Life

Pursuit of Personhood

Pursuit of Happiness (Photo credit: changyang1230)

January 2nd and I haven’t given up, woot!

Back to life today, for me and most of the other parents of school-aged children. Took Flower Child to school this morning, and Husband just took Nerd Child to catch the bus back to boarding school. Man Child is still home, but will be setting off any day for an internship in something I can’t spell, related to theater.

The Christmas tree is gone, the wreath gone, but the ribbons, bells, and fallen pine needles remain to remind me I’m still going to be me and behind on housework no matter my intentions.

I am not, however, going to say I’m getting back to my usual routine. First of all, my routine is a great big fail. A huge to-do list, and each day I begin by trying to do more than is added. That hasn’t been working so well. I’ll just try to accomplish the things that are most necessary, like clean underwear. Does anything else matter?

Little Incredibly Dumb Dog needs a bath. Really, really needs a bath. And yet, still smooshable. Especially if you don’t breathe in through your nose while smooshing. See how easy it is to drop something down to the bottom of the list?

On New Year’s Eve, I rejoined a writer’s forum I used to belong to. Couldn’t remember my old username, and I’m fairly certain I was using a different email then, but that’s ok. A fresh commitment. I like having a connection to other writers, keeps me motivated, accountable (sort of), and humble. There are a lot of excellent writers out there, producing and submitting. And then, I didn’t cry. True, I sniveled a bit, and indulged in a large glass of Baileys, but I’m quite certain there were no auditory sobs.

This morning I did something I haven’t done in too long. I started a new short story. I did not give in to the temptation of spending my writing time fiddling with the short story I’ve been fiddling with for 6000 years. Don’t I have two full length WIPs? Yes, yes I do. But I felt the need for something fresh. And I like it. Just a beginning, still needs a middle, an end, and about a thousand hours of editing, but I like it. I am woman. I can do this.

Once upon a time #2 (Photo credit: Andrea Marutti)

Deep and Meaningful

I wanted to write something of value for my Fringelings on New Year’s Eve. Something personal yet inclusive, inspirational without being hokey. Spent the morning paging through poetry books, googling quotes. I got nothing.

This year I will work towards more, I will work towards better, I will work towards feeling like enough.

Veritate et virtute “with truth and courage”

Happy New Year, I’m wishing the very best to all my readers, fellow bloggers, and anyone else who happens along.

Just in case you need something to get you in the mood:

An old timer’s New York New Year’s gift

It Makes Me Wonder

stairway to heaven (Photo credit: Cromo)

Last night, when Husband got home from work, we watched the clip of Heart performing Stairway to Heaven at the Kennedy Center. It was an amazing performance, Ann Wilson’s voice strong and pure; I can’t imagine a finer arrangement to play homage to Led Zeppelin. And let’s be honest, tell me it didn’t/doesn’t make you smile to see Michelle Obama grooving in her seat.

It brought me back. The hours and hours spent listening to them. I never saw Led Zeppelin live, though I did see the Honeydrippers, and Robert Plant again on a solo tour. I don’t remember where either concert was held, but I have a clear picture of being so far from the stage at Plant’s show that I was glad one of the friend who were with me smiled and chatted with the guys next to us, so we could share their binoculars. I can’t remember if Husband and I saw him together, and neither could he, but I suspect not. Somehow Husband always got decent, if not excellent, seats.

A mesh of memories were triggered, not just the concerts. Like being wrapped in a worn quilt with an old and stinky lobster trap over it. The overriding memory was of sitting on the edges of a Brooklyn park at night, a few friends and a guitar. We used to do that a lot, get a bunch of kids together in a park or on the beach, and remove ourselves from the world and the city with music. I was never a musician or a singer, but I always wrote, and like every other angst filled teen saw myself as the next Sylvia Plath. So sometimes there’d be a real effort, a real plan (ha!) to the night, one of the more talented guitarists would sit with me, and he or she would throw some chords together while I and whatever other writers were there would come up with lyrics. All terrible, I’m sure, all forgotten by morning. There’s a certain amount of noise that goes with living in the city at night, and the level considered acceptable was a lot more in those days than now. I grew up across the street from one of those parks, which really weren’t parks at all, but concrete playgrounds and yards attached to elementary schools. You could tell the time by the sounds you heard. Little ones shrieking, before 4 pm, basketballs thumping, “foul!” “fuck you, go home if you don’t like it!” 3-8 or 9pm, thwok-“shit!” were the handball players, between 7 and midnight, music, shouts, firecrackers, and “shut the fuck up, man!” between 10pm and 2am, waking to the thwop-thwak of the paddleball players at 7am.

