Life

Who Invited Sandy?

In case you didn’t hear, the East Coast was hit really hard by Hurricane Sandy. Over here in New York, still sporadic rain and some significant winds. Many are without power and looking at major damage from winds and flooding. I hope all are safe, I’m sending good thoughts into the universe for those who are unable to check in right now. I am lucky, we live uptown and didn’t lose power, uphill from the river so no real flooding threats. But New York overall is a mess. Schools are closed, the MTA is closed, subway tunnels are flooded, as are some entire neighborhoods, water was literally pouring out of the Battery Tunnel,. The Ground Zero construction site was flooded. Let’s not forget the collapsing crane 80-90 stories up, on 57th Street.

So, another crappy photo perspective by Mrs Fringe. I’ll do it in 2 or 3 parts, I’m fairly lousy at the whole uploading pics thing, and guaranteed to lose patience before I’m through.

This batch is before the hurricane actually hits us, some yesterday morning, some in the afternoon.

Odd looking sky a few mornings before, connected?

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Big Senile Dog Asplodes

Big Senile Dog in better days

He’s getting up there in age. Accelerated due to an unfortunate incident several years ago, when he drank the saltwater from the sump of our tank. With age, comes more illness and accidents, just like people. Guess what I’ve been doing for the past 18 hours?

They’re still predicting this storm is going to hit New York. OK, I can be a good mommy and start getting prepared. Made sure we have plenty of meds, food, distilled water for the tank, gumbo for the ~~beasts~~ dogs, and I figured I’d buy some stuff to make cookies or some kind of treat with Flower Child this weekend. So, one of the things I bought was a small bag of sugar. Really, I try to remember to have all food put away if and when I leave the house, I know Big Senile Dog is a counter surfer. Silly me didn’t think he would decide to go after an unopened bag of sugar. In plastic, so not even like it was one of the paper bags so he’d smell it easily. Heh.

You know I came home to find sugar e-ver-y-where. We have pseudo-wood floors, many places where the seams between the boards are a little too big. Get the picture? Sweep, wash, sweep, wash. I had to go back out at this point, so I’m sure I’m being clever by giving the dogs an extra walk first. I’m not that dumb, I know Big Senile Dog will be sick from the sugar he ate. Ummm hmm. I’m out with Husband and Flower Child, maybe 45 minutes, come home to find the freaking dog has puked. E-ver-y-where. To make it perfect, copious amounts of drool were mixed with the puke, and both dogs had walked through the puddles.

O-Ceder – Sponge Mop (Photo credit: Mid-Century Pretty)

Wipe, wipe, wipe. Begin washing again.

Now that this is the third time I’m washing, not only am I cleaning dog drool and puke, but the sugar that had fallen into the cracks of the floorboards is starting to come up, forming a lovely, slippery glaze.

I want to kill the dogs. Not just kill them, but reach my hand down their respective throats and rip their intestines out. No intestines=no puke, no diarrhea, no problem. Oh, calm your jets, any lunatic animal activists who might be reading; I said I wanted to do this, not that I did. I’m a loon who actually cooks for my dogs.

Obviously, the woman in that ad didn’t actually own any pets. Or sugar. Actually, I don’t own a mop. They take up space and smell foul after you use them a few times. So all this washing the floor was done with a sponge. When I thought it was reasonably clean, I gave up.

All the time I’m wiping and washing, I’m thinking of the bottle of Bailey’s tucked behind the vinegars at the back of the fridge. I deserve a shot, right? Not a perfect Friday Night Madness, but I can make do. Only now I open the fridge, moving the yogurts, the soy milk, the vinegars. I’m ready to join Big Senile Dog and start crying, errr, drooling. Guess what? No Bailey’s.

“Husband, did you drink my Bailey’s?”

“What Bailey’s? We don’t have any.”

Steam is now starting to escape from my shriveled fingertips. “The bottle in the back of the fridge.”

“Oh. I drank that a long time ago.”

