Life

Braggage: Warning, Sap Ahead

No Whining (Photo credit: bepositivelyfit)

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

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

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

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

Earth (Photo credit: tonynetone)

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

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

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

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

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

Riveting, A Literary V-8

Edward_Lear_A_Book_of_Nonsense 115.jpg (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As mentioned often, I haven’t had a day off in years. Some days contain more suckage than others. Today, not starting off so well. I got up and decided to make blueberry muffins for breakfast. Flower Child choked on a piece of kale during dinner last night, freaked out, not much was eaten, therefore I wanted to be sure she would really eat this morning. No one else was up yet, I was able to make the batter and get them in the oven. Another often touched on point here in Fringeland, I have a teeny, tiny kitchen. Rules out cooking or baking anything that involves needing a lot of space, and involves regular accidents, because I’ve got about 8 inches of counter space to work with. Got the muffins in the oven without incident, washed what I used for prep, ignored the pot and dishes still in the sink from last night. Time to get those muffins out of the oven. First tray, balanced on top of the stove. Second tray, on the lilliputian amount of space on the dining room table that isn’t used as Husband’s office (read, overflowing with papers, pens, and crap). I now want to slide the rack back inside the oven, which of course, resulted in the first (full) tray flipping off of the stove and half of the muffins flying out and decorating the kitchen. Sigh.

Historical Oven cooking depicted in a painting by Jean-François Millet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flower Child is now up, curled on one end of the couch under a blanket, and waiting anxiously for the muffins not covered in dog hair and drool to cool off. I sit on the couch with my laptop and my coffee. After a little bit, I tell her she can take a muffin. She throws her blanket off, and my coffee spills onto the couch, the floor, my phone, and my book. Fuuuuuck! For the record, she’s been standing in front of the muffins for twenty minutes now, waiting for me to tell her which muffin to take, afraid to move at all despite the fact that I told her six times to just pick one. I don’t want to look at them anymore. Husband woke up, looked in the kitchen, and asked if I made scrambled muffins for breakfast.

So, what to do when you need to escape life and you can’t actually have a day off? Read, and try to pretend your couch doesn’t reek of cafe con leche. I was thinking about books and reading this morning, anyway.

What makes a novel great? And I mean fantastic, enduring, cross genre and cross generational. The type of book that you either can’t put down, or have to put down every so often so the perfect line of prose you just read and reread can be examined, dissected and allowed to swim through the synapses of your brain until it’s coming out of your pores like the morning after a night of drinking cheap vodka.

I think it’s when the story is so clear but so flexible you not only want to be the main character, or in that world, you can apply it to yourself in your world, your life. Open for interpretation, if you will, allowing for projection. Kind of weird, because many of my favorite novels involve stories and lives I wouldn’t really want, they’re tragic. But I can feel them. And you, opening the book with a different viewpoint, different life experiences, different locale, different socio-economic background, can see yourself in that main character, in that story, and feel them too.

I don’t want to say ambiguous, because that has negative connotations, and too often makes readers think of torturous works of literature assigned by pompous and musty professors. You know the ones, they smell like my couch. Personally, I’m ok with ambiguous, especially ambiguous endings, but many aren’t. They want to know there is a happy ever after for Joe Smith, or maybe they want to see Mrs Fringe get her comeuppance. Maybe the story, the character, needs to be pliable. Something that has it’s own form, shape, and limits, but can be stretched through a reader’s brain to mold to individual interpretations.

I’m going to make more coffee and give Flower Child a muffin. Tell me what you think.

English: Constellation of Literature pavilion in the Temple of Literature, Hanoi. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ahh, Nothing Like Blustery Autumn Day

In May.

A pair of well-used flip-flops. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is what I should be wearing. Instead, I’m wearing a turtleneck and winter coat. For the love of God, I’ve got socks on! Socks!

I hate socks. Don’t put them on until the last possible day in the fall, and put them all away the moment my toes don’t actually get stiff in the spring. Yes, I’m whining. And yes, I know it isn’t just NY, it seems like much of the country is experiencing unusually cold temperatures right now.