This one night was perfect, magical to my teenaged self. I can’t remember who I was with, not names or faces, just the shadows next to me, the splintered wood of the bench under my butt, acrid smell and bitter taste of the luke warm, green bottle of Heineken, and a sweet female voice singing Stairway to Heaven. I wasn’t where I wanted to be, no clue how to get there, or even where there was, but I believed I could.

handball (Photo credit: gt8073a)

Hey 2012! Don’t Let the Door Hit You on Your Way Out

Cartoon showing baby representing New Year 1905 chasing old man 1904 into history. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It had moments, but overall, for me, 2012 sucked. Starting Mrs Fringe was definitely a highlight; it was my way of stomping my spread out and beat up old foot, saying,”Yes! There is still a me.”

This New Year’s, I’m going to pretend there’s a possibility that life will be better, and I will have more moments. And by better, I mean not any worse. I’m old enough, had my ass kicked enough, to know this won’t happen magically. The problem with downward mobility is picturing it as a spiral, the pure golden spiral of mathematics or the spiral galaxies of the universe.

English: Golden spiral in rectangles. Português: Espiral dourada dentro de retângulos. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In other words, a somewhat predictable, plottable course. I don’t think plottable is a word, but it suits my purposes, so I’ll call it poetic license. But for most of us living on the Fringe, it isn’t (assuming your descent isn’t the product of addiction, cause that’s a different sort of blog). It’s more of a roller coaster without the ups. Squeaking along wheels shrieking and scraping against the tracks, and then a plunge that drives your teeth into your tongue and cracks your shoulder blade against the too low back of the seat. But somehow, no matter how painful the ride is, you stay seated, following the directions like a good sheep, “Do Not Unbuckle Safety Belt While Ride is in Motion.”

I haven’t made any New Year’s resolutions in a gazillion years. It feels so Hallmark to me. But I’m thinking…gift giving at Christmastime is Hallmark, in and of itself. However, I received some amazing gifts this Christmas that made me leak in their acknowledgement of Mrs Fringe as someone who counts. Here , here, and I can’t thank you enough here. Also, here. So out of this commercial and Hallmark tradition came something beautiful and human. The New Comfort Food cookbook had me thinking about the importance of being ok with being me, being grounded enough to say trying something different doesn’t mean becoming someone different. I’m going to test this, and see if maybe I can make a resolution or two in order to recognize my own humanity. I have three days to decide on a resolution or two, I’m thinking one will involve regular writing submissions.

Do you use the new year to make resolutions?

If I can figure out how to unclench my jaw, and get my brain to release my fingers from their death grip on the sides of this box car, I’m going to search my pockets for the tickets that must be hidden, and try a different ride.

Get Yer Tickets Here! (Photo credit: HeyThereSpaceman.)

Mrs Fringe Remembers

empty platter (Photo credit: Julep67)

a time when holidays and the work that went with them were fun. I can’t pinpoint when it stopped, but it has. I cook. I used to cook more frequently, more elaborately, and for more people than I do now. I used to love to cook, challenge myself with new ingredients and recipes, but now, not so much. I still enjoy it sometimes, still like to try new recipes, but the holidays? Every year I try to cut back a dish or two and the prep involved, but the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be. The dicing, sauteing, braising and sifting that used to give me a thrill is now just work. The hunt for the perfect ingredients necessitating hitting six grocery stores isn’t the treasure hunt it once was.

I could blame the kids and Husband, “I spoiled them.” It’s true, they’re used to good food, they’re used to fresh ingredients and most everything cooked from scratch. But the truth is their finicky palates aren’t a mystery, I’m the same way. If it’s my holiday too, which it is, and if I’m doing the work, which I am, then I want to enjoy the meal(s). I couldn’t possibly cook any fewer items than I’m planning for the dinners if I don’t want anyone to be hungry.

Christmas Eve Dinner: Baked Ziti (making the sauce right now), Horseradish Crusted Roast Beef, Spinach, Pear, and Parmesan Salad, Pumpkin Torte for dessert.

Christmas Brunch: Vanilla Maple French Toast, Cheesy Baked Grits, Asst breakfast meats, fake and real.

Christmas Dinner: Ham, Cauliflower roasted with Olives, Capers, and Pignolis, Some kind of mashed potatoes, not sure which kind, and a Rice Pudding Pear Tart.

It took until late this morning for me to decide what I’m going to cook this year. Man Child went with me to one grocery store, Nerd Child went with me to another, and I sent Man Child without me to the third. Unfortunately, he just texted to tell me they have no hams, spiral sliced or not. Yes, it’s true! I stopped making the fresh ham from scratch a few years ago, and buy the ones that are precooked, just need to be heated. Wrestling with that big leg… the soaking, the skinning, the crying, I gave up.

