass men on a block filled with multi-million dollar brownstones, standing in front of a fancy juice bar getting up in arms about who pushed into who as they rushed down the street.

Is it something in the air?

Smog Over Louisville And Ohio River, September 1972 (Photo credit: The U.S. National Archives)

I went about my day, yoga, grocery shopping, picked up a bottle of wine and cooked. Husband got home early, Fatigue came over for Friday Night Madness, and we had dinner. Afterwards, Fatigue and I went out for coffee, chatted about budgets, dreams, and blues, and then each went home to walk our respective beasts.

On my way back into the building with the dogs, I noticed a guy a little bit behind me, also seemed to be on his way in. I held the door, and then he lagged, so I let go. Sometimes people don’t like to be that close to the dogs, sometimes someone wants to finish a conversation on their cell before entering the building, sometimes they aren’t actually coming inside at all, just waiting to meet someone. Whatever.

Now I’m waiting for the elevator, the same guy walks over, maybe 8 feet away from me, and he’s talking. I assume he’s talking on the phone. I give a half nod, turn back to watching the elevator numbers decrease. Then I realize he’s (now? the whole time?) talking to me.

“Don’t pretend to hold the door, lady. If you don’t want to hold it, fine, but if you’re holding it, hold it, don’t pretend. I don’t need that shit.” His tone is completely conversational. And then he keeps rambling.

WTF?

For the record, we’re talking about a very flimsy door, one of those little plastic and aluminum things that are put up in front of buildings and stores in NY in the winter to block some wind, try to save on heating costs. This is a healthy looking guy, certainly younger than me. I might even go so far as to think of him as a strapping young man. Ooookay. But I know not all disabilities are visible, who knows what story someone has?

At this point I’m not even annoyed, just mildly amused at finding myself in this bizarro moment. I’m not looking for a fight, I recognize his face as someone I run into every so often, not a big deal. I say something mildly neutral and conciliatory along the lines of, “hey, sorry, thought you were behind me.”

I expect this to end there. Nope. He keeps going, and is getting louder. Now it’s taking more to hold my beasts, because Big Senile Dog is still alert enough to get testy if he perceives a threat. My patience, and my sense of humor, are finished.

I’d like to tell you I was calm and mature to the end. When he started cursing me, I had enough. One clear “fuck you” from the frayed tips of my Brooklyn roots. Calm but not mature. Maybe this means the yoga is starting to have an effect.

Hey Foureyes!

When I bought them they were cool. Fashionable, even 😉

I wear contacts much more frequently than I wear glasses. A few reasons for that, not least of which because I see much better in contacts than glasses. Must be the peripheral vision, I don’t know. Doesn’t hurt that it’s cheaper to replace contact lenses than glasses.

When I bought those frames I loved them. For a long time. Remember, early 2000’s when the teeny tiny frames were in style? Great for people like me with extreme nearsightedness, combining the small frames and lightweight, thin as they can make them lenses they were almost comfortable. For a few hours.

Because this is life, and this is life on the Fringe, I had a little accident when throwing garbage away yesterday. I know there’s a wind tunnel kind of thing in the compactor chute. At this time of year, every time you open the door, bits of dirt and grit whoosh out. I know this. Hell, I even blogged about it here. I turn my face away when I open the chute, but something went horribly wrong and I got a face full of scratchy muck, mysteriously drawn straight to my eyes. I think the left one just got irritated, the right one, though, extra special. Something got under the contact, because that eye went straight from oh! to holy shit I think my eyeball is on fire!

If there’s anything I’ve learned from many years of wearing contact lenses, when something goes wrong take them out right away. I did, and found my glasses. Which you can see, from the photo above, have had better days. The finish on the frames has worn off in spots, the protective anti-glare coating is scratched, and there’s a little piece of frame missing from the top–if I move my head too quickly, the left lens pops out. Excellent.