Last year Flower Child and I spent one of the days of Memorial Day weekend on the beach. I’m sure, over the course of the weekend, I cooked things that were seasonal. Tofu dogs, cole slaw, burgers, whatever.

At least it’s still a three day weekend. And today Husband was going to work later, which meant I could sleep in. (I try to walk the dogs at least once while he’s home so Flower Child doesn’t have to get dressed and come out with me in the mornings of her days off.) Except I didn’t get to sleep in. Something went wrong with the plumbing yesterday; dirty, disgusting water backed up into our tub. So instead of snoring, I was downstairs harassing the handyman at eight AM, to make sure he didn’t “forget” to come up and fix it. Again. In my coat, because it was 44 degrees this morning.

I’m making soup for dinner today. Kale and cannellini bean soup. So wrong for the calendar, I didn’t have soup stuff in the cabinet, and had to go food shopping first thing this morning.

1) Saute your base in olive oil. I used garlic, red onion, carrots, celery, fresh ground salt and pepper, thyme and oregano.

2)Add canned peeled tomatoes, smush them in pot, cook about 20 minutes.

3)Add water and or broth (I used about half and half), kale, beans, and a hunk of Parmesan rind. Bring to boil, then lower down and cook about half an hour. *I prefer escarole, but the store didn’t have it today and I didn’t want to go to another store.

4) Immersion blender into pot, blend part (but not all, and don’t blend the Parm rind) of soup, I did a rough, quick few runs with it, leaving it mostly chunky, just adding texture.

5) Add torn stale Italian bread. Or baguette, whatever you’ve got, cook at least another 40 minutes over low heat.

: Saute

: Add your stuff and cook down.

: Final cooking, after blending part

Is It Over Yet?

Pass the watermelon, would ya?

I am ready to be smack in the middle of this photo. My mind is, anyway. The calendar says not yet. Come to think of it, my abs aren’t so sure either, I haven’t worked out in way too long. It can’t be bothering me that much, or I’d get my butt onto the yoga mat and start crunching.

Instead, I’m still working on the damned synopsis. I have a completed draft. It needs a gastric bypass, and then some serious CPR.

Little Incredibly Dumb Dog decided she’d help me out by eating my flash drive. This way there’s no evidence of those wasted hours when I hit the delete button, and I burned a few calories chasing her to get it out of her tiny, vise-like jaws.

Don’t let the bad haircut fool you, she isn’t innocent.

Maybe if I put the printed synopsis between my teeth as I hold the chair pose, both flabby abs and prose will tighten up.

I’m not OK, You’re OK

Are you? I hope. More ok than that ’70’s self help book I ripped my title from, anyway. Did anyone else have to read it for psych when they were in school? It should have been titled the Tao of OKitude. I don’t remember Harris’ theories, I just remember each chapter feeling like torture. As I recall, the solution was reading while listening to the Doobie Brothers cranked on the stereo.

Publicity photo of the music group The Doobie Brothers. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Speaking of, I guess I’ve got the 1970’s on my brain today. I went to get my hair cut, wanted something a little different. Retro. Somehow, no matter what I ask for, I always seem to walk out of the hair salon looking, umm, shall we say, suburban? Doesn’t matter whether the stylist is male or female, young, old, or middle aged, when they see my salt and pepper hair they stop listening and give me the haircut they think is appropriate. You’d think they’d understand appropriate isn’t high on my list, based on the fact that I don’t dye my hair, and usually walk in looking like a frizz bomb.

Today’s guy tried to ignore me, and I tried to explain. Of course, my brain fogged with the smell of hair bleach from the woman next to me getting highlights, and I couldn’t think of the word “shag.” I kept saying fringe. Can’t imagine why fringe would pop into my head. So I made him get props. The sad, dusty binders filled with jagged edged magazine photos. I’m laughing just thinking of the expression on the stylist’s face, trying to decide how to tell me I don’t have straight hair. I reassured him that I understand my hair won’t do anything other than what it wants no matter how it’s cut without major intervention. Just make it so I can make it look reasonable when I put the effort in.