I used to make dozens and dozens of Christmas cookies, at least 7 different types each year, in the week leading up to Christmas.

Molasses comic (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

They were math, language arts, history, and science lessons for the kids. They were an art, a pleasure, an excellent gift for people when you want to gift something personal and/or inexpensive. I stopped doing that when we moved into this apartment, the kitchen is impossibly small. This didn’t include the 2 or 3 cakes and/or pies I would make. Two years ago, Man Child asked for my cookie recipes so he could make them with his friends at his boarding school. Sure. It was actually a surprise for me, he came home with the cookies, having used the kitchen of one of his teachers. Absolutely one of the top 5 gifts I’ve ever received. –Speaking of fabulous gifts, one of my friends sent me a great paring knife! A completely unexpected pleasure–both the knife and realizing he reads Mrs Fringe.

Who does the cooking for your holiday celebrations? Are you a fellow lunatic who won’t eat bottled salad dressing?

We spend Christmas Day at home now, I prep brunch the night before, after the stuff from Christmas Eve dinner is cleaned up, in between wrapping gifts and searching for the tripod to set up the video camera. It makes for a nice Christmas morning, I wake up and make coffee, shove the casserole dishes in the oven, and brunch cooks while we have fun opening presents, taking bad pictures, and knocking over the tripod.

So, what gives? I still love the idea of Christmas, the magic reflected on Flower Child’s face when she comes into the living room, watching the kids open their gifts, seeing the pleasure on Husband’s face as he watches them, seeing the excitement on their faces when he and I unwrap our own presents, the silliness of eating chocolate at 7 in the morning. Brunch is an open invitation and informal, I always make a lot so we usually have at least a couple of friends or relatives stop by, feels good.

Maybe I’m just a cranky old lady, and need to start making reservations for dinner on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Dennys-Restaurant 12 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

No Words

There are no words for this morning’s tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut. No words, but I want to howl.

Senseless. It made no sense two hours ago, it will make no sense two hours from now, it will make no sense two years from now.

At least 18 children slaughtered, at least 8 more adults who devoted their lives to service for these children, for the community, slaughtered.

There can not be an answer. I don’t care what the talking heads say tonight, tomorrow, next week.

Maybe if I waited to post, I would have more coherent thoughts. I don’t think so. Only this howl.

My heart is breaking for all of those involved.

Flower field (Photo credit: CaptSpaulding)

Blogging With A Scarlet B

Fallen Woman (Photo credit: Mr Jaded)

Why am I blogging? I’ve talked about this before, some here, and some in comments on other people’s blogs, but I want to explore this again. I am not a writer, a blogger, a mom, a special needs mom, a wife, a friend, a reefer, a dog walker, a poop inspector, a New Yorker, a vegetarian. I am all that–and a bag of salt and vinegar chips on the side.

Broken doll (Photo credit: noii’s)

Any parent or teacher is familiar with how a young child’s world is rocked if they run into their preschool teacher outside of the classroom or school. Developmentally, it’s appropriate. “Mrs K outside of her role in my life?” Shock, maybe even outrage. But how much do we really outgrow that stage? Different in a small town, maybe, where people often play dual, triple, or quadruple roles in someone’s life. In a city, it’s common enough to not be able to place, or maybe even not notice, the cashier you smile at every day in the supermarket if you run into them on the street.

I’m not sure I’d call myself whole, but all my parts are here. I’m not striving for sainthood. Do I try to be a decent person? Sure. Do I care about others? Absolutely. Do I want to eliminate my own needs, desires, and emotions in order to serve others? No. Do I wish I could be 100% positive 100% of the time? No. I want to be me, and hopefully reach others, by being me. Writing, whether it’s fiction or non, poetry or prose, is about making people think and feel, reaching in and reaching out. Not whether or not it makes the reader feel “good.”

Human beings are complex creatures. We’re complex even in ways that are different from one another. In my mind, that’s a positive. I appreciate people who have a similar viewpoint to mine, but I also appreciate those with a different viewpoint. Take a look at my blog <<<<< roll on the left. I enjoy and read all of them. Some are informative, some are funny, some snarky, some sad, some are about embracing grace and joy; many are deep and meaningful emotional journeys, regardless of the style in which they’re written.

