Rants

It’s OK, My Dog is Friendly

English: "A Mad Dog in a Coffee-House&quo...

English: “A Mad Dog in a Coffee-House” by Rowlandson, showing a rabid dog terrorizing a coffee house in 18th century England (possibly Garrison’s or Jonathan’s, near the Exchange). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