Rants

Your Call Cannot be Completed as Dialed

Phones are dead. (Photo credit: nicadlr)

Between Husband and I, we have spent oh, I don’t know…4000 hours on the phone and in the store over the past few days, trying to clear up our cell phone account. I think I mentioned in my last post, but maybe not, someone somehow used our account to purchase 4 new iPhones and add 6 lines to our account. Oh, the joys of technology, it makes life so much easier, doesn’t it?

We thought we cleared it up the day before Christmas. Then we thought we cleared it up the day after Christmas. Then we were certain we cleared it up yesterday. Our contract is up, Man Child and I are due for upgrades. Perfect timing, because the week between Christmas and New Year’s is when the cell phone stores push the sales. Yay! This was the first time in years that my cell phone didn’t completely die before Christmas in the time frame when our contract was up. Because no, I will not replace my phone until and unless I’m due for an upgrade. The full retail prices on these things are ridiculous, I don’t care if I spend 8 months with the phone held together by duct tape.

Man Child and I went into the store yesterday, ready to get new phones and downgrade our plan. We’ve been paying a ludicrous monthly bill for what we use. Woo hoo, I’m psyched, I’m finally going to get the phone I’ve been wanting for years, at the price I’m willing to pay. Which, for the record, is free. (Once I get my rebate.) It isn’t the most current model, but groovy enough for me. Only we couldn’t, because the cell phone carrier is now on the case, making sure no fraud occurs. Isn’t there an expression about that, something about a barn door, free milk, escaped horse, something?

An open door (Photo credit: Juha Riissanen)

Even though the extra lines and charges had been removed from our account, as far as the carrier was concerned, we already re-upped our plan and got new phones. I couldn’t take care of it in the store, because the account is under Husband’s name. Grrrrr. Fine. We leave, Husband calls and spends another 3 hours on the phone with the carrier this morning to clear it all up and make sure I’m an authorized something or other to make decisions and handle problems. For the record, Husband doesn’t even use this carrier anymore, because of their exorbitant prices and previous bullshit over the years. Man Child and I still use them/the plan, along with Mother-in-Law. M-i-L because it’s easier for her, Man Child because they have the best signal at and near his school, and me because they have the best overall coverage in the country, and there have been several times already when we’re out of town and Husband’s phone doesn’t work but mine does. One of us has to have a working phone all the time. Two kiddos away at school, another one with medical needs, someone has to be reachable, no?

So, Man Child and I went back to the store this morning. Picked out our phones–again–go through a thing with the salesman. He was pleasant, but of course, trying to make the best sale he could. I get it, this is how he pays his bills. But no, I’m sure we can and are going to downgrade our plan, and no, $350 worth of protection plans aren’t worth two free cases. Really. I’m sure. M-i-L doesn’t need or want a smart phone. I need a lower phone bill each month. OK, we establish what info we need transferred from our old phones to the new ones, and the salesman begins to process the order. But wait!

A stopped press (Photo credit: slambo_42)

First, I get a phone call on my cell from the fraud department requesting permission to process the order because our account is now flagged. Thumbs up. Surprise! Order still can’t go through. There’s a mysterious something pending on our account. A mysterious something we didn’t authorize or pay for. Ummm, get rid of it? The salesman, who started out so smooth and friendly when I first met him on Saturday afternoon, is now growling into the phone with whatever department is supposed to take care of this, stabbing the digit keys with his index finger as he dials. Again. and Again. Apparently, they’re just as quick to disconnect calls from store employees as they are customers. Seems to me if you’re a phone company you should be able to transfer a call without disconnecting it, but perhaps I set the bar too high.

While he’s on hold, I try to convince him he should give us free phone cases for our troubles, while he looks me straight in the eye and explains it doesn’t work that way, how it isn’t really our loss or trouble, it’s the phone company who took this huge hit, so there’s no reason to expect any courtesy/compensation. Really? This is my fault that someone, somewhere, didn’t make an effort to confirm it was truly Husband making these HUGE purchases and changes to our account; an account we’ve had with them for ten years now–for phones they charge hundreds of dollars for, that cost them about 10 cents to make? No reason for a major phone carrier to extend courtesies despite the fact we’ve now wasted many, many hours on this? Heh.

At this point, I’m losing it. This is too much like shopping, and I’m starting to look and feel like a 9 year old with a serious case of ADHD who didn’t take her meds. I should be home. Sleeping. Playing with Flower Child. Writing. Reading. Listening to Nerd Child tell me about his most recent research on something serious and intense that I don’t understand but love hearing his passion. Anything but standing in the middle of this fucking store getting absolutely nowhere.