The person I know who I would consider closest to a candidate for sainthood happens to be a priest. I would give or do anything he asked, because he is that inspirational. When did I first become such a devotee? When I heard the word “fag” come out of his mouth. Not used as a weapon, slur or condemnation, but in acknowledgement of the raw pain and frank toughness of the lives of so many of the young people he helps. A word many of them have been beaten with in an attempt to negate their desire for more, for lives that could hold different possibilities. I don’t hold him in such regard because he is “divine,” but rather, because of his humanity.

For all the carrying on about thinking outside of the box, I see a whole lot of people resent when they see someone step outside of the box they’ve placed them in, and proceed to work at chastising them back into submission.

If you’re reading this, or anything else of mine, and disagree because you’re striving for perfection, God bless. I’m trying for human.

Paris 2e “manequins” to be dressed – 2007 (Photo credit: Julie70)

Picture Day

vintage class photo, 1957 (Photo credit: deflam)

Yesterday, detangling Flower Child’s hair.

Mrs Fringe, “Tomorrow is picture day, so let’s make a little extra effort, and you have to pick an outfit that you want to take a picture in.”

Flower Child, “No it isn’t. It’s De-cem-BER. Picture day is October 30th.”

Mrs F, “It was supposed to be October 30th, but there was no school that day because of the hurricane. So picture day was rescheduled for tomorrow, December 3rd.”

FC, “The paper said October 30th. I read it.” *preens*

Mrs F, “October 30th has passed. It was the day before Halloween. We’ve been through all of November, and now it’s December. Picture day is tomorrow. Do you want to wear the dress you wore for Thanksgiving?”

FC, clearly not believing me, “OK.”

This morning, getting ready.

Mrs Fringe, “Remember, it’s picture day. I’m filling out the paper for school, please give the envelope to the teacher.”

FC, “Umm, ohhhh,” rubs her stomach.

Mrs F, “Are you sick?”

FC, “No. Maybe. I don’t think so. It’s October 30th?”

Mrs F, “No, it’s picture day.”

We keep getting ready, Flower Child alternating between fighting nervous smiles, tearing up, and ummming. I sit down on the couch with her, finally figuring out she doesn’t want to wear the dress she’s already wearing.

I’ve already filled out the form and sealed the envelope. She picks a different outfit. Polka dot little too short skirt. Striped too big shirt. Sparkly tights. Mismatched socks. Early bag lady, but she’s smiling. I like to think she’ll smile when they take the picture, but if I was laying money down, I’d have to bet she’ll be giving her very best “smeyes,” a la Tyra Banks. Going to look fab against the fake flowering tree background.

The Cheshire Cat (Photo credit: Wild Guru Larry)

Once Upon A Time

fairy tale pic (Photo credit: Kjirstin)

In a land in which no one ever expects to reside, there were two little girls, born just days apart. One called The Empress, and one called La Princesa. The two girls didn’t live close to each other, and each was busy with the business of their kingdoms, learning to talk, and eat, pester their respective older brothers, and throw royal panties out the tower window.

One day, the beat in The Empress’s brain began to count out a new and unusual rhythm. Not long after, La Princesa’s brain also began keeping a new rhythm. Suddenly, each kingdom was regularly experiencing strange and terrible lightning storms. Healers were called and many potions were tried, but still, the storms persisted. La Princesa’s mother and The Empress’s mother each sent carrier pigeons with messages for the new world, called The Internet, hoping to find others who had battled these storms and defeated them; or at least knew how to protect their families while the storms raged.

Many Queens formed a Great Alliance, loaning each other shields of understanding and swords of knowledge. Many only stayed for a time, but the most weather beaten grew powerful and remained, through storms and strange beats, through potions that offered relief and those that were poison, helping each other to laugh and dance, when they were rooted, shin deep in muck.

Image of a letter sent by carrier pigeon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Empress’s Queen and La Princesa’s Queen began noticing they were sending out very similar messages. Soon, they began sending messages directly to each other, in addition to the ones they were sending and reading from the other Queens of The Great Internet. La Princesa and The Empress had both begun their lives small but mighty. Years passed, they remained small, but each began having periods of weakness, succumbing to the vapors as if the castle mice were stealing their feasts. Queen Empress and Queen Princesa realized not all of the other Queens with stormy kingdoms had such enchanted mice. They compared tales of storms and threats and events and spells, and the crumbling walls and general disrepair of their castles, moats leaking sewage into their grand halls. Potions and Healers and Seers were exhausting their riches. They whispered prayers carried by the wind. Still, their golden girls’ spirits were powerful.

Each Queen traveled to new seers, seeking answers and resolution. The Empress met a powerful seer, who offered answers, though no resolution. La Princesa’s Queen continues the quest. As the two Queens formed a stronger bond, and their pigeons knew the way to each kingdom without thought, La Princesa and Empress began to recognize the birds from each other’s lands. With their Queens’ help, they began sending messages to each other.