“You don’t even like Bailey’s. That’s why I buy it for me.”

“But it was in there for a long time. If you wanted it you should have drank it.”

I’m now entertaining visions of ripping out Husband’s intestines. This is the point where Mrs Fringe’s head asplodes.

Got up this morning, took the dogs for a walk, came back into the apartment to realize the floor didn’t look or smell clean yet. Anyone have stock in Murphy’s Oil Soap? You’re welcome.

Sugar and Spice (Madness song) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Thwoka thwoka thwoka

English: NYPD helicopter patrolling New York City. Photo taken from the Empire State Building Observatory. Deutsch: Ein Helikopter des NYPD patrolliert über New York City. Das Foto wurde von der Empire State Building Sternwarte aufgenommen. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I hate the sound of those blades beating the air. When I was younger, it was a sound I associated with wit and laughter, the opening credits of M*A*S*H.

Now? Forget it. When I hear a helicopter I look up to see where it is, and assess which direction will take me away from it. Leftover PTSD from 9/11, I suppose. But it seems as if it’s never neutral. I don’t live in a part of the city where tourists would be taking rides, and I’m not en route to the Hamptons. So a helicopter means something is happening; police searching for someone, news crew filming, either way, I don’t want to be out in it.

Yesterday evening I was out walking a dog in Central Park when I heard them. I felt that unwelcome pitch and roll in my stomach, and then realized the odds were excellent that the choppers were part of the Parks Dept, doing a recon mission to see what trees it would make sense to trim in case Hurricane Sandy does hit New York and have the impact they’re predicting. Does the Parks Dept have helicopters? I have no idea, but the thought worked for me. I reminded myself to buy a couple of gallons of water just in case, and kept walking.

After I was home, I found out why the helicopters were out. A mother’s nightmare, every mother’s nightmare. Two young children were stabbed to death in their apartment, allegedly by their nanny, who was also stabbed but not killed, while the mother was at swim lessons with the third child. The entire Upper West Side, a neighborhood is filled with families, dogs, and nannies. I don’t know the circumstances, don’t know the family, don’t know the nanny, but my heart breaks for their loss.

I heard the mom is a successful blogger, documenting her children and family life in the city. I can’t even imagine the push-pull that will take place for her, not wanting to see the documenting of a happy and complete family, and yet maybe she’ll be glad to have those moments enshrined in cyberspace.

I’m not sure why I feel especially captured by this tragedy. My youngest is considerably older than this mom’s oldest. I don’t live a similar lifestyle. This is, after all, New York. Things like this do not happen every day, but violence is a part of the city. This type of violence, or at least what it appears to be at this point, can and does happen everywhere, city, country, suburb; someone “snaps,” and there are victims: young, old, innocent.

As I am typing, I hear more of those evil blades. Please tell me the Parks Department does in fact have helicopters.

It’s Aliiiiive

Zombie (novel) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think exhaustion is the reason zombies have taken over as the “it” characters. That has to be why, cause let’s face it, vampires are much cooler.

But I don’t feel like a vampire. Hell, I don’t even feel like Sookie. I am, however, so freakin tired I’m having difficulty stringing thoughts together. Over the last thousand years or so, I’ve gotten used to a certain level of exhaustion, but every so often I go beyond my usual sleep debt, and the sound of my alarm going off in the morning makes me want to howl.

My must-be-done list is beginning to rival my to-do list. I think whatshername from the RHoNY has the right idea. Sure I have no paying job and I’m a stay at home mom, but I need interns. Including one to take Flower Child shopping for a Halloween costume. I don’t need one, thanks. I’ll just grab a sheet from the toppling laundry mountain and wrap it around myself. Call it a shroud, no make up, and voila!

Soccer Mom Zombie (Photo credit: juco)

Is it Trash Day?

New York City Department of Sanitation (Photo credit: BriYYZ)

This is what I’d like, a battalion of garbage trucks for me to toss everything in my apartment and start fresh.