After 20 minutes of cutting, product, 25 minutes of blow drying, 20 minutes with the straightening iron, a little more cutting, a little more ironing, a little more product. Voila!

Mrs Fringe, Smooshed, Smoothed, and Ironed

Sometimes a gal just has to remind herself she knows how to be a person. I’ve been submerged in revisions, but I’m happy to say they don’t feel hellish right now. In fact, I’m feeling pretty good about how the story is coming together.

In celebration of sleek hair and edits that are working, I offer a song to my fringelings.

Battle of the Printer: I Win!

Chiseling for dummies (Photo credit: quinn.anya)

Not the war, though, the printer will win that one. More accurately, the company that makes the printer wins the war.

I’m very proud of myself for the progress I’ve made over the last ten years, getting used to the computer and technology. Honestly, I never thought I’d be able to “think” straight onto a keyboard. I wrote longhand for years, only typing once I had my work exactly as I wanted it. Even once I began writing with the computer, I did a lot of printing. Every time I wanted to proofread, revise, edit, or just generally obsess over my suckage, I had to print the pages and hold them in my hands. I feel so terribly, horribly guilty when I think of how much paper I wasted for a few years, even with recycling old pages.

Lots of progress for Mrs Fringe. But there are still a couple of points in editing and revising where I need to hold the hardcopy in my hands and use a pencil to make notes. This is one of those points. Today I needed two copies of the WIP; one for my greasy mitts and red pen, and one for Husband, so I can keep an eye out to make note of the points where he falls asleep. I have a workhorse of a basic laser printer, cutting edge when I got it 9 years ago. Sure, it’s a little “touchy,” and God help you if you don’t fan the papers just so before loading, but it still works. Sadly, this is the end of the road. The last time I needed “ink” I was told the printer was discontinued, and there were no more cartridges available. I begged the guy to search his storeroom, and he found one. I was thrilled, until I heard the cost. It literally cost me the same for that toner as it would cost for a new printer.

Why and how have printers become disposable? Once this cartridge runs out of toner, the cost to find and purchase a replacement will be well over the cost of a new, equivalent printer. It feels wrong to me, this must be on the list of venial sins.

Rosary (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Obviously, now, I’m trying to nurse this cartridge along, and make it last as long as possible. I printed one copy of the manuscript, and brought it to the copy place to have the second copy made. Remember, this is the first draft. I tend to write “short” so the end product will likely be an additional 5-10,000 words from where the word count sits now. I haven’t brought anything in to be copied for me in a few years. Holy cannoli, prices have risen! $38. for one complete copy.

As I was printing here at home and listening to the click and stutter of rollers inside the machine, I experienced a strong sense memory of standing in the office of my elementary school, waiting for mimeo copies to bring to the teacher. Anyone else remember them? The copies always had a smell like Elmer’s glue and the ink was barely deeper than lavender. Not cutting edge at the time, but the machine still worked, so it was used. I think I’m going to look for a mimeograph on eBay.

English: Jackson & O’Sullivan “The NATIONAL” Duplicator. Made in Brisbane, Queensland during World War II. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wild Thing, or This, That, and the Other

Lion (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Walking down the street to meet Husband…I get in the car, and he’s laughing. “You look like un animal!” This is how Mrs Fringe knows it’s time for a haircut. For now, I stuck a clip in my hair. But I’m going to follow this thought for a bit.

I did take a few days off after finishing the first draft, and just read. One of the books I read was The Wolf Gift, by Anne Rice. She is one of those authors who provokes strong responses among her readers. You love her or hate her. I love her. I’ve heard for years about her not taking editorial suggestions anymore. Have I seen it in her books? Maybe, sometimes, but nothing enough to interrupt the suspension of disbelief. With Rice, I’ve fallen in love with angels, vampires, mummies, witches, castrati, New Orleans, the gens de couleur libres, and became fascinated by thoughts of the early life of Christ. Yes, her prose tends towards purple, but wow, can she tell a story. And sexy. Leaving her erotica books out of it, her writing, her characters, ooze sensuality. Not my writing style, but as a reader I adore her details and world building.

