Life

Scared Titless

oral surgery stuff

oral surgery stuff (Photo credit: Newbirth35)

I know, I know, I’ve been an exceptionally bad blogger.  My tooth pain didn’t go away no matter how much I tried to pretend it wasn’t there, resulting in much misery, three trips to the dentist, and oral surgery.  I’m on the mend now, not all better but much better than I was.

Have I ever mentioned that I have a dentist phobia?  I do.  The pain, the sounds, and most of all, the someone is in my frickin’ mouth!!!  If you’re now tempted to explain how illogical this all is, save your breath and your fingers. Phobia. Irrational fear, I get it.

 

And now for what I don’t get, but I’m even more afraid of.  What’s happening for and to women in this country.

 

You Say I'm a BITCH ... SlutWalk in Miami: FIU...

You Say I’m a BITCH … SlutWalk in Miami: FIU Students March to Reclaim the Term “Slut” (Tue., Apr. 2 2013) …item 2.. Woman bit her live-in boyfriend’s penis (16 May 2013) … (Photo credit: marsmet532)

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, started making notes for a post about what ever happened to feminism, pushed it to the back burner.  Well, it’s now so front and center my eyelashes are singed, my bra has burned off, and my ovaries are experiencing shrinkage.

 

Some say the War On Women is a myth, fabricated by those stinky, left leaning, unshaven and leftover hippies.  I don’t think so.  I think it’s real.  Never in my life have I heard so many ignorant, threatening comments made by those in positions of power (yanno, those “service” positions– politics), never have I seen and heard about so many attempts to repeal women’s rights, as I have over the last 18-24 months.  I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been naive.  If it’s so widespread across the US, if there is so much support for those making these statements, I suspect it’s been there, this war, all along.   I just didn’t hear about it because there weren’t cameras everywhere catching these speeches, these comments, there was no twitter, no internet, and a limited number of channels and news (?!) shows on tv.  I think it’s been a Cold War, and now the heat’s been turned up using the fuel of electronic eyes and the internet.

 

I’m upset, I’m nauseated, I’m afraid.  Why?  Well,  because of this.  How the fuck is this ok?  Down what black hole have I fallen to find myself in this alternate history where it’s systemically acceptable for police officers to sexually assault women, and do it in public while putting their health at risk too?  Yes, I said it, systemic.  One lone or occasional psycho I understand.  Still horrible and scary, but I understand.  But this wasn’t one renegade mama hating small weiner syndrome sociopath.

 

Whether it’s written in the manual or not, obviously this is an issue that goes beyond one evil trooper. In the first instance, the male state trooper called for a female trooper to come perform this cavity search.  On the side of the road.  And don’t forget to recycle, use the same glove for both women.  Yeah, these troopers were all about caring for Mother Earth, after all, these cavity searches were prompted by a cigarette butt being tossed out a car window. littering.  Another by speeding (waste of gas) And they might have smelled marijuana in the car during one of those stops.  Cause every pot smoking woman I’ve ever known would have the instinct to shove a joint up her hoo haa and or butt.  And nothing poses a bigger threat to the public, necessitating an immediate public and unsanitary cavity search than a skunk weed tampon.

 

A beaver pair

A beaver pair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Number One Threat to Public Safety. Oh, why be coy?  We all know Public Enemy Number One is

 

Seated Female Nude, ca. 1937-1940

Seated Female Nude, ca. 1937-1940 (Photo credit: americanartmuseum)

So no, it wasn’t this one evil female state trooper, it was a process that involved multiple officers all thinking this is acceptable.    And it turns out this isn’t limited to one instance, there have been others in other parts of Texas.  And don’t think of blowing this off as a crazy Texas thing, because there have been documented instances in other states.  For the record, the female (and only the female) trooper was fired.  I’m guessing she’s cursing the fates, smoking women, and the (I assume) unwritten policy that caused her to assault these women in the first place.

