Not enough days have felt like it, but it is spring. Not the prettiest one I’ve seen here in the city. With so many cold days, and then several stormy ones, quit a few trees and flowers lost their blossoms before they fully bloomed. Still, if you look, there they are.
I love flowers. Hokey, I know. Spring always tempts me with the flower arrays in front of bodegas everywhere. Tulips, hyacinths, daisies, or carnations, they all look beautiful and hopeful. Speaking of hope, it looks like at least a few of the things I planted will survive. I know I’m not ever going to be serious about gardening because I’ve reached the point where I have to remind myself to check and water the things–as opposed to checking four times a day. It’s exciting when the first bits of green poke through the dirt.
Now let me know when there’s something lovely to smell.
I’ve had cut flowers on my table the past several weeks. First, Fatigue bought me a bouquet. When those died I bought tulips and hyacinths. The other day, I dragged Husband to the grocery store, so he could drag me up and down the aisles (yup, still limping along, not always steady). He headed straight for the olive bar and I said, ooh, look at the flowers! Maybe they have something on sale–we were at Whole Paycheck, the cut flowers are more than pricey. “Why do you buy those things? They just die.”
I know, he isn’t the only one with that philosophy. And it is a line of thinking I usually agree with. Flowers on the table are silly, frivolous. In general, I’m a practical old broad. But, much like the tank, it makes me smile to look over and see a burst of living color–and yes, I’ll be frank, they smell better.
Yah, yah, I can walk a couple of blocks and see this:
In front of the hospital where I’m going for PT I see this:
But having them in the house, I feel this:
I didn’t buy any flowers in the grocery store, there were none in budget. My plan was to pick some up later on. It didn’t happen, but that’s ok, because Fatigue came over later that evening with a bottle of wine and
Spider mums!
The other day, I was wondering if I’m blogged out. I’ve done a lot of rambling here in Fringeland, ruminating and ranting. Is it time for a hiatus? Nope. Good or bad, the silly short-sweet life of flowers or angst about the world we live in, I still have quite a bit to say.
I grew up in Brooklyn, not far from the water. I had a little terrace off my bedroom, where I spent as much time as possible. Some things don’t change, heh. I could and did stand out there and watch the fog roll inland. Once it reached my area, you couldn’t see through it, but oh you could feel it, a curiously damp blanket you breathed in along with the smell of low tide and the sewage treatment plant, 7 blocks away. For a while, as a young adult, I lived in Washington, where fog was redefined for me. Never in any other state have I seen fog as thick as they get in the Pacific Northwest. When I drove home from work at midnight, the highway would be at a slow crawl because you literally couldn’t see the tail lights of the car ahead of you if you were more than a foot away.
With the flash on, nothing to see but the blur of individual droplets.
Is it too melodramatic to draw a life analogy here? Probably, but I’m doing it anyway. There are certainly twists in the road that no one sees coming. Illness, accidents, job loss, house fires, even winning the lottery. Then there are the expected markers, the things you work to achieve–jobs, promotions, education, children, children growing up, literary contracts. Oops, that last one doesn’t fit, does it? Not this time, anyway.
I was careful. Careful to always acknowledge the many factors outside of my control, the certain percentage of luck and timing in this type of endeavor. But I believed. Enough blind faith to face the dreaded blank page and fill it, over and over again. To submit, accept rejection is part of the process, and keep submitting. To dissect personalized rejections and believe they meant more than a bland “no thanks” form letter. In writing (fiction or otherwise), there’s a lot of talk of “voice”–the importance of. I do have a clear and definite voice, as do my characters, and I’ve gotten a lot of feedback on it. Some love it, some hate it. I always considered it a “win” either way. In Invisible Cities, Italo Calvino wrote. “It is not the voice that commands the story, it is the ear.” I believe that’s true; as I’ve said many times, writing is about communication, the two way street between reader and writer. For me it isn’t about telling a story just to tell it. What’s written has to resonate, to where the reader feels they’ve not only learned the character’s story, but felt their own. The onus is on the writer, so maybe my it’s my ear that’s off.