The prescription on these glasses is two or three levels behind my most current rx. You look blurry, I look blurry, can I just stay in bed? I know, I know, I should change the lenses on the glasses when I get new contacts, but glasses are freaking expensive. And by the last time I got a new scrip, it didn’t even seem worth it unless I was getting new frames, too. Did I mention this was also my last pair of contacts? Between the too-weak glasses, the thought of the bill for new glasses, new contacts, the co-pay for the eye doctor and the pain in my eyes, I’ve had a headache for about twenty-four hours now. Better and better.

I need an eye dr appt, and then I’m going to have to go and replace the contacts and glasses. For the record, when you have vision as poor as mine, there’s no such thing as glasses in an hour, or contacts that are in stock. Skip the Tylenol, pass the Excedrin and keep it coming for at least 5 days, please.

Mrs Fringe Would Like To Be

Hawaii Beach House (Photo credit: imgdive)

here. No, this isn’t another weather complaint. Ok, maybe it’s a little bit of a weather complaint, but it’s actually a nice day in NY–for February. Sunny and forty five degrees. But really, I think it’s about the life I wish I were living.

It’s funny, because the life I am living is one many others want. Parts of it. New York City. Manhattan. Rent controlled apartment in a high rise building. Proximity to theater, music, art. And when I imagine life in Hawaii, I can see a lot of overlap. Multicultural living. Waking up to sights others dream of. Crazy high cost of living. Crowds. Tourists. Public transportation and walking making more sense than a car for daily life. Roaches big enough to put a leash on.

New York is like a mirage for so many. Generations keep coming. But for every 3 who come, 2 leave. It isn’t what they thought it would be. The competition is too steep, too massive, the snow is too black, the apartment is too cramped, the rent is too damned high. I imagine the same is true in Hawaii. Well, not the black snow, but the fantasy of what life will be like compared to the reality of bills and laundry and dirty dishes.

But in Hawaii you have this.

Big Island, Punaluu Beach Park (Photo credit: Wikipedia

What will it take for me to make peace with where I am? I don’t know. What would it take for me to get there? More money than I’m ever likely to have. Husband willing to go. Nerd Child and Man Child willing to trade their home base. More money.

For years I kept a reef tank, my beach house of dreams in a glass box. Recently I broke it down, the cost of upkeep too much right now. Much as I loved my tank and critters, and I expect I will set it up again eventually, it isn’t much of a substitute for this.

A Needlefish is being cleaned by Rainbow cleaner wrasse, Labroides phthirophagus. on a reef in Hawaii at cleaning station (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There isn’t a whole lot of me in Christina, my main character of Astonishing. Except towards the end, when she’s dreaming of black sand beaches. Yet I didn’t send her there. Why? I don’t know. It would have been a different story, she would have been a different character.

Are you where you thought you’d be, Fringelings? Where you want to be?

**I don’t know why the spacing is so funky today. My mind must be somewhere else. On a beach. Or underwater with a school of yellow tang.

Sometimes You Just Have to Say

Serious in an entirely different way.

Fuck it. And put on your favorite winter boots.

And go out, after searching the internet for the most steeply discounted tickets you can find. When I was a kid, we used to to go to the theater on a semi-regular basis. Not like we went every month, but once or twice a year. Tickets were less costly then, with discounts you could even get good seats. Hell, if I really liked the show, I would go more than once. Maybe because of the show itself, maybe because I loved a particular lead, or maybe because someone else was playing the lead and I wanted to see them. Now? Hah! The thought of spending money to see something already seen is obscene.

Les Mis is coming back to Broadway. Flower Child’s absolute favorite. I’d love to get tickets and take her, but those tickets are way out of reach, and will be for years. I hoped for Wicked, but no discounts there either. Mrs Fringe needs a steep discount. 20% isn’t going to cut it. Anything Disney is out of the question. I know, many are well done, beautiful–but it’s so rare for us to go, just no.

Found three tickets that might or might not have caused some vertigo and a nosebleed and broke out the Metrocard.

Neon and tourists

Running since 1988, and this was the first time I’ve seen it.