Been home for several days with sick Flower Child; raw, damp, and gray outside. Can you say aargh? A couple of days ago I was “good,” used the time at home to do some overdue sorting and cleaning. Clearly, the best use of my time yesterday was to spend hours online, cyber-shopping and buying imaginary furniture for my imaginary house. Don’t think I’m not practical, I made sure to only look at couches that will fit in my current apartment in the meantime. In varying shades of cream and beige, to really play up the dog hair and paw prints that will make it mine.

All this led me to varying blogs and websites dedicated to decorating small spaces, making them chic and practical. I don’t have this talent. Many do, and I don’t think it’s about money. I’ve been to some homes where the owner has plenty of money, but it still looks like those dump trucks are waiting at the corner. Others where the owner/renter has very little money, but a great sense of style and organization that allows the space to look and feel great when you walk through the door. I wish the latter was me, but it isn’t.

Women nest at different times. Me? I nest early in a writing phase. I’ve heard a lot of writers talk about this phenomenon, referencing it as a procrastination tactic. I see how it can be. But for myself, it gives me a reason to pace while I’m creating scenes, lets me think about what type of home my protagonist lives in. Maybe it’s easier to lose my head in the characters’ lives when I’ve got a little real life elbow room.

Snake Attacks Bird Nest (Photo credit: johnynek)

I don’t know, maybe it’s because I know if I really get going, the housework completely falls down on the priority list. Usually long before the sorting and organization are finished.

At the moment though, I’m imagining a tasteful and elegant home, with a clearly defined space for me to work in. Preferably an enclosed porch type thing, with lots of glass and screens and light. In the Florida Keys. Somewhere like that. But not here, tucked into the corner of my ratty blue couch, laptop balanced on the sinking arm, stinky from the rain Little Incredibly Dumb dog pressed against me.

I’m going to take up cigars and fishing, since I apparently fantasize about being Hemingway.

Ernest Hemingway House, Key West, Florida (Photo credit: Mat McDermott)

And, Have an Orgasm!

Atomic Housewife. 19/52 (Photo credit: Sarahnaut)

Does anyone else know/remember that old joke, poking fun at Women’s Lib? Something like this: Before women’s lib, a woman would get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband. After women’s lib, a woman has to get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, go out to work, come home and clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband, AND have an orgasm.

Mmm hmm, very liberating indeed.

Is life better for the average woman than it used to be? I think so. There are more choices, more acknowledgement of compromises–hey, I can now be a feminist and still shave my underarms.

Underarm Hair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are women who choose not to have children, women who choose to have children and stay home, women who choose not to define themselves by their marital or maternal status at all. Still far from true social justice, because these choices aren’t accepted without question, but analyzed, judged, and whispered about. Being a woman who is a mom, I’m going to focus on that choice.

I don’t know who first coined the term Supermom, or exactly how long it’s been around, but I think it’s fair to say easily 20 years. Conservatively, 20 years. Twenty years of cartoons, jokes, analyzing, and disclaimers. We know better. Supermom is bullshit. Every bit the work of fiction that Superman is. So how come we’re still weighing ourselves against this curvy little lie?

No one human being can fill all roles, be all things to all people. Not even the little people we bring into our lives, or the one person we vow to stay with forever (whether or not forever ends after 7 years or 37). We all wear many hats, juggle different roles and obligations–true for men as well as women. But somehow, we women expect and are often expected to do just that. Especially those of us who have limited budgets, so hiring others to take care of some of those roles isn’t an option.

Even little things. Like unexpected company. I am not a fabulous housekeeper. I’d like to be, but ultimately, once we get beyond the basics of a reasonably clean bathroom and kitchen, it just isn’t that high on my list of priorities. We’re in a small space. There just isn’t a place for everything. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do some extra cleaning and organizing if company is coming. I don’t like surprise guests for this reason. What does this have to do with feminism and supermoms? Well, let’s face it, no one is going to leave my messy apartment and whisper to her girlfriend, “Wow, that Husband is a pig. When was the last time he dusted?” No, the judgement would be more like, “Ugh, did you see that laundry hamper? I wonder when Mrs Fringe last found her way to the laundry room.”