For months now, I’ve been trying to work towards acceptance. Acknowledgement and acceptance that it isn’t going to happen. Can I just say this is fucking hard? No, I don’t have to. But there’s a point where it feels unhealthy to stay on the same road, at the same speed, and expect the visibility to improve just because I want it to. I don’t want it to be 40° outside at the end of April, either, but here I am wearing a turtleneck and winter coat, because otherwise I’d be freezing.
I’m hoping to come out of this fog and reach acceptance. Then what? I’m told I could have had quite the career as a stand-up philosopher–yanno, a bullshit artist (thank you, Mel Brooks). I wonder where I should send those queries.
This is Mrs Fringe, a little out of focus, sticking close to my hiding spot under a rock.
Hello, Fringelings! I hope all are well. I’ve been sniveling so it seemed prudent to remain quiet. Not much to say, really. I’m lying low, pain, a gala of self-pity. In order to keep myself occupied, I’ve been researching college options for Nerd Child. A fun and exciting time, right? I have to say, after 8000 rounds of school admissions for each child at every school entry point, this isn’t as much fun as it used to be. Honestly, this whole multiple fractures gig is quite a nuisance. Next time I’m going to opt for door number 2, maybe a 72 hour stomach virus.
Nope, haven’t done any writing, but the longer my arm is casted, the more my ideas for that short story are being pushed aside in favor of horror stories that involve rotting flesh. Move over, Stephen King, Mrs Fringe has owies just begging to be fictionalized.
Two days ago I thought hey, I’m doing a little better, I think I’ve turned a corner. Yesterday I had to go back to the orthopedist to be checked. Hah! Sure I’m doing better if I don’t move, but by the time I returned home from a couple of hours of new X-rays, limping down hospital corridors, and being asked if “this hurts” I was ready to forcibly remove the jawfish from his tunnel and claim his residence. Someone do a water change once in a while, ok? In any case, the ortho now wants me to start non weight bearing physical and occupational therapy. I have no clue what this will entail, but if it’s going to put me further along the path to recovery, I’m all for it. So I thought, until I got a phone call from the PT office to set up an appointment.
I know I’m cranky, and I know not everyone has a strict budget, but really, wtf? I’m moving slow, no matter what I have to get the girl to and from school, and I’m having to take cabs because going up and down the subway steps is still out of the question. The coordinator from the ortho’s office assured me she would let them know I needed PT and OT scheduled together.
The PT clinic has other ideas. I told the woman clearly, I have a budget and time constraints, so no, I can’t schedule PT and OT for different days, leaving me to get back and forth across town every day of the week–not to mention an additional co-pay every time I go. She offered me a PT appointment for this morning. Fine, let’s get this started. Then she offered me an OT appointment for Thursday, exactly when I have to pick Art Child up from school. No can do. She recommended I hire someone to take Art Child back and forth from school for the duration of my recovery. If I were a different sort of woman, I’d have been flabbergasted. Being me, I was pissed. I was watching the tank while I was on the phone, and the jawfish must have heard my thoughts, because he dove back into his hole and spit sand at me from the entryway. From a fresh perspective this morning, it’s a good thing I was still in a daze of pain from the morning’s appointments when she called, or I likely would have said some things that would have led to me needing to find a different clinic.
It occurs to me I don’t own sneakers that are real umm, sneakers. Hopefully, since I won’t be running or doing anything with weights, or, yanno, standing, barefoot will be ok.
I think I’ll just keep losing myself in watching the reef.
skunk cleaner shrimp
anemone, still waiting for the clowns to discover him
Isn’t that the loveliest fruit basket? Sent to me by a friend, and it didn’t have strawberries, so I was actually able to eat it.