 

Another no, I don’t feel smug and secure because I live in left leaning, blue voting New York.  If you’re a New Yorker, you shouldn’t either.  Remember, we’re the country’s capitol of Stop-and-Frisk.  Not such a big leap from Walking While Black being a crime to Walking While Female.

 

I think of the Holocaust Survivors I’ve met over the years, the history we haven’t learned well enough.  In the beginning, it was all about well they’re only coming for them.  Only “them” came to include many.  The psychology we KNOW and have studied.  “How could the individual SS officers commit these atrocities?”  Pretty damned easily.  They were broke, unemployed, hungry and afraid.  They were given purpose, respect, food, commands, and fear.  Told by their superiors, those holding the food and safety of their families, “You have to do this.  For your safety.  For your family. For your country. Do it.  They aren’t really people.  They’re a threat to us all.  They’re JewsGaysMentally/PhysicallyDefectiveNotUs.”  And from post war experiments conducted, we learned that most humans are sheep.  We don’t actually need to be hungry or threatened.  Just told to do it.  Cause another person pain, suffering. Too easy.

 

Maybe this is the last roar of a dying breed, those who pine for the good ole days.  Except the good ole days weren’t really so good, unless you were wealthy, white, and male.  I hate to be the one to break the news, but “Leave it to Beaver” was fiction.  Being poor sucks, being hungry sucks.  Nothing new, it wasn’t fun to be poor and/or hungry 50, 100, 150 years ago either.  Being a person of color continues to involve multiple indignities that too many pretend don’t exist.  But our President is black has replaced But my best friend is black.  Does anyone really believe there’s a significant difference between those statements?

 

I get it.  It’s all about fear, and I understand fear.  I’m afraid for me, afraid for my daughter, afraid for my women friends, my goddaughter, my sons’ female friends, the women of America today.  WHY aren’t we continuing to move forward instead of sliding backwards?  I don’t believe our rights to own property will be revoked, our consumerist society will never give up consumers. The right to vote?  I don’t know.  Perhaps full body searches will be required before women can cast a ballot.  You know, for everyone’s safety.

Suffragettes in Bow Street

Suffragettes in Bow Street (Photo credit: Leonard Bentley)

 

 

Toll Road Ahead

Well, I haven’t gotten any further on Astonishing, and no beach days, but we’ve done a little exploring of the Northeast.  And by exploring, I mean dropping off Nerd Child at his summer program and visiting Man Child and Miss Lovely Music.  We went to eat at the restaurant where Man Child is working, and this picky picky Mama says without hesitation the food was delicious.

Much as I drool over the fantasy of a beach vacation, it’s been glorious to take a couple of opportunities to leave the city, and just breathe.  The air really does smell different–and we weren’t on any farms, so no manure, just sweet.  Bonus points for allowing myself to have time away from screens without guilt.

As a bonus while traveling, the dealership we bought the car through screwed up.  We paid extra to have a navigation system and iPod thingie put in. The navigation system stopped working after two days.  Then we discover  the DVD player isn’t working anymore either. Turns out they disabled the DVD player in order to place the new GPS–but didn’t tell us.  Nice business practice.  So glad we went there, so we could feel confident we’d be treated decently by Husband’s relatives.

We’ve never had a DVD player in a car before, wasn’t on our list of necessities–hell, it wasn’t even on our wish list.  But it came in the car we bought, and I assume the cost was built into the price of the vehicle.  Now they have to replace the whole navigation/iPod/radio unit, because the one they put in really isn’t working, it wasn’t that we hit a wrong button. And they tell us we can’t have the DVD player working anymore–unless we want to pay more to have them install a different DVD unit.  WTF?!

I, of course, want my money back.  Take the damn car somewhere else to have a system installed.  Nope, they can’t/won’t give us a refund.  So glad I spent a gajillion dollars for a car with a bazillion miles on it, so I can have all the little perks that make traveling more pleasant.  Fuck!