If a mother works outside the home, somehow she’s still magically supposed to take care of all the hearth and home stuff, and be awake, alert, competent, and presentable on the job. And her kids are never supposed to get sick, or have any other needs that would involve taking time off. If a mother is a SAHM, she isn’t supposed to just take care of hearth and home, she had better be Supermom squared, to compensate for her lack of brain cells…err…value…err…income. She’s supposed to do it all perfectly, naturally, organic dinners that are gastronomic delights to children and adults alike, sandwiches on bread baked that morning, tastefully decorated home, never a stray sock left behind on laundry day, homemade and prizewinning Halloween costumes, and of course, oodles of time to volunteer at the children’s schools. Because, yanno, if you’re a SAHM, what do you do all day? You must be bored. *Do not confuse intellectual boredom with free time* Only, if you are bored, don’t ever say it out loud, because well, you could get a job and really do something. Never mind the mind numbing fatigue, and the fact you spend every single day being looked down upon and devalued, and there’s no such thing as a day off or quitting time.

So no, I’m not Supermom, and I don’t know one woman who is. Those who come closest are those whose annual income allows for quality, long term nannies/babysitters, full time housekeepers, and spouses who are also big earners and highly educated–socially progressive. We all know this, all make fun of the term, we judge ourselves and judge each other–but we all still beat ourselves up for not being this fictional character.

Delany wrote issue#203 of Wonder Woman, the women’s lib issue (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Can You See the Real Me?

The Who – Roger Daltry (Photo credit: Scott Ableman)

Sounds like I’m going to be naval gazing again today, right? Not exactly.

I was on the elevator earlier, saw a young, hip couple that live in the building. Very East Village looking, big gages in their ears, cool drapey clothes in black and odd prints, etc. We said hello, and I mentioned how much Flower Child loves seeing them; the young woman has excellent style, and there’s nothing Flower Child loves more than inspecting a young woman who’s styling. Not to be confused with stylish. They both laughed, said thank you, then told me they often admire her style. Understood, her closet isn’t so much a closet as a costume department. What they didn’t say was what I saw stamped across their pierced faces…where did FC get her style from? Certainly not me. Not Husband, either. He used to be quite the snappy dresser, but no one would have ever accused him of cutting edge fashion sense.

I’m actually pretty good at knowing what will look good on other people, how far they can push the envelope to make a statement. For me, not so much. This all started me thinking about “seeing” myself. Physically. I’m terrible at it, and I wonder, is it just because I’m not especially visual? Is it an American thing? A female thing? An adoptee thing?

When I took psychology 101, I learned about a study that had been conducted, showing photographic representations of the different ways one woman was perceived.

[ M ] Johannes Adrianus van Maanen – Self-portrait with a girlfriend in a funhouse mirror, France (1947) (Photo credit: Cea.)

How she saw herself, how her husband saw her, how others saw her. My money says she was divorced within 6 months of the study being published. But, whether these perceptions are positive or negative, this made sense to me, and it still does. I’m very lucky in this regard. Husband and I met when I was about 14, and I’m pretty sure that he sees me forever the way I looked when I was about 19. Well, plus the gray hair, which he likes and doesn’t associate with aging, since many in his family are noticeably gray by their early twenties.

We all know about body image issues, the way perceived flaws can appear tremendous and exaggerated to the one looking in the mirror. Who among us never had a zit we saw as the size of Mt Everest?

But, where I seem to differ from friends is that I can’t see myself in other people, either. I hear all the time that Nerd Child looks exactly like me, “Did you make him by yourself?” I know we’re shaped similarly (why yes, I could be confused for an adolescent boy from behind); we both blow out the right knee of our jeans before anything else, both have long inseams for our respective heights. Man Child I hear about his eyes and mine, and Flower Child, while not considered a carbon copy, I often hear she looks a lot like me. I don’t see it. At all. I see the similarities and differences between the three of them. I see Mother In Law’s dimples on one, Husband’s chin on another, but me? Don’t see it at all.