I’m working hard on staying, well, if not positive, at least fatalistic. Yanno: life happens, accidents happen, what can you do, blah blah, blah. And in the scheme of things, I was lucky. I fell forwards instead of backwards, which would have been worse for my back, and most certainly would have cracked my skull, thick as it is. Nerd Child has been home this week (Spring Break), a huge bonus, getting Art Child to and from school, keeping me company, and generally helping out.
Art Child has been feeding the tank, and Husband and Nerd Child even got the water change done yesterday, so the fishes and corals are taken care of. I think Little Incredibly Dumb Dog has given up hope that she’ll ever be taken for a walk again. I’ll just be grateful for pee pads, and she’s learning to enjoy sitting on the terrace.
No, I haven’t written anything, still feeling scattered and shattered. Unless checking my Submittable submissions and lurking on the writing website counts–in which case, I’ve been hugely productive.
I’m impatient, and refuse to believe a multi-fractured pelvis is going to hurt for as long and be as much of a nuisance as predicted. Every night I go to bed thinking, tomorrow I’m going to feel much better. By yesterday I was feeling fairly blue about the whole thing, and then Husband came upstairs with a package that had been left with the doorman for me.
I have the best friends.
Seriously. The best friends ever. This was sent by a friend who is laid up herself, how incredibly generous is this?! Chocolate heals all, doesn’t it? It has calcium, that has to go a long way towards getting my bones back where they belong.
So yeah, my everything still hurts, and the road to recovery is longer than I want to admit, but the support, check-ins, and well wishes (along with the above treats) from friends is greater. Thank you!!
The latest must-have accessory for the woman of 40,000 years.
I tried. Tuesday afternoon I was shaken but feeling positive, “oh, a few days of rest and I’ll be ok.” Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, not so much. I made a bunch of calls on Wednesday morning, trying to find an ortho who could see me that day. No luck–and apparently most of them super specialize, and the offices all insisted I choose if wanted to see someone for my arm or my pelvis. “but they both hurt like hell.” “Well, you have to decide which specialist you want to see.” Screw it. No appointment, the pain seemed like it was easing up, I figured I’d just tough it out.
10:15 Wednesday night, I was lying in bed trying to pretend the pain had not increased by multiples of thousands, and my back doctor returned my call. Bless this woman. I told her what was going on, and she told me to come in first thing the next morning. I did, she checked me out, and sent me off to the imaging place, with more concerns than I thought.
I may not have been able to tough this out, but apparently I’m pretty fucking tough. The next ten hours involved 4 MRIs, 7 X-rays, 1 CT scan, and 3 exams.
At the first MRI stop, after being told it would take 2-3 hours. Umm, do you have a chill pill or something?
Sorry, Mrs F, we’re an outpatient facility, so we don’t offer any medications. We have headphones and music, it’s on classical already.
Find me the classic rock station and we’ll be in business, I can get lost in my youth–where I didn’t humiliate myself by breaking and tearing my body from a simple slip on ice.
Between the music and the two hours of sleep I was running on, I was able to stay very still, no panic in the tube. Could have done without Van Halen’s “Jump,” though.
The doctor was in touch with the imaging center throughout, and it seemed that every test finished sent me to another. Everyone was nice, but suspiciously nicer as time went on, particularly since I had to have been screwing everyone’s schedule, being pushed (figuratively) to the front of the line, staff and techs waiting for me to hobble in at each new stop.
Can I please go get tea before the next one?
I’m sorry Mrs Fringe, they’re waiting for you.
Again and again.
Finally, one woman said I could get tea while they burned the images of all the tests onto cd. Yay! When I limped back in, she told me my doctor was waiting for me to call her. I know, I know, by this time it was clear I’m looking at some serious injury, but by then 7 hours had passed, 8 since my morning coffee–a woman needs a cup of tea–and some of us need several!
Every time I thought I was finished, I was sent to the next test, the next building. I stripped so many damn times by the time I reached the last X-ray tech I expected her to stick dollar bills in my underwear. By then I knew I had 4 fractures, why did I need more X-rays? The day ended at the office of a special trauma orthopedist, his physician’s assistant, his orthotist, his secretary, and the cleaning crew–clearly waiting and wondering when this patient would leave so they could do their jobs.