We arrived home much later than expected after visiting Man Child, caught behind a s-l-o-w moving vehicle on a twisty two lane highway.  I walked into the apartment holding my breath, and was unsurprised to see puddles on the floor.  Hmmm, that’s an awfully big puddle for Little Incredibly Dumb Dog.  Must have been Big Senile Dog.  Wait, no, that isn’t his pee-in-the-house pattern.  Cause, yanno, if he’s going to have an accident, he likes to dance around as he does so he can pretend it isn’t him–and leaving a trail everywhere.  Both of them?!?!  Nope, turned out my Swiffer mop sprang a leak, and it was all cleaning solution.  I now have one very clean area of the living room floor, especially the undersides of the planks, where it all sank in.  Lovely.

We plan to leave the city again for a couple of days next week, to do some further exploring and explore my Mrs Fringe wants to live in the country fantasies.  Manhattan may be an island, but you can forget any thoughts of cool breezes.  Asphalt and concrete traps every last bit of breathable air during a heat wave.  Tar Beach, indeed.  The heat wave is over now, though, and today is gray and cool.  Really cool.  No winning in the city this summer.

I used to be one of those moms who always meant to bring the camera, but would either forget to charge it or forget to bring it.  Now, because of blogging, I bring the camera most times.  Embarrassing to the boys, I get it, I look like a tourist.  “But it’s for the blog!” has become my battle cry.

Photos…

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Pushing Forward

Sometimes I would like to say forget it, crawl into bed, and stay there for about three weeks.  If you hadn’t noticed, I’m in one of those stretches right now but hiding in a bed of apathy isn’t possible, or feasible.  Instead I will smile and nod and use the apathy as sunscreen. Keep doing what needs to be done until I forget to apply the sunscreen and realize (about three days later) I haven’t burned after all.

 

Perfect sky, no?

Perfect sky, no?

So strange, isn’t it?  I live in the land and age of immediate gratification, entitlement.  No matter how aware I am of these ridiculous and selfish concepts, they’re insidious.  I want it IwantitIwantit….Part of the daily bombardment of media and those who seem to be living large all around me.

 

But Fringeland is all about caution and hurry up and wait.  Wait for bills, wait for money to pay said bills, wait for test results, wait for responses to queries, and the writing itself, for me, is a slow process.  For every hour I spend writing I probably spend another three thinking about what and how to write those words, and then another two editing.  And of course, waiting for apathy to blow over, replaced with the usual numb inertia with those invaluable moments of peace. Of this is okay.  I’m okay.

 

I’m thinking about all of this as I push forward with my WIP.  Slow going, this one.  No beach read here, I want it to have the intensity of my short stories. Which means each and every word has to be the right one.  (This is not to say genre fiction isn’t written carefully, with serious attention to craft, just a different style.) Darker than the last, but equally surreal.  I’ve decided I have enough realism in my day to day.  For now, I’m sticking to the literary equivalent of surrealism. Enough reality to be recognizable, no elves, dragons, or fae, but where the impossible just is.

Yves Tanguy Indefinite Divisibility 1942, Albr...

Yves Tanguy Indefinite Divisibility 1942, Albright Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The other night Husband and I went out for dinner.  It was raining, but not one of the crazy storms we’ve been experiencing.  Weekends in the city are fairly quiet, just the peasants without summer homes or plans, so the restaurant was half empty.  The restaurant itself has big plate glass doors that fold back, and they were open since the evening was cool.  As I was bemoaning the hideousness of my twitter pitching experience, the awning covering the outdoor tables fell.  Talk about surreal.  At that point it was raining enough that I think there was only one table with customers out there.  I told you, Fringelings, nothing good comes of al fresco dining in the city.  A waitress was clipped in the head but able to get right back up.  When we left, she was standing near the entry, ice pack on her head.  I swear I could feel her willing that damned bump and nausea to die back down.  Who can afford a day  or two or three of lost tips?

Onward. I had planned to query the finished manuscript slowly, and I have been, but it occurred to me last night that if I go any slower I might as well not query at all.  So I’ll pick up the pace a bit.  And I’ll keep working on this new WIP, searching for the right words.