Do you/can you see physical resemblance to yourself in others?

English: Vogue magazine cover, May 1917 Español: Portada de la revista Vogue correspondiente a Mayo de 1917 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Way Over Yonder

For someone who isn’t going anywhere, I spend a lot of time thinking about where I’d like to be.

Hawaii (Photo credit: jmauerer)

I’ve never been to Hawaii, so it’s pure fantasy to say I’d like to live there. But I know I love warm weather, and sun, and the beach. I’d have to give up my mixed reef tank, it’s illegal to buy most corals there, but I could have an excellent softie tank, with some beautiful fish. Besides, I’d be able to see the corals in the ocean. Wouldn’t that be something? Unfortunately, I’d also love to live somewhere I could afford a little house and groceries, with a good school system for Flower Child, so Hawaii isn’t a likely scenario.

So many beautiful places to fantasize about, even limiting my game of “let’s pretend” to America. Sometimes I think about going north, have you been to Vermont? Awesome sharp cheddar, real maple syrup, elderberry wine! It’s stunning; peaceful, sunny, and many parts are affordable.

Vermont (Photo credit: Dougtone)

I love to read the descriptions and study the photographs posted by my online friends who live in various parts of the country. I envy their gardens, their scenery, their reasonable cost of living, and their space. Then I keep reading. And hear about raccoons and deer and bear, and beavers and possums and snakes. *** I had to pause here, because my shudders made it impossible to work the keyboard.

Yes, it’s true, Mrs Fringe is a weenie. I’m willing to brave underwater creepy crawlies, willing to brave the subways, I’ll even, on occasion if need be, brave the tourists in Times Square. But rabies and lyme disease and giardia? Oh my!

When I was a kid, I thought I was an animal lover. I loved dogs, I even the loved the gazillion stray cats that lived in the neighborhood. My parents told me I was an animal lover. There were plenty of breadcrumbs, if I had thought to follow the trail. I hated the chickens at the live poultry place on McDonald Ave. But they were there to be killed, plucked, and taken home for Sunday dinner, the F train roaring and clanking above, so I didn’t think of them as nature. I also didn’t think of them as dinner, I think I stopped eating chicken by the time I was eight. I hated the zoo. But this was before the days when zoos became humane, who could love the scrawny, flea bitten lion tearing into a hunk of bloody raw meat in his cage? I loved the track. I loved Black Beauty. Very exciting. Beautiful animals, those thoroughbred horses. From a distance. Up close, they’re really, really big. Scary. I was an adult before I found myself next to a cow. They’re huge! And they stink. I know how to hold my breath on a steamy day in August when walking down the subway steps, so the waves of funk and urine don’t penetrate. But farm animals? There is no holding your breath for that stench. Pfft, clean smell of manure…I don’t think so.

Thinking back, again, they weren’t so much breadcrumbs on a trail as bright yellow strips of divider on an interstate highway.

Are you living where you want? If you could move, where would you go?

For all my fantasy time, I’m not sure where I want to end up. But I don’t want to be here.

Theater District/Times Square

A Sign

French Press Frieling Ultimo (Photo credit: doubleshot_cz)

This morning, I made coffee using a new French press and an incredible private blend of coffee; both gifted to me yesterday by a friend. I don’t own an American coffee maker. The first time in many years I’ve made coffee using anything other than my old and trusted stovetop espresso maker. Like so many others, coffee is the start to my day. Don’t even say good morning to me until I’ve got the first cup in hand. God forbid the beasts are off schedule and need to be walked before the second. I like the ritual of making that morning pot. I’m not a coffee connoisseur, but I have specific likes and dislikes; the brown dishwater served in most diners is unpalatable.

Sitting here with my second cup, realizing just how long it’s been since I used a French press, and why it feels like the second part of a sign.