So. Despite that first X-ray done at the urgent care place, my arm is fractured, and now encased in a super duper molded to my arm but removable for showering cast. The rest of it….As I understand it, there are three types of bones that make up the triangular shape of the pelvis. I have fractures in all three, including one that extends to the hip socket. I would make a joke about not doing things half-assed, but I’m pretty sure this yields the very definition of half-assed.
Dogwalking is out of the question for the time being. I didn’t actually ask about typing, I figure I’ll just go slower and less verbose than usual, stop when it hurts.
On the positive side, even though I feel like I’m completely out of shape, all the past yoga left me in good enough shape that I don’t need total bed rest, can hobble with the cane when I need to, yanno, live. And I think this gives me the perfect opportunity to catch up on my reading.
Art Child and I have discovered the joys of Netflix, and marathon-watching tv series. Earlier this week, we finished Buffy. I know it was hugely popular in its prime, but I had never seen it. I wasn’t much of a tv watcher until the last 7? 10? years. I’ll be honest, through the viewings of the first few seasons it was mostly me reading while Art Child watched. With the later seasons it caught my interest more. I don’t think I’d say this is a must-see series, but it was fun, and while I thought Buffy’s character was pretty much a yawn, I value the message of girl/female power and I did enjoy the way Spike’s character was developed.
Why am I talking about this? Because it occurred to me if this was a book–or more accurately, a book series, it would be Young Adult. That demographic of fiction that has experienced such a huge explosion of devoted readers (and writers) but holds absolutely no interest for me. So if Buffy was a written series, would I have enjoyed it? I don’t think so. If a book starts angsting in a way that makes my mind wander, I close the book. If I was watching this show without Art Child, I don’t think I’d have made it past the first season.
Between spending a lot of time, thought, and in conversation about the how and why of Fifty Shades of Grey being such a hit, watching this tv series, and watching Nerd Child navigate his junior year of high school, I’m thinking about this popularity of Young Adult fiction with adult readers. Regardless of what angle I use to approach, my overriding thought is, why?
I want to be clear, I am not bashing young adult fiction or young adults. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I like teenagers. It’s pretty damned cool watching my kiddos and their friends navigate the world, figure themselves out, develop their interests, values, priorities, and become adults. Young adult fiction can be light and fun or serious and thoughtful, general fiction to romance to sci-fi and fantasy, same as children’s fiction or adult. Of the first two novels that jump out out me when thinking of novels I read and loved this year, one had a woman in her forties as the main character, the other is written from the perspective of a 5 year old boy. But what makes young adult fiction young adult isn’t just the age of the protagonist, it’s the focus, the grappling with becoming, discovering who you are, losing your innocence and finding your place in the world–whether that world is in the South Bronx, a suburb in the midwest, or the planet XCTHRGH.
When I was a teen I read and loved Forever, by Judy Blume, and the works of Paul Zindel–My Darling, My Hamburger comes to mind. I wished there were more of these books and authors then, and I’m glad there are more for today’s teens. I haven’t been a teenager in a long time. Tastes change, interests change.
Being a teenager is hard. Dealing with high school is hard. I guess I think about it a lot because I’m-the-mama-that’s-why. Fun as it can be, parenting teens is hard. As an adult, I know this stage doesn’t last forever, though it feels that way. As an adult, I know things change, and growth and maturity have more to do with resilience and flexibility than anything else. I also know there’re a lot of pitfalls at this stage, pitfalls that can throw someone off course for the next 10-20 years (or more), pitfalls that if handled well can set someone up for a better life. Different choices make for some different challenges. Both of my boys went to high powered boarding schools on scholarship–one long graduated, one attending currently. It was a decision Husband and I made because we wanted them to have every opportunity possible, and we believed they could each handle the workload, responsibility, and independence. Along with these amazing opportunities and education is the early knowledge of exactly where you and your family sit on the socio-economic food chain, no parent on hand to provide chicken soup when you get sick, or help you out and run a load of laundry for you when you’re in the midst of finals. Did we make the right decisions? I think so, I hope so, but I still question it every day. As I recently told Man Child, the worst kept secret is that none of us know what we’re doing as parents, we’re all doing the best we can, trying to avoid the out and out worst decisions and not fuck up too badly.