Where Are My Damned Marbles?

Marbles....

Marbles…. (Photo credit: kevinjay.)

I seem to have misplaced a few of mine.  Ok, most of them.  Have any to spare?

Here I sit, twitching.  Is it because I’m pitching my manuscript on Twitter today, or the unreasonable quantity of espresso I’ve already consumed?

And just what am I doing on Twitter, anyway?  I should be wearing purple and making dates with ladies who lunch.  Shouldn’t I?  I tendered my resignation to Hope a while back, so what is all this? I keep saying I give up, I accept my small life, my downward mobility.  And yet, I keep writing.  And trying.  Not just querying, but things like this twitter pitch event.

Several months ago I saw a new lit mag being formed, looking for submissions for their debut issue.  Reputable names involved, and the theme for the issue seemed perfect for a story I had in the files.  Dusted it off, polished it up, submitted.  Said lit mag seems to have disappeared into a black hole of cyberspace.

When we moved into our current apartment, I did so with the understanding I’ll be here until I have the big one, join ‘Lizabeth, and Husband slides my stiff cold body down the compactor chute.  Funerals are so expensive, they’ve got to be bourgeois by now. I’d best stop gaining weight, it’s a narrow opening. So how come I keep watching HGTV, and studying real estate websites?

moon rises over the crumbling sand castle

moon rises over the crumbling sand castle (Photo credit: sandcastlematt)

A long long time ago, in a land of hope and extreme gas shortages, there was a movie titled The End, starring Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise.  It was a black comedy about a man (BR) trying to kill himself, who keeps screwing up, aided by a delusional mental patient (DD).  Yeah, so I feel like the Reynolds character.  If I had a cavity I’d probably be sucking down an ice cold milkshake.  I’m supposed to have stopped this nonsense by now.

I’m a mother of three.  Special needs/Medical Needs, plain old Growing Up Needs, they are my priority.  That’s supposed to be enough, knowing I’ve done/am doing my best to raise three well adjusted, responsible people.

 

Husband is off today.  Flower Child keeps hoping to see me packing the beach bag every time I get up.  “Is Daddy off?  Why is he dressed?  Why aren’t you dressed?  Are we going to the beach?  Why is it clouds today?  Why does it matter how many times you Twitter?  Do you have an agent yet?  Are we going to the beach?”  But I’m glued to Twitter for the day.

I’m well aware of priorities, well aware of *what’s really important.*  Health and well being of children, important.  Mom’s dreams?  Much further down the list.  I should be crossing them off.  Should have crossed them off long ago.  I thought I did.  I think it must be some kind of gag ink, those irritating fantasies of me-as-a-person keep reappearing.

My Year in Lists

My Year in Lists (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sol y Mar, on the Rocks

Stroll on the beach with me?

Stroll on the beach with me?

We did get to the beach the other day for a couple of hours.  My peace, my soul, my bliss.  I will be happy at any beach.  Obviously, the ones with clean sand and water are better, but I’m not all that picky.  The Brooklyn beaches with their layer of scum and floating you-don’t-want-to-know-what works for me too.

The above photo is of Sandy Hook, NJ. My favorite “local” beach.  It hurt my heart to go there, seeing the damage still in evidence from Hurricane Sandy.  I’m impressed and amazed at how much it’s been fixed up over the last months, and the road on the Hook is now smoothly paved.  But you still see many businesses closed or closing on the highway leading to it, and the bathrooms are still out of commission.  No thanks, Johnny on the Spot.  I’ll skip the porta-potty and just clench those kegels until I get back home.

I’m sure I rambled about this last year, but I’m going to do so again.  Mrs Fringe ❤ Beach.  I don’t know the word for it, but there’s a feeling I get when on a beach that I just don’t/can’t get anywhere else.  Stress levels drop, anxiety lessens, I feel…calm.  I feel well.  For me, it’s like being halfway through a perfectly mixed gin and lemonade.  You know that point?  Just enough so the gin is the most delicious substance to hit your tastebuds, smiling, relaxed, that neutral strip between this-mind-numbing-daily-grind-is-crushing-me and foolishly-relaxed-and-happy-I-CAN.