Yes, it needs to be said. Pizza is sold by the slice in most places in NYC

One way to tell NYers from tourists is their pace. NYers walk quickly. Husband rarely walks more than up the block to see his mother, but when he walks he’s fast. This was my only night out in I don’t know how long, I think it’s been 3?4? years since I’ve seen a show. I took my time. Sure, he was a block ahead of me–but I had the print out to pick up the tickets. Another way to tell tourists from natives is the camera hanging from their necks. Well, see, I’ve got this blog….So perhaps I looked like a tourist last night. I don’t mind.

I love live theater, and wish I could go every month. There truly is something magical, I think it’s in the theater houses themselves, in the plaster and gold paint, the chandeliers and hundred year old exit signs.

I was thinking opera glasses would have been a perfect accessory. Do they still make/sell those?

Yes, these not so little touches are everything.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

I would like this over my front door.

The show, of course, was lovely. Flower Child gripped her armrests throughout (we were pretty high up for sure) but loved the music, the costumes, the singing, the trip to the lobby during intermission and the peek at the orchestra seats, lol.

A few photos of Times Square as we walked back to the subway–and perhaps an explanation for why Mrs Fringe can’t tell a star from a photo flare from a smudge on the camera screen. It’s bright in the city–even at 9:30pm on a mid-winter night.

Mid-Winter Break

Even the beasts don’t want to be bothered until it’s Spring.

Ahh, the February break. It began during the mid? late? ’70s during the energy crisis, to save oil and of course, save money. Every June I’m cursing it, when the school year doesn’t end, and my NY kiddo is still in school 1, 2, 3 weeks after everyone else’s kiddos. But in February, when it comes? Oh yeah, we need it. This year, with the winter being absolutely unrelenting, it feels particularly necessary.

On Saturday Flower Child had a field trip with her art class. It was cold and flurrying and I had a couple of hours to myself, so I went to Loehmann’s to see if there was anything left. Not much of interest within my budget, but there were a good number of bags/purses left that were reasonable once all the discounts were applied. I saw a somewhat unattractive but neat laptop case. Predictably, I couldn’t decide if it was the right size for my laptop. But I did think about the purse I’ve been carrying, the way everything has been getting a little (ok a lot) wet with all the snow. So I saw a larger bag that closed and decided to get it. Even on the street it’s hard to find a bag for twenty bucks anymore. This store has never been known for its fabulously helpful sales staff. But now, with the certain unemployment ahead and empty racks, all bets are off. The staff seemed to divide into two camps, those who were more relaxed and nicer than I’ve experienced in there, and those who decided the time is right to lose their filter. At the register I was paying for the bag, the cashier next to the one ringing me up looked at it. She sucked through her teeth (back in my middle school days, that sound/gesture was equivalent to throwing down a gauntlet).

“That looks fake.”

I laughed. What a moment. I told her that was good, since I normally buy my bags from the guys selling knock-offs on the street.

Knock-off?

After I dumped my shit from the old bag into the new one, I was online and followed a link from somewhere to youtube. I don’t remember what the original video was, but on the side of the screen was a link to Susan Boyle’s audition for Britain’s Got Talent. You know the one, “I Dreamed a Dream.” I’ve already seen this clip several times, but it’s a beautiful song, she has a lovely voice, and I clicked on it. Three minutes into the video, my eyeballs were leaking. A connection to this Susan Boyle singing that song at that moment, taking a breath and her shot with her unstylish dress and snark to defend against the expectations of who she should be based on where she is (was, she’s surely in a better spot now). For people with advantages, 40 might be the new 30, but for the rest of us…well.

I’ve begun to query Astonishing. Slowly, but I’m moving forward. I’ve even gotten a few “bites.” (Requests to see the manuscript) It’s a slow, often frustrating process filled with ups and downs and no guarantees. Many agents have adopted a “no response means no” policy. Except as the querier, you don’t know exactly when to assume it’s a no. Agents are flooded with queries on a daily basis, so even if they say 6 weeks on their website, that could mean 8 weeks, or 10 weeks, or 12 weeks. There’s an amazing, delicious charge when you open an email and instead of seeing “Dear Author, Due to the Subjective blahblahblah” you read “Dear Mrs Fringe, I was intrigued…please send me…” Squee! Now hurry up and wait. But don’t hold your breath, it’s still a long, uncertain road in between requests for more material and an offer of representation. And that is far from the second leg, when the agent queries editors–hopefully resulting in a sale to a publisher.