I have to say, I was disappointed in The Wolf Gift. The MC didn’t feel believable, even before he turned into a werewolf. And I couldn’t suspend disbelief for the whole were/woman secksy times. Even putting smell to the side (very hard for me to do), how in the world were they kissing when he had a snout? I watch True Blood, love it (no, don’t love the books it’s based on), but when Sookie and Alcide were smooching, he was in human form. Guess I’m just a prude–who needs a haircut, so Husband isn’t accused of kissing a mangy lion.

I’ve begun the process of reading my manuscript, cleaning up noticeable, small errors; making more notes for things I want to add or change, and writing an expanded outline based on what’s there. Playing with the idea of adding another character and subplot, I feel like the story is missing…something.

But I’m taking it slow, it’s too soon to rip it apart completely, I need some distance. I’m worn out, and I suppose this post reflects the way my brain has been unfocused over the past week. Flower Child has been focused on her art, drawing a lot of trees, so we’ve both been paying attention. The other day, I took some more bad NY wildlife photos. Obviously, I have to share them here.

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Knock Knock

Knock the Door ! (Photo credit: Elias Pirasteh)

Busy writing, busy reading, busy mamaing, busy stressing.

And a bit blue. Probably from all the busying of daily life nonsense, and the need for warmer weather to stay for more than three days. I’m not even going to mention continued problems maintaining a signal to stay online, and the fact that it took 3 hours to post this.

Last week, Man Child confirmed he’ll be staying in the area of his school this summer, he’s got a great job offer. Fabulous on so many levels. Not least of which because that’s my goal as a parent; independent, happy, thriving kiddos. Then he called needing some information because he was on his way to the ER, a kitchen accident.

Evidence – Screaming Woman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He was treated, all is well, he even had a long weekend to recuperate. I asked if he wanted to come home for a few days, rest, visit, etc. No, he had plans. No problem, take care of yourself, have fun, rest. This is what I want for him, right? Right?

I love being a mama. I love my kids. I even like my kids. I’m a human being, I have made mistakes as both a person and a parent, but mostly, I feel like I do a decent job. In our house, we don’t run with the assumption that parents and teens/young adults are natural adversaries with different goals. Objectively, I think it’s worked out pretty well so far.

But add over-busy to writing angst, stress, Flower Child missing her brothers, blueness, thinking of how many months before I see Man Child…well, mama brain goes into overdrive. Maybe no matter what decisions Husband and I made, no matter how we tried to parent, we can’t do anything to avert the stereotypical outcome of our kids never wanting to visit, cataloguing our mistakes and couldn’t-dos…. Maybe he’s never coming to visit again!

Okay, okay. Stop being a drama mama, suck it up, be happy that he calls. Plant some new seeds with Flower Child, think about what kind of cake she’d like for her birthday later this week. Flower Child and I were doing our Sunday stuff. I’m sweeping the floor, and the front door opens. Husband hasn’t been feeling great, oh crap, he must really be sick if he left work.

I look up from my pile of dog hair and

Surprise!

It’s Man Child and his friend, Miss Lovely Music. Just for the afternoon, Flower Child and I showed off our microscopic seedlings, they sat for a bit and then they went downtown to run a couple of errands. Came back, chatted a little while more, and then left to surprise Husband for a few minutes at work before heading back to school.

That’s a long drive and a lot of gas money for two broke college students who had to be back at school last night, with no way of knowing if I would have cash to reimburse them (I did and I did).

Thank you.

sunrise (Photo credit: Sean MacEntee)

It’s a Beautiful Day–Join Mrs Fringe for a Guiltshake!