Alas, poor Yorick, we loved him well

Alas, poor Yorick, we loved him well

Flower Child also loves the beach.  Part of it is not mysterious, it’s a purely physical comfort.  She doesn’t sweat, and playing in the water with the constant breeze off the ocean lets her enjoy a summer day. But part of it is that same mystery gene I’ve got, from before there were any known medical issues, when she was a baby, and the beach was just plain joy at first experience.

I wonder, if I lived on the beach, would my writing flow more easily? Or would I feel too good, and lose the drive to write? I wonder why I’ve never set a story on the beach, or in a beach town.  Maybe it’s too hard to tap into enough conflict imagining such a life.

In my next life, I want a beach house.

But for this life, I take those days when I can, how I can.  Revel in the contrast of my toes in cold waves and shoulders baking under the sun, while the scent of the saltwater wakes me from the inertia of the day to day, and the spray of the water is a protective coating.

Summer of…

Rain cloud

Rain cloud (Photo credit: State Farm)

Suckage.  Last year was the Summer of Death.  I’m trying to decide if this is a step up or down.  The weather in New York continues to be strange, we seem to have turned into a depressing morph that combines the frequent rains of the Pacific Northwest with the intensity of storms in the Southeast.  July 3, and there has yet to be a day where I can get to the beach where the weather has cooperated.

We did go to visit with the kids’ godparents the other day.  Man Child met us there with his girlfriend, which was lovely.  Even better, he brought me a super special bonus surprise, my favorite treat.  DSCN2582Don’t judge, they’re delicious and not available in the city.  Not so good, I was in a significant amount of pain by the time we arrived.  Our minivan is no longer reliable for trips over 30 minutes.  We borrowed my in-laws’ car.  Great to have the option, but there’s something about the shape of the seats in that car that doesn’t work with the curve of my spine.  Ouch.

This led us to new-used car shopping in NJ yesterday.  Eventually, my heart will start beating again, and we’ll continue looking. WTF?  Where did the used cars go?  Cars from 2010, 2011, 2012 are still way too pricey.  I am not kidding when I say I saw a truck with 72,000 miles on it for $24,000.  And no, it wasn’t a Cadillac, Lexus, or anything like that.

For bonus pleasure, the weather continued swinging wildly.  We wandered half the lots in pouring rain, the other half blinded by sun reflecting off of wet asphalt and car windshields, a little steam thrown on for good measure.  On our way home, we stopped in one of the Manhattan car places on 11th Avenue, where it took longer to get a salesman to escort us up to where they keep the used cars than it did for us to scout the floor and realize there was nothing in our budget.

Gave up and were greeted by the traditional wildlife of NY summers underground. Oh, this urban jungle.

DSCN2589

 

When I’m walking the beasts on these hot, wet summer nights, I can actually hear their legs skittering on the sidewalk ahead of us, just to illustrate how substantial they are.

I should be writing, I want to be writing, but I can’t get my head into this new character yet.  So I’ve been working on a twitter pitch (I’m calling it a twitch, it only makes sense) for the completed manuscript for an online event next week.  Decided I would make a treat.  Who doesn’t think it’s a good idea to put the oven on when its 99% humidity?  Guava cheese pastries.  Didn’t work out so well.

Perfectly delicious guayaba, wasted.

Perfectly delicious guayaba, wasted.

It’s only been a week, this summer will improve, right? Please?

For the Love of Flip Flops

The last day of school for the year, hooray!!!!!!

Chalk

Chalk (Photo credit: quinn.anya)

If I hadn’t remembered this (ha!) I would know by the fact that Flower Child woke up and got out of bed on her own this morning.

Summer to me means extra time with my kiddos, stepping off of the rush rush rush, beach bliss, and all the deliciousness of summer fruits.