Each girl learned she had much in common with the other. Neither girl was bothered by asking or answering the same questions several times. Neither girl used unkind words about the other. All the kingdoms around were struck by a terrible storm, and the carrier pigeons couldn’t fly. La Princesa worried about The Empress, and The Empress worried about La Princesa.

One day, a special dove brought a great gift for La Princesa. It was a colorful drawing– rendered by The Empress– of the two friends and told the tale of their friendship. This treasure was so special La Princesa couldn’t speak, but her smile…her smile brightened her sleepy eyes and the gloomy day, casting a glow over the Queen’s eyes, making them leak in that way she hated! but she couldn’t see the cracks of the castle walls or the dusty cornices. She saw the pink streaks behind the gray clouds, and the miracle of the bird’s wings against the sky as he soared back towards the land of The Empress.

Fairy Tale … (Photo credit: lapidim)

A Helluva Town

the business of garbage (Photo credit: David 23)

On my way to pick up Flower Child from school, I was hungry and stopped to grab a slice of pizza. Hey! It’s a long walk, don’t judge me. I didn’t have time to sit, I added a heathy ~~six~~ ummm, three, three shakes of red pepper flakes and ate as I walked. When I was growing up, this was a common sight, but not so much anymore. Is it Manhattan vs Brooklyn, or just different etiquette with the years? Husband always wants to sit down when he eats. Not me; what’s the point of street food if you have to stop to eat it? Then again, I always liked to stand and walk when I was eating, my mother used to tell me I was going to get fat toes.

As I walked, I ate my slice, hopscotched around the tourists on their way to the museum, and let my mind wander. Walking through crowded streets is a good time for mind wandering. Like being in the shower, only more reflective than creative. I remembered an incident I was going to blog about a little while back, goosed to the back of my brain by medical mayhem.

A cream Afghan Hound. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had been walking a dog through Central Park, and it was a crappy late afternoon. Cold, sporadic drizzle, one of those days where gray becomes a temperature and a barometer, something you feel in your bone marrow.

Central Park (Photo credit: Image Zen)

I heard a small motor coming up behind me, and turned to see one of the golf cart thingies used by the Central Park Conservancy for driving along the paths, reaching different sections of the park for clean up and or maintenance. The cart stopped just when the dog stopped to pee. The maintenance worker pulled himself out from behind the steering wheel, and grabbed a trash stick from the back. I don’t know what they’re actually called, but it’s a long wooden stick with a sharp point or nail at the end for picking up loose trash or papers without having to touch anything nasty.

Not a glamorous job, for sure. Then again, neither is picking up dog poop. But this guy was pissed off, stomping and muttering and then glaring at me like I represented all wrong in his life that had left him stabbing moldy juice boxes for eight bucks an hour. My writer’s mind took a stroll. If he were my character, why would he be so angry? Big plans thwarted by having to work late? A gardener who had been demoted for poisoning pigeons? Girlfriend dumped him for some bozo with a shiny suit and a desk job? He spiked exactly one piece of paper, tossed the stick in the back of the cart, and started moving again. By this point, I was walking again, dog veering left where the path forked. I hoped the maintenance guy would be turning right, or straight ahead towards the reservoir. No such luck, this thing was behind me again, and of course this is exactly where the dog needs to stop and poop. I’m now quite certain it wasn’t my imagination, the guy really was glaring at me. I then began seeing the scene as an episode of Law & Order, roped off with sunshine yellow crime scene tape and the trash pick planted in my sternum. Mrs Fringe must have been looking swell, maybe I remembered to brush my hair that morning, since he seemed to think I was someone I’m not.

Cover of Christine (Special Edition)

Part of my mind was now hearing this cart behind me like it was Christine, Stephen King’s possessed Plymouth Fury. Yanno, the part of me that was noticing no one else was within spitting distance. Part of me wanted to reach out and make peace? a connection? “Hey, buddy, this fancy dog isn’t mine, and I sure as heck don’t live in one of those apartment mansions across the street.” Another part of me was getting pissed off and resentful. Fuck him. Who was he to make assumptions about who I was and what I was doing? Your life sucks? Pffft. Get in line, my friend.

I said none of the above. I did however, begin talking to the dog, and let my Brooklyn out. There are all levels of socioeconomic class throughout this city. Poor, destitute, working class, middle class, wealthy, and filthy rich. All can be found throughout the five boroughs. But certain accents there’s no mistaking. Clear as a tramp stamp, my accent says Brooklyn peasant.