Positive and negative, there’s built in conflict, drama, and emotion with teens. These are also musts with fiction to make it interesting. But honestly, for me, mama-ing teens is enough. Are there things I miss about being a teenager? I suppose. I miss that oddly emphatic combination of hope, swagger, faith and conviction that my adult life would be what I wanted it to be, complete with multi-book publishing contracts and boobs that would remain firm and resilient forever. Can I look back and recognize poor decisions I made, points when I wish I had gone right instead of left? Yup. Would I actually want to go back in time to do so? Not a shot in hell.
And I’m not looking to regularly settle into the head of a teenaged main character when I have me time for reading. An occasional foray, maybe. I don’t need the featured protagonists of novels I read to be direct reflections of me, i.e.: women who are forty thousand years old living broke urban lifestyles. I have friends of different backgrounds, ages, and experiences, so why limit my novels? I do need the protagonists and their conflicts to hold my interest, and for me, most fictional teens do not. When I read it, I loved White Oleander, by Janet Fitch. I wonder if it was published today, instead of in 1999, if it would be shelved as young adult. I think it’s likely, and I would have missed it. Yet I still don’t “get” what is it about these books–well written as many of them are–that is so compelling for many adults in their thirties, forties, and beyond that people are specifically seeking them out. I don’t often feel I have much to look forward to, but looking backwards isn’t my answer. Except, of course, for the music. I’m never growing out of the music I loved as a teen.
Oh, Sunday. It isn’t always true, but today is a blissful day of nothing needs to be done. So obviously, my best plan was to get up and stand at the stove to make 8000 pancakes. That’s ok, because I’m still in my pajamas. 9 in the morning, in my pj’s with saltwater mixing for tomorrow’s water change, I must be dreaming. My back tells me I’m not.
It’s also Man Child’s last day at home before he heads back up to school for *whee* his last semester of college.
On my way home from taking the girl to her art class yesterday morning, I took some photos. For the first time, it occurred to me why I set so many of my stories at this time of year. Let’s face it, late winter in New York–not sexy or invigorating, not pretty or enticing. The dominating colors are gray and gloom. The season of train delays and wind tunnels, when I walk with my head down, hood eliminating all peripheral vision and calculate the odds of getting clipped in the head by a chunk of ice falling from a building.
A good time of year for hibernating, spending the day without getting dressed, thinking about what we do and why we do it. Because I have this ridiculous compulsion to make up characters and write them down, it dovetails nicely with the introspection.
Yes indeed, I do have a new character who’s been knocking at the back of my brain. At the moment he’s barely more than raw, a yummy mix of foolish and ludicrous. I may have to bring him forward soon, see how he can take shape.
For now, I have filthy-New York-in-February photos for you. Enjoy. And have a pancake while you’re at it–since I took this photo 20 minutes ago, my kitchen was apparently invaded by pigeons, and there aren’t many left. I’m going back to my beach house in Hawaii fantasy.
I suppose if you look really hard, a theme could be found on my bookshelf.
When we moved into this apartment, I packed away many of my books, and donated many more. These are what’s left–not including cookbooks.
Followers have been listening to me whine about my writing (non)life, and my plan to take stock and move forward. One of the ideas I was playing with was the thought of self-publishing short stories in groups of three or so. Since I knew less than zero about self pubbing, I asked on the writers’ board. I now know about zero, just enough to confirm that I am indeed too lazy and too broke to pursue self publishing at this time. I’ve never done much in terms of submitting my short fiction. Most have never been subbed anywhere, the few that were sent out once and then filed away with the inevitable rejection letter that arrived a mere 9, 12, 15 months later.