Dark cherries, white cherries, fuzzy peaches, ripe mangoes, nectarines, watermelon!  And papaya.  Dear Husband, I don’t like papaya.  I don’t care how ripe it is or isn’t, what how nicely you cut it, how perfect your batida came out.  Papaya tastes like farts.  Sorry.

The feel of the sun on my skin.   The scent of cocoa butter.  (Hey, I have dry skin, ok?) Flower Child’s glee on the beach, wind blowing, waves breaking, entrepreneurs with carts and Hefty bags plodding through the sand with an ocean wet towel draped over their head, “Cold Water HE-ah! ColdWater, ColdSoda, Cold Beeeer!  If you don’t drink beer, you’re gonna die!”

thinking about next week

thinking about next week (Photo credit: Makz)

Ok, there’s only one guy who says the last one, but it leaves a lasting impression, and you look for him if you haven’t packed enough drinks to last for the afternoon.  Also true, I can’t remember the last time I drank a beer on the beach, probably before I had children.  But still, it’s part of what comes to mind when I think summer beach day.

The city does tend to smell a whole lot worse in the heat.  The temperature bakes into the concrete, mixes with old dog piss and rises up in waves that try to suck you down like a rip tide.  Most buildings try to minimize this by hosing down the sidewalks at least once a day.  If it weren’t for the filth factor, you could probably bake a brick oven pizza directly on the subway platform by the time we get to August.  And while most of me loves the heat, in the past few years my nerves–literally–don’t.  If I’m out walking when it’s hot I get this weird painful zinging buzzing down my arms and spine.

The best part of summer in the city is my neighborhood.  Quiet.  Half of it empties out, people take off for their country houses/beach houses.  Sometimes my suburban friends will even come to visit me, there are parking spots to be found.  Certainly quieter than my bedroom at this time of year.  Our air conditioner doesn’t work well, and it isn’t properly set into the sleeve, so it sounds and feels like I’m trying to sleep on an airport tarmac.

Have to bring the girl to school.  We should be on time, the day is only two and a half hours long for this last one.  What does  summer mean to you?

Cooling off nyc style

Cooling off nyc style (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

Mrs Fringe Wants a Do-Over

Against the rules.  Cheating.  Rupture in the time-space continuum.  But isn’t that the true definition of being a grown up, when you comprehend you don’t get any do-overs?

Fine, how about some duck tape?

Fix everything

Fix everything (Photo credit: Anders Illum)

Duck tape for a cracked life.  Because you can’t really undo what’s been done or start over.  But there are people out there who seem as if they can fix just about anything, create just about anything, with a roll or ten of tape.

Others get stuck staring at the crack.  First they pretend it isn’t there, then they can’t look away.  They touch it, push on it a bit, whip out the tape measure and chart its progress, and finally, run their tongues over it and curse the fact that their tongue is bleeding.  How about a little duck tape for use as a bandaid?

English: This is a tongue

English: This is a tongue (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Over the last year, I got tired of swallowing iron.  Unfortunately, I hate the feel of sticky fingers.  Seriously, even the thought of syrup on pancakes makes me shudder, because I hate the stick factor.  Which leads me to think about my unnatural and unhealthy love of butter.  It’s smooth, it’s comforting, it’s easy. But I’ve gained ten pounds this year, and it hasn’t fixed a damned thing.

My knee jerk avoidance reaction is to say I need spiritual duck tape.  Sounds nice, doesn’t it?  Appropriately obscure, everyone can project whatever they’d like into it.  I think Mrs Fringe has been this for me–and God knows I project whatever I want onto these pages.  Soon enough I’ll be hitting my one year blogoversary.  It’s been great, and I hope it will continue to be a cyberaddress of fun and navel gazing for a long time to come.  Not enough though.

I think women, in particular mothers-of-a-certain-age, tend to stop right here.  It’s ok, dear, a little spiritual crazy glue is all I want.  And if it isn’t all I want that’s ok, it’s all I need. See?  My fingers don’t move, my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my lips are sealed shut.