English: One of the “shakes with a punch” at Hot Chocolate at Docklands. Whiskey, Baileys, Very Vanilla & Bee Keeper ice cream, dark chocolate. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been having problems getting online for weeks. Initially I thought it was my laptop, it’s old and freezes up on a semi-regular basis. Then Husband, Nerd Child, and Flower Child were all having problems with their devices. At first it was sporadic, but over the past couple of weeks it’s been a daily hassle to stay connected for more than 2-3 minutes at a time. I thought it was connected to the jackhammering they’ve been doing on the corner. We reset the little box thing. We called the cable company. Lather, rinse, repeat. Then I started asking neighbors, but no one else is having a problem. Hmmm. It occurred to me it had to be something in our hardware. We’ve had our router for a long time. Really long. Purchased when there were fewer and less powerful computers using it. So I asked my fish freak buddies (yes, they know everything) and they told me it likely is my router. By yesterday, we couldn’t stay on for more than a minute without getting cut off. Ugh.

Why is this such a big deal? Because a couple of weeks ago, I bought myself a present. I had done several extra dog walks and was feeling beaten by winter, so I splurged. I bought an e-reader. I love it, it’s made me happy, and I’ve been skipping along, pleased with myself. Except now we need a new router. We don’t have any extra money right now (like this would be different a month ago, or a month from now, ha!). I didn’t buy a fancy e-reader, you can’t surf the web with it, but still, I could have bought a router with that money if I had realized then what our internet problems were. I would have still had the money if I had put it to the side for Flower Child’s upcoming birthday pedicure, the way I should have.

A macro photo of a Maraschino cherry, taken with my Fuji S7000 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

That’s the double ugh glazed with extra guilt cherry on top.

What a selfish bitch. A good mommy would have waited another three years for the e-reader, making sure no one needs anything before spending money on something so frivolous. Am I the only one who hears that voice?

Husband went to go buy a new router. We have stuff for the kids’ schools that needs to be done where we must have a somewhat reliable internet connection, and Husband needs it for work. Ok. I’ll swallow the cherry, figure out where I can tighten the budget this week. He asked if I wanted to go to the store with him. No, I didn’t. I was writing, and only had a couple of hours before I had to dogwalk.

Husband came home with the SuperDuperMegaRouter. I would have gone to the next store, in search of the EconoRouter. And this is me, choking on the stem. Funny how that guilt never completely gets digested, but it sure is absorbed.

But it is still a beautiful day, so I’ll share a spring in Central Park photo, just in case you’re one of the blessed ones who can decline a guiltshake on an early summer day. I was going to upload a bunch, but apparently the SuperDuperMegaRouter doesn’t care to do too much fraternizing with Ricketyoldlaptop.

From a distance, the trees are still saying winter, but when you get close…

Farmer Fringe

Clematis, New York Botanical Garden (Photo credit: Kristine Paulus)

Flower Child likes the idea of growing things. I like the idea of growing things. We don’t know what we’re doing, but little by little, we’re trying to figure it out, in pots on the terrace. We aren’t successful enough yet to call it container gardening.

Last year we did pretty well, using little plants from the local plant shop. We had a couple of pots with flowers, one with mint, one with basil, a couple of window box type things hanging off of the terrace railing filled with herbs. We learned that dill will attract the birds with the red chests. Never had one of those come to my terrace before, apparently they think dill is comfy for nesting. We learned pigeons enjoy basil, not to keep it in the boxes on the ledge. We learned tomatoes need to be pollinated, and bees don’t come up as high as we live. I’d like to try that one again, after reading some more about how to self pollinate.

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day, so this morning, FC and I decided today was the day to work on our terrace. Yanno it’s still sunny but freezing today. We went back to the plant store and bought seeds this time. Much less expensive, we can try more things.

to be planted next week

We were going to plant these tomorrow, but neither one of us remember which of the two identical planters is the one we already put seeds into. So we’ll wait a week, and see which one sprouts something.