The general wisdom of the internets and writing groups everywhere is to begin a new project as soon as you begin querying. Meh. I’m taking a break. I have an idea that I will likely start playing with at some point, but for now, I’m taking a breath and paying some attention to…yanno, the other areas of my life. Being a woman of 40,000 years, I’ve got other areas. Being a woman of 40,000, I know myself enough to know taking a break doesn’t mean I’ll never write again, never find the discipline again. Being a woman of 40,000, I’m not obsessing about those queries. Do I think about them? Of course. Do I have spurts of ohmyGodwhenamIgoingtohearback? Yup. And then I notice the spots on the bathroom mirror, think about how long its been since I gave Flower Child a manicure, remember how good it feels to read for pleasure, and take care of some of those things. I don’t write just to write, I write when I have a story to tell. I write when I’ve got the energy and focus to find the correct words–regardless of how long it takes to find them.

I watched Susan Boyle and leaked a little bit and then felt better than I have in days. The odds are long and not in my favor, but I do have talent, I’ve worked and continue to work on craft, and the possibility is there.

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

That’s what I think of, when I think of Valentine’s Day. Remember that scene from The Rose? Bette Midler playing a Joplin-esque character, breaking down on stage as she tries to croak out Let Me Call You Sweetheart. That and the fact that St. Valentine is the patron saint of epilepsy. Ya caught me, a true romantic. I’m also allergic to roses.

flowers for Flower Child. We need the pop of color during this endless stretch of gray and snow.

Husband is away, so we won’t be doing our normal Valentine’s Day celebrations. Oh wait, we don’t normally do anything. I don’t think we ever have done anything special for VD. We just aren’t that couple, never were. We’re both bad at stuff like that, cards, remembering specific dates, anniversaries. How many years are we married, Husband? I think it’s 43,000 years, but I could be off by a year or two. We’ve known each other for-ev-er, were friends for a long long time before anything else.

I think without getting into the realm of the spiritual, after my insane devotion to my children, I believe in the healing and strengthening powers of friendship more than anything else on earth. Friendship can come from our significant others, siblings, children, parents, classmates, workmates, online, any of the many places we humans interact. I’m very lucky to have some wonderful friends in my life, and wish that everyone could say they have at least two great, long-term friends.

Too many people are out there feeling they are alone, and “holidays” like this one seem to magnify those feelings of loneliness.

So it feels fine for Husband to be off doing his thing on Valentine’s Day, and for me to not-celebrate by having Fatigue over for Friday Night Madness. Because…friendship. In honor of low days, snowstorms, downwardly mobile lives and overly commercialized holidays, I decided comfort food is in order for tonight.

That’s right, mac n cheese. My version of macaroni and cheese involves whatever cheeses I happen to have in the fridge.

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Feel free to come join us at the cyber table, Fringelings, I’ve even got a few beers on the terrace. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Low

One of those days, yanno? Can’t quite get myself going. I’m certain much of it is because I was sure yesterday was Thursday and woke up thinking, “At least it’s Friday.” Surprise for me, it’s only Wednesday.

The girl saw the puzzle doctor yesterday, not so much fun.

Man Child went back to school. We’re going to miss him, but I know he was more than ready. For a last hoorah, he made bear claws with Flower Child.

Why yes, they do taste as good as they look.

One last dinner, I made a stir fry. Actually two, one for the vegetarians and one for the flesh eaters.

In between writing projects, I feel a little bit adrift. This is fine, I’m not ready to start a new WIP (though there is a little seedling of an idea trying to put down roots). It’s good to rest and recharge before getting lost in a new world. The only problem is it leaves me looking around at my real world, noticing the dust on the furniture, the stains in the sinks, and the fucking freezing temperature outside.

I would like something tangible to look forward to. I have to think about what it can be. Something realistic and within my control. Any ideas?

In the meantime, I give you my latest attempt to capture the moon. This batch seemed more fuzzy than the last batch, but I’m fascinated, trying to figure out what the green splotch is.