It’s time to figure out how to use the damned duck tape for more than adhering myself to the same old shit.

 

 

Poser!

Venecian Masks

Venecian Masks (Photo credit: ChaTo (Carlos Castillo))

This morning I made Flower Child scrambled eggs for breakfast.  She thought it was her lucky day.  Nope, I didn’t get to the grocery store yesterday morning, and that’s all I’ve got.  The last two slices of bread are for her lunch.  I would have made a smoothie, but there’s brown crap running from the faucet this morning, and the blender is still sitting in the sink waiting to be washed from Nerd Child’s smoothie yesterday morning.  This also means I didn’t want to make another bowl dirty by beating the eggs first.  What the hell, mixing them in the pan with the spatula is the same thing, right?

Fake it ’til you make it.  Kinda sorta.

My motto is probably more along the lines of  fake it ’til it’s bedtime.  Out of standard, practical for a school day breakfast fare?  Scrambled eggs.  Haven’t done laundry?  Wear dress clothes.  “Oh, Mrs Fringe, look at you!  Doing something fun/special/important today?”  Why yes, yes I am.  Pretending I haven’t worn every last t-shirt I own.  Except for that Dallas Cowboys one circa 1981 with very inappropriate holes worn through it, that for some reason I never toss when getting rid of old clothes.

Feel like crap?  Makeup.  Double crap, can’t remember where I last put my makeup bag.

Gained some weight over the winter and too lazy to work out?  God bless the designer who decided empire waists should come back into style (five years ago is too still in), along with seamstresses of flowing skirts and A-lines.

Housewife

Housewife (Photo credit: garryknight)

Doubting that you’ve pulled off or can pull off a fun, light beach read type novel, cause let’s face it, you aren’t all that fun and lighthearted?  Keep going, start the next one, only have this one be dark, not fun, and not likely to be spotted on the boardwalk.  Wait, this doesn’t quite fit with the equation, does it?  Hmm, well, at least I’ll have a writah-ly-type excuse when this one doesn’t sell.  Angst isn’t for everyone, after all.

Given that I’m so fucking excellent at faking it, I can’t imagine why I haven’t yet made it.

1001 Questions of Mamaing

Happy Saturday, Fringelings!

It’s been an exhausting week for me, lots of ups and downs, how about you?  Two highlights.  One, Nerd Child is home for the summer, hooray!  It was a seventeen hour day yesterday, much of it spent driving in torrential rains that seemed to call for an ark, but he’s home.

What’s the other highlight?  SnapinTime, from The Voice from the Backseat very generously donated her limited time to watermarking some of my photos of Flower Child’s artwork, so I could share it here.  Thank you, Snapin!

I love looking at art, and so does Flower Child.  We’ve spent quite a bit of time in museums together.  My sweetie has a real talent.  It’s newly discovered, or perhaps it would be better stated to say newly unlocked.  I can’t say why, for sure, but it emerged after receiving an iPad to use for schoolwork.  Is it the preservation of energy (a precious and finite resource)?  Excessive fatigue is one of the most, if not the most, debilitating features of her struggles.  I don’t know, but as a mama who watches her struggle with so much–yet she always holds on to the positive–and as a person who is hard pressed to draw a stick figure, this work makes me weep, literally.

Flower Child is indeed, special.  Her thoughts take twists and turns that can be difficult to follow, and clarity is connected to how she’s feeling physically.  The drawing of the dog and bird looks like it was done by a different person, no?  This was a work she produced last weekend, when she was unwell and “crashing,” as we call it, for lack of a better word.  Not completely crashed, because then she’s hard pressed to hold a pencil.  After several hours of rest, sleep, and her evening meds, she produced “woman with dreds.”

I’m hoping to figure out a way to get her art lessons this summer.  We need someone who will be flexible and ok with these inconsistencies, and sympathetic to the &*$#% budget.