Man Child goes out and gets us coffee. While the salesman on the phone is dealing with the vortex of the fraud department, we chat with another salesman who had helped me the last time I got a phone, over two years ago. Seems like a genuinely friendly young man, we chat about New York and life while pretending the other salesman isn’t about to have a stroke on the phone with fraud and my head isn’t about to explode from this ridiculous level of bullshit. I take the opportunity to do some shameless self promotion and plug Mrs Fringe, Man Child goes out and brings back breakfast. Our salesman, still on the phone.

We’re now back home, with one very costly migraine, but no new cell phones. Why? Because now the fraud department is being extra cautious, and even though I was added as an authorized user/decision maker/bill payer this morning, they decided I can’t exercise my glorious power of handing over my debit card, with my name, and my identification, without Husband either there in person or on one of the cell phones from this plan. Husband is at work. With his cell phone, which is not one of the ones from this overpriced quagmire of a cell phone company.

Thirty minutes. I’m willing to give thirty more minutes to this tomorrow, before I tell this company and their fraud department to kiss my rapidly spreading middle aged butt (not the individual store or salesmen, because they were quite nice and did what they could from their end) and go buy a phone elsewhere, with a month to month contract. In case of emergency, send smoke signals.

Can You Hear Me Now? (Photo credit: jeffsmallwood)

Stuck!

Motel (Photo credit: Thomas Hawk)

I want to be home. On my comfy couch. Drinking a cafè con leche and web surfing.

Instead, I’m sitting in a motel lobby somewhere in Massachusetts, drinking piss water that came out of the coffee pot, and inhaling fumes from the vinegar they just used to wash the floor.

The plan for the weekend: road trip, pick up Man Child, see Nerd Child perform in a school production of Comedy of Errors, go home. It all went well until the going home part.

I want to say first in all seriousness, Husband is the best driver I’ve ever known. I’ve driven with him in all kinds of conditions, he’s always in control, never gets nervous behind the wheel. Never say never. After 8000 years of being together, I’ve now seen him nervous. Last night the snow was coming down so hard, straight at the windshield, no lights on the road, no plows, no salt trucks. After leaving Nerd Child’s school, we drove for over two hours. It went from well, this is annoying to breath holding, to oh shit this is downright disorienting very quickly. Got about 40 miles.

C’mon, New England, would it kill you to tell a few of the plows we saw driving to actually, yanno, put the shovel part down and plow?

Snowstorm outside Casper, WY (Photo credit: adventurejournalist)

So yes indeed, we had to find a place to crash. I’m thankful we were able to without any hassles once we were able to get off the highway. I am sitting with Man Child beside me, which is lovely. Nerd Child was fabulous onstage. And Flower Child is going to be very happy when she wakes up and sees it’s only snowing lightly now. It was scaaaary last night.

I spoke to Fatigue about an hour ago. He told me the snow has turned to rain in the city. I’m wondering if the motel has a shovel we can borrow to dig our car out. And where the nearest Starbucks is. Trust me, if you were drinking the swill I’m drinking right now you’d be crying for a Starbucks too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5jNj130ka1I

Oh People, Doncha Just Hate’em?

Woods (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

You know those getting to know you/riddle questions, if you were alone on a deserted island/in the woods/lost in space what food would you want/book would you bring/who would you want with you? I hate those stupid questions.

But apparently some people love them so much, they decide to go try it. Like this guy, who went on a survival expedition in the Canadian wilderness. He planned to be gone for two months, just a man and his dog. Didn’t work out so well. When he was a month late coming home, his family alerted the authorities who found him after 8 days of searching; alive, starving, dehydrated, and alone. Attacked by a bear, his supplies and equipment were lost/ruined. His dog saved him from the bear. Sadly, he ended up killing and eating his dog to stay alive. I’m not being flippant here, it is sad, and I can only assume if there was a grove of apple trees, a field of carrots, or a stream full of fish this wouldn’t have happened.

I found out about this through a discussion in the writer’s forum. I don’t generally get involved in those discussions, but they can be fun, informative, and a good way to get to know who’s who.

I have to tell you Fringelings, if you’re a staunch PETA supporter you might want to stop reading here. I love my dogs, love my fish and sea critters, I’m a vegetarian and have been since I was a teenager. In fact, I’ve sometimes wondered if I would be able to get myself any meat/fish/flesh if I was literally starving. And yet I was shocked by the sentiment of people who not only said he shouldn’t have done it/they wouldn’t have done it, but equated it with killing and eating a human family member/loved one. Really? You’re shitting me, right? Well played, what a perfect troll session.

Except the conversation began to meander, as these things do, and there were multiple people insisting their pets really are equivalent to their children, and the death of a pet is as devastating as the death of a child. No. Just no. And then proceeded to say it was judgmental for anyone to disagree.

The Intersection of 36th and Troll (Photo credit: sea turtle)

Perhaps for a few people this might be true, but if you are a reasonably well adjusted person, no. And I don’t care if you’re young, middle aged, or Methuselah. No. And if this is being judgmental, well, okay. I’ll just confess to being a judgmental bitch right now. And more than a bit horrified that it’s so easy to find people who don’t see a difference between a beloved pet and a beloved spouse, mother, father, child, cousin, or BFF who you’ve laughed and cried with for forty years.

I’ve been very, very sad at the loss of pets. Cried. Mourned. Dogs, cat, fish, invertebrates. For the record, fish are not disposable pets, they shouldn’t die within days/weeks/months. Clownfish really have personalities similar to puppies, they come to the top of the tank once they get to know you, will eat out of your hand, and play. I’ve been riveted and excited to see coral spawning in my tank, see my clownfish do the mating dance. When the clowns then ate their eggs, I didn’t feel my world had ended. Didn’t even lose a night’s sleep. What a cold, cruel woman I am.

Yup, laid her eggs right on this soft leather coral.

(sorry for the out of focus photo, but that’s the only one I could find of her in “her” leather)

But. But, but, but. You get a dog or cat expecting it to live 10, 15, 20 years. Same for many fish and sea critters. So sad when a creature you’ve loved and cared for over many years passes. Your child? Mmm, the natural order of things is for your child to outlive you. (I do wonder if this makes a difference for people who keep parrots they expect to outlive them, but still, not a child.) And, yanno, it’s your child. If you get a new fish, and that fish dies when you get it home, or can’t adjust to the new tank and refuses to eat so it dies within days, it’s sad and aggravating and you’re glad you got the fish from somewhere that offers an “arrive alive” guarantee. Cause now you’re going to get credit, and they’ll give you/ship you a new fish. Baby? Not exactly. Not even remotely.

Regular Fringelings know I have a few friends who’ve lost children to fatal diseases. I’ve had some terrifying times with Flower Child. I have more friends whose children face horrendous diagnoses. I’ve been zombified at Husband’s bedside in the Cardiac ICU more than once. I’m not special, my family isn’t special. There are thousands of families who face these events throughout the world, every day. Many of them have pets they love and have loved. Not one will tell you the loss or imminent loss of their child/spouse/sibling/other is the same as the loss of Fido.

You love your dog/cat? That’s wonderful, me too. Swear you wouldn’t eat him no matter that you were facing certain death otherwise? OK, I tend to doubt that I would eat mine either. Can’t say for certain, seeing as I’ve never been lost and starving in the wilderness and I’m unlikely to ever be. Besides, Big Senile Dog is old and tough and scrawny. I will admit that Little Incredibly Dumb Dog’s back legs bear more than a passing resemblance to fuzzy chicken legs when she’s wet and in the bath. Plump, too.

Humans are animals too. Yes, we are. And we’re at the top of the food chain. I intend to stay there. Now I’m off to eat my pasta with meatless meatballs.

Stop Stepping on my Castle!

Fotosequenza – Castle Blaster (Photo credit: p!o)

I don’t know what it is, this inner drive that prompts me to write. I can and have theorized, but I don’t know. Clear to me as I try to find my way back to a disciplined routine this week–this “thing” includes whopping doses of masochism and delusion.

On masochism there’s the obvious, rejections. But honestly, I haven’t faced that many rejections this year because I haven’t sent out all that many submissions or queries. Yes, yes, I said I would have at least two pieces out on submission at all times this year. I lied. Sue me. Then there’s the masochism of sharing your work with anyone. Critiquing, being critiqued, or just being read. I fall behind on official submissions, but I still like to be certain I’m being spanked regularly by sending work to a) people I know it isn’t their thing, and/or b) people who take for-ev-er to respond. Gives me plenty of time to obsess about how appalled they are by my words, and how they’re never ever going to speak to me again.

Image of sado-masochism (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then there’s the masochism of connecting with other writers. For the camaraderie, the understanding and support. Mmmm hmm. Sometimes it works that way, sometimes it doesn’t. And usually when it doesn’t, I know better. I know better as I’m digging that six foot hole, telling myself to drop the shovel and keep moving. Don’t respond on that thread, Mrs Fringe, it’s a trap you cannot avoid. Like, say, trying to explain and defend that nebulous category of literary fiction. Ridiculous, really. Who am I to defend the validity of lit fic? Unpublished, uneducated, my roots are anything but the ivory tower assumed by many when they see the term “literary.” I sit and sputter and shout at the screen. But I don’t keep moving and respond anyway. Why? Masochism is the only answer.

No it isn’t. Because now my old friend walks in. Hello, Delusion! Walks in and snuggles against me on the couch, plying me with café con leche and unsweetened iced tea as I write. Whispering, “You can do this, you have to do this. A few people like your work. One manuscript, one agent, one publisher. That’s all you need, and then a few more will find your words and like them.”

That’s all I need. So clear, so simple; so ever-loving subjective I sometimes wonder if my time would be better spent dreaming of lottery numbers. Or doing laundry.

I may be delusional and masochistic, but I know we’ve got to have clean bloomers. I also know that some of the very same people who sneer at lit fic refer to their manuscripts as their babies, being critiqued and sending out queries as sending their children into the world.

Yeah, no. I put a lot into my writing. I fall in love with these characters I create, no matter how broken. I write, read, obsess, polish, rip apart over and over again. I love my children, obsess over them, hold my breath in fear and pride as they move out into the world. But I don’t rip them apart or ask others to do so, shrug and move on, dig one out five years later and say hey, if I trim some of the fat off this one I can try again, think of the older ones as learning experiences.

Delusions or not, this day has to move forward. I bet if I search all the way at the back of the dresser drawers, I can find a a pair of clean underwear. Opening the WIP….

Marat/Sade (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let’s Make a Deal

Publicity photo of Carol Merrill, Monty Hall and Jay Stewart from the television program Let’s Make a Deal. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You don’t call me a Feminazi, and I won’t call you a misogynistic asshole, okay?

If you absolutely can’t give up the term, just know you’re aligning yourself with Rush Limbaugh. I’m not certain that he is the originator of the term, but he is the one who popularized it in the ’90’s. I know, I know, you’re really in favor of equality, might even be someone who self-identifies as liberal, it’s just “those women” who you’re referring to. I understand, it’s only the emasculating ones; who have the audacity to want equal pay, respect, control over their bodies, and access to quality, affordable childcare. The right to not be strip searched and molested on the side of a highway. The right to not be under continual assault for appearance, or choices in love, work, or dress.

Lest I be accused of a man bashing post, let me stop and be clear. I’m also speaking to women who use this term. I know, I know, there’s nothing wrong with being a woman who embraces being a woman, meets Daddy at the door with a martini and a smile, ready to make that deal…blow job and meatloaf in exchange for an allowance. Because, yanno, if you’re an at home mom, taking care of the house and children isn’t really work. And if you work outside the home, you’re still the one primarily responsible for the house and children. Because, yanno, wimmenz work. What? That isn’t what you meant?

I wonder what you did mean, then. You, a modern American woman. Perhaps you don’t enjoy the right to own property, a right secured by earlier generations of feminists. How about the right to not be property? Or the right to vote. That must be it. Maybe you should share that info with the other women in the world who are still trying to secure those rights. Or the right to call the police if you’re assaulted, regardless of what length your skirt was, or if your assailant was your husband, your father, brother, or uncle.

I have a daughter, I’d like her to be safe. I have two sons, I’d like them to be safe. Silly me, I’d like to be safe. No one should have to live within a “rape culture,” yet we still do. Tremendous strides have been made, but no, it isn’t finished. Our society is a work in progress, and will be until every individual’s humanity is recognized and respected.

Feminazi. Really? Fighting for women’s rights is on par with the slaughter of sixteen million people. How silly of me not to make the connection myself.

Sorry Fringelings. This rant was brought to you by some disturbing comments seen on Facebook today. Not on my page, so I didn’t want to rant there. Now Mrs Fringe will go back to her thoroughly subversive, militant feminist crochet work.

Tangled up in Blue (Photo credit: chickeninthewoods)

Scared Titless

oral surgery stuff (Photo credit: Newbirth35)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beaver pair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suffragettes in Bow Street (Photo credit: Leonard Bentley)

Today’s Special: Humble Pie

Shoofly Pie (Photo credit: librarykitty)

No matter how many slices I eat, there’s always more.

We pushed forward with car shopping, out of necessity. The special joys of used car shopping with a long list of necessities, a longer wish list, and a limited budget. Conducted under a broiling sun with 95% humidity, to ensure my brain cells didn’t communicate with each other too quickly.

We were on one lot where I swear the salesman was comedian Jon Lovitz. Looked like him, spoke like him, I melted into a chair in the office, clutched my styrofoam cup of water and expected to hear, “Live, from New York, it’s Saturday NIGHT!” Of course, we were in New Jersey, but no matter.

No matter how I searched, where I searched, it turns out my idea of what I should be able to get with my money had no relationship with reality. We found a car, were treated well by the dealership we bought it through, but it has more miles on it than any used car I ever purchased. I’m trying to remind myself that the expected life span of engines/mileage is much higher than it used to be.

I thought I was too old for this. Too old to go back to the days where I’d buy something when I wasn’t 100% confident the vehicle would get me from Point A to Point B without question. At first I thought our budget was enough to buy one of those lovely used vehicles that are termed “previously owned.” You know, about two years old, just turned in at the end of a lease. Then I thought, ok, we can get something a few years older, but we’ll be able to get something that has ALL the bells and whistles, maybe 50,000 miles on it. Oh, Mrs Fringe, you foolish, foolish woman.

Wrecked car (Photo credit: The Library of Virginia)

Given the realities, I think we did ok. Several of my fish freak friends are also car buffs/mechanics, and they think I did ok, but wow. Those little ice picks through the forehead that remind me of my continuing path of downward mobility don’t stop puncturing my brain.

Buying the car was a two day process. We looked, I sat–yes indeed, with the little back problem I’ve got, top of my list of necessities was how the seats felt and whether or not there was lumbar support–test drove, sat more, looked more, went off site and had a discussion, went back and talked more, began the process, inspection and negotiation of our car for trade in value, went home to NY and got Flower Child and Nerd Child, brought them back to NJ, paperwork, call the insurance company, blah blah blah, “oops, forgot our title.” We agree to bring it back in the morning, leave a separate check for a missing title in case we’re scammers.

Went back to NJ yesterday (the car does ride nicely, everything seems to work, and it’s cleaner and prettier than it ever will be again) with the title, children, and mother in law, deal with the other miscellaneous forgotten bits of buying a car. I swear I don’t remember this ever taking so many, many hours in the past. While we’re waiting for…something, I check twitter, and see a breakdown of how many of each category (middle grade, young adult, new adult, adult) pitches have been selected for the contest I entered. Not looking hopeful for Mrs Fringe. I said some not nice words from the depths of my Brooklyn soul, and think I might have scared our salesman. Unfortunate, because he’s a cousin of Husband’s, likely I will see him again.

Done. Suck it up, take a breath, move forward. It is what it is, I am where I am, and it’s definitely a big step up from our old car by the time it was traded in.

I haven’t done any real writing in a couple of weeks. I felt stuck, I was working on the pitch for this contest (part two of said contest is Friday, so still hope), was lost on a never-ending used car lot of big numbers.

Take another breath and get your shit together, Mrs Fringe.

Mrs Pilgrimm (Photo credit: David Wilson Clarke)

Suckage and Despair, Chapter 438

English: Danebridge Church Choir singing al fresco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sing along, now.

There are glorious highs and lows to writing. The highs come from when you know you’re clicking, a sentence is exactly what you want it to be, you’re in a great rhythm, being productive, you look at a completed piece and think, “yes,” this is worthy of submission. The lows, of course, are when you’re struggling, unsure of clarity, convinced that the work you’ve dedicated hours, weeks, months, years to is absolute crap. Lows also come in the form of letters/emails where the salutation states, “Dear Author,” and continues on to blah blah blah too much boring suckage, move along.

There are a few areas of writing where I’m fairly confident, and ride those highs. Logically, it makes no sense, I shouldn’t have any highs or confidence without validation. But they’re necessary in order to pursue this insane, frustrating road. Some days I wish doing laundry could give me that high. Today is one of those days.

I have an idea, and I want to roll with it.

Pencils (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve begun the new WIP. Here’s my high/low paradox. One of the areas I’m normally confident in is openings. I’m pretty good at hitting that “right” first sentence or three, just enough for a reader to want to know where the fuck I’m going with this. I’ve got, for now, the right opening scene, but my opening sentences aren’t strong enough. Even for manuscripts that rely heavily on atmosphere and characterization, you’ve got to hit the ground running. Maybe especially so. Being a lunatic, this naturally leads me to wonder if it’s time to give away my favorite pencils and have a party with the delete button in my documents section.

It doesn’t matter if I’m going to change the beginning later, delete it, shift it, whatever, I’ve got to hit the right note starting out. For me. It’s my crazy process.

It’s Sunday, and I don’t generally write on Sundays. They’re my day for general wallowing. I didn’t write yesterday because of computer issues, so I want to be productive today. Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog are looking at me, wondering why it’s 11am and I haven’t fed them yet. If I go into the kitchen to feed them, I’ll be faced with the sink overflowing with pans and dishes from last night’s dinner. So I’ll have to wash them. Once they’re washed, I’ll see how messy the counters are in general. So then I’ll have to clean the counters. Clean counters will remind me of the layer of dust in the living room. I’ll dust, and then realize I should wash/polish the doo dads lining the windowsills. Then I’ll remember the laundry pile, be too tired to sort and bring the laundry downstairs to get involved in laundry wars when I still have to make dinner, and remember I was supposed to be writing. Then I’ll remember why I didn’t write, because what should be a high for me is currently a low. Proof of suckage.

Is it bedtime?

Under the covers (Photo credit: Being a Dilettante)

And Happy Father’s Day to all!

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

Judgement Day

Judgement Day (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

is every day, here on the www.

I’ve talked before about how much I love the internet, the people I’ve met through it, blah blah yawn. It’s a funny thing, though. I continue to get lulled into a false sense of happy happy joy joy free love and learning, and then get biffed upside the head.

Not everyone you meet online is someone you’d want to sit and have a beer with. So what? Just like the offline world, smile, nod, and move on.

Except, online there seem to be a lot more people who don’t want to move along. You know who I mean, the ones who paint themselves as experts in X, and believe it is their great duty and privilege, perhaps even an obligation, to engage in argument. It took a bit for me to catch on to how this works for these cyber types. When I first became engaged with online communities where you saw this type of action, I took the bait. Argued back to explain my position, and proclaim my rights to my opinion. Then I learned a bit more about how socializing through a screen works/can work, and would attempt to steer the discussion with a more civil tone. Yah, done with that, too.

Journal of Community and Applied Social Psychology (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

From there you find the people you enjoy spending online time with, and figure out how to narrow your interactions with others while still remaining engaged in the greater community.

Or not. I no longer visit most of the forums I’ve joined over the years, because I found my “peeps” and we now interact in smaller groups through Facebook, email, sometimes even *gasp* face to face. Let’s be honest, here, do I need to post questions and have discussions with 8000 other navel gazers? Thirty, twenty, even ten can be sufficient for a lively debate and interesting discussion. Every so often someone new gets brought in for fresh air and new perspectives. Not only does everyone involved not have to agree, it’s a more productive discussion when they don’t. I learn other people’s opinions, new facts, and my mind gets opened a bit wider. As long as it’s all conducted with respect and basic courtesy, it’s all good.

Let’s look at that word again. Respect. It doesn’t matter if the poster is 14, 40, or 80 (and often you don’t know). It isn’t my job to slam anyone else in a personal way. I’m not talking about engaging in debate, but attacks that can/will be interpreted as personal. You know what I find to be one of the best parts of being a grown up? Understanding that not everyone will like me, and I won’t like everyone, and that is just fine. In person or online, still fine. Remember, I live in a small space. I can’t fit an entire forum around my dinner table. My laptop is old and cranky. A reflection of me, it stops and freezes every time I click on a new post or thread. It can easily take me 30 minutes to read two short threads, 45 if I want to reply. In many ways that’s ok, it forces me to choose carefully before clicking.

There are internet trolls who are obvious trolls. Fine. Some are annoying, some are amusing. But the tricky kind are those who don’t seem to understand

English: “Wikipedia troll at play” sign, based on a yellow “Children at Play” sign that symbolizes a child kicking a ball. The ball was replaced by a Wikipedia globe, and the child’s head was decorated with unruly “hair” reminiscent of troll dolls. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

they’re trolling, and are passionate about their way/belief being THE way. The ONLY way, for everyone, and they must “correct” any and all who question a different path. Personally, I’m a silly, flighty gal. Know what I do when I see a question/thread/post that seems pointless to me? I don’t click on it. Forgive me, I’m such a radical.

Mmm hmm. Would you and your hand like a room, buddy?<< phrased respectfully, of course.