Apparently my sanity plunged along with this week’s temperatures, so I sent off stories to literary magazines, complete with crappy cover letters. What the hell do you write on a cover letter when you’re unpublished and have nothing to say about yourself that ties in with said stories in any way? “Mrs Fringe here, checking in with ovaries o’ steel.”
Why steel? Because I will only submit to markets that (potentially) pay. Doesn’t have to be a lot, doesn’t have to be The Paris Review (no, I didn’t send anything to them), but it is my work. I’ve seen a lot of quotes go past on my Twitter feed recently, having to do with art and writing for the pure love and satisfaction. Most of these quotes attributed to writers who have reached some measure of success, naturally.
Nope. My words are mine. I spend time, I edit, I pace, I obsess, I rewrite. They’re work, and if I don’t value my words, why/how would I expect anyone else to do so? If I meet someone and mention that I walk dogs, and they then ask me to walk their dog, it’s understood that this will be a paid walk. It has nothing to do with whether or not I love dogs. I can just imagine it, if you really loved animals, you’d be completely fulfilled picking up my dog’s shit in the rain, just for the love of it, and be thankful for the exposure. The reality of this philosophy is that my already slim odds of having a story accepted go down significantly–there aren’t a whole lot of paying lit mags, and they regularly publish prize winning, bestselling authors. All self explanatory as to why, though I write and have written shorts on a regular basis through the years, I’ve rarely subbed/queried them.
I expect my sanity to return with the projected rising temps. I hope.
And because it’s Friday, a few tank photos, white balance adjusted.
Enjoy your Friday, Fringelings. And when it’s last call tonight, tell your bartender drinks should be on him, for the love of it.
I’ve been thinking about something I saw on the news the other night. Patricia Todd, a legislator from Alabama, has threatened to “out” colleagues who campaign on a platform of and preach about family values and vote against marriage equality while having extra-marital and/or gay affairs.
My first thought was woo hoo! Do eeet! Then I read many statements and opinions of those who believe she’s wrong for threatening this. People who support marriage equality, but don’t believe in these tactics. Some strong and thoughtful points were made. For instance: would these outings be based on rumors? as a political tactic, the ethics of this are questionable, it would potentially hurt not just the politicians but their families as well, private lives should be private, and of course, it does sound an awful lot like extortion.
So I thought some more. And I’ve decided I’m ok with being immature and reactionary here, and support her doing this provided these potential “outings” were based on verifiable facts, not whispers in the schoolyard, and limited to the politicians themselves, not potential affairs of spouses, children, etc, and not using affairs conducted well before the person decided to run for office. People make their own choices for many reasons we know nothing about, and we the public may or may not be able to understand–it isn’t our business. If she knows any of her colleagues are gay but not out, or having extra-marital sex, and these colleagues are not trumpeting “family values” they should be left alone regardless of whether they’re Democrat, Republican, or Independent.
As far as I can tell, these threats were made only to those politicians who stand on their narrowly defined platform of family values. Well, if you decide to stand on a pin, you may fall off when the wind kicks up. I agree, private lives should be private. But these politicians have made it their business to say others aren’t entitled to dignity and equal rights, their (yanno, them–as opposed to us) private lives don’t deserve respect, because somehow equal rights are a threat to the security of glass houses. When someone decides to run for office in today’s world, like it or not they’re opening their doors and forfeiting privacy for themselves and their spouses.
For all I know Joanie (or Joe) Congressman may be riding the bologna pony with her assistant while her spouse gives the blessing–and videotapes it. I don’t care. I don’t believe this has a thing to do with their ability to make decisions and legislate. I don’t care if my accountant has a foot fetish, my doctor is gay, my senator is asexual, or my train conductor is polyamorous. But. If you are in a position of power, elected by the people based on your beliefs and telling others the “right” way to live, you should be living those beliefs, not limiting and stripping the rights of others because they want to live their lives with open intent, while you engage in your “alternative lifestyle” behind a smokescreen of moral indignation.
Is this truly a good idea, a smart way to conduct politics? I don’t know. Maybe there are longterm ramifications and repercussions I don’t see. I’m not a politician, wouldn’t want to be. But here you have it. Proof that Mrs Fringe is every bit as immature as you always suspected.
Little Incredibly Dumb Dog knows what to do with a snow day.
The Northeast was expecting the blizzard of the year last night, with predictions of epic snow accumulations. The NYC DOE announced public schools would be closed for today, and the city effectively rolled up the sidewalks at 11pm Monday night. A big deal. A very big deal. Buses were taken off the streets, the trains were shut down. I took these shots yesterday around 2PM, just as the storm was picking up.
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My Facebook feed was filled with photos of empty grocery shelves and menus detailing who would be cooking what, whose schools had been canceled when, most people moaning about the snow, harrowing tales of 3 hour commutes home during rush hour, slipping and inching down the roads.
As it turned out, the storm hooked east, and we didn’t get slammed here in Manhattan. I think 6.5 inches in Central Park. Now my Facebook feed is filled with moaning and groaning about the inaccuracy of the weather predictions, how the mayor was paranoid and jumped the gun, inconvenience, no school, no work, blah blah blah. First of all, it’s weather. Regardless of how sophisticated the satellites have become, they’re called weather predictions for a reason. Second, a lot of areas were slammed–not far from each other, friends on Long Island were hit hard, some in NJ were, some weren’t. And those up North of us are still being pelted. Third, so what?
Yeah, I said it. How many of us are so important (outside of emergency workers, snow removal, hospital workers) that the world collapses and people die if we don’t get to work? How many truly believe that one snow day is going to make or break the children’s test scores? Yes, it was the wrong call in terms of how much snow we actually got here in the city. But what if they didn’t announce school closings yesterday, and we got as much snow as expected, and it was announced this morning? Well, then everyone would be complaining about the late notice, many scrambling to figure out child care. If they didn’t tell everyone to get off the roads last night? Everyone would be complaining about how long it’s taking the city to clean the streets, not to mention the inevitable accidents and cars stuck on the highways.
It was odd for the subways to be shut down, it’s true. But my first thought was for the homeless for whom the subway tunnels and trains provide a relatively warm and dry place to be during bad weather. Six inches of snow and thirty mile per hour winds has to feel like storm enough when you don’t have somewhere safe to shelter you.
Are we so entitled that inconvenience is prioritized over safety? Is it really so terrible to have a bonus day off? Many won’t be paid for this day off, it’s true, and that sucks. Many more will work extra hard, and/or extra hours to catch up later in the week. But, oh, wasn’t it delicious to sleep an extra hour or two today? To go play in the park, or cook something special, or play a game with the kiddos, or just stay warm and dry? We are the only “advanced” nation that doesn’t guarantee its citizens paid vacation time and/or paid holidays. Huffing and puffing about the inconvenience of weather seems to fit right in with that philosophy. If you don’t have a hill to trudge up backwards in the snow pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps on the way to work, find one! I don’t think anywhere in the US embodies that spirit more than New York. The show must go on, after all.
I walked through Central Park earlier, watched others walking their dogs, sledding, taking photos, and smiling. I didn’t hear one person complain about how miserable it was to have the day off, even though snow flurries started up again while I was there. And I saw plenty still at work: in small businesses, police cars, driving buses, building maintenance and doormen, running the snow plows, shoveling the walkways for brownstone owners, and yes, even delivering groceries. I really hope whoever couldn’t be bothered to wait on line with the rest of us peasants yesterday are giving big tips today.
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And watching Art Child listen to Stevie Ray Vaughan with Husband this morning? Priceless.
mrsfringe 