English: Divided Road sign used in Australia. Used when road divides to two. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The first part of the sign came last night, in a conversation with another friend. She’s having some health issues, female troubles for polite company. Brought me back almost 20 years, when I hemorrhaged two weeks after the birth of my first son. For anyone who’s never had or witnessed this special experience, there’s no mistaking it. A good thing, because there’s a very, very short window of opportunity to call 911 before you lose consciousness.

I was making an evening pot of coffee with my then loved French Press when I began to hemorrhage. Certainly, depressing the plunger didn’t cause it, but in my overactive mind, there’s such ritual in using a press, the events became connected.

Pretty deep in my universe, to have two moments in one day directly connected to one significant event that took place so long ago. Not a repressed memory, not a hidden memory, but surely not something I think about during morning coffee. Blog? Check. Shower? Check. Walk Dogs? Check. Meds for Flower Child? Check. Hemorrhage? Umm, no.

So, what’s the sign I’m blathering about? In my last post, I wrote about feeling torn as to which WIP (work in progress) I should be tackling. Well, boys and girls, in the first chapter of the hybrid, I used my experience of hemorrhaging. I’m not running out to get my tarot cards read, but I have relatives who “read” coffee grinds. I think I can read the bottom of this cup myself.

Tell My Fortune (Photo credit: Caro’s Lines)

Dear Peeple In Charge,

English: Quill pen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is the salutation on the letter Flower Child began working on last night.

During dinner, Husband, Flower Child and I had a lovely, meandering conversation. Her mind makes some interesting connections, and when I’ve got the luxury of time, I like to follow. In order to make a connection, she speaks aloud, touching on every detail of every thing she can remember hearing/seeing that somehow reminds her of what came before.

The maze of Longleat House (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Without this process, her mind stalls, and she can’t follow or remember. We began discussing Greek goddesses, which jumped to eating habits in history, Pa Ingalls curing meat, the gold accents on her Cleo de Nile doll, why organic fruits and vegetables taste better but cost more, why she had to eat some soup and not just the coconut chips garnishing it, and why everyone should help each other.

Somehow it made sense to tell Husband and Flower Child about a scene I passed when I was on my way to the hospital the other morning. There was a man standing outside a coffee shop where I got off the bus, panhandling. A familiar scene to me, there didn’t seem to be anything remarkable. No aggression, no singing, no yelling, no horrendous odors, no aggression. An older, elegantly dressed and coiffed woman about ten steps ahead of me. Her nose turned up so high if I had been standing next to her I could have checked for polyps. She turned to another man walking by her, “No one ever gives money to those people, do they? I hope not.” Obviously not a New Yorker.

Not much of a story, more of a moment. But I turned to Flower Child, and saw her eyes watering and lip quivering, “What’s wrong? Come here.” She pressed into my hug.

“That’s terrible.”

Yes, yes it is. I told her no one person can help everyone, or fix these things, but if everyone does what they can; even it’s limited to contributing one can of food to a food drive, it can make a difference.

She isn’t all that clear on the distinction between city and state, state and country, country and continent, principal and president–but she’s writing a letter to the people in charge, because it’s wrong to ignore people who are hungry.

Man Child and Nerd Child also care about others, volunteer time and give what they can. Community service means more than a line on a college resume.

The other day I was telling friends a story from my childhood. My mother would send me with a lunch every day. I wasn’t much on eating three meals a day, and I rarely got “good” sandwiches. These were the days when you heard a lot about the starving children in Biafra. On the way to school, I passed a mailbox. Each day, I would drop my brown bag into it. Unless the sandwich was olive loaf, in which case I kept it. That poor mailman, his bag must have smelled permanently like bologna. My friends’ immediate thoughts were what a caring child I was. Not so much. More like practical. “They” were hungry, I wasn’t, and would have gotten into trouble if I brought the sandwich back home. If anyone used the term win/win back then it would have applied.

I’m a lucky mama. My children have compassion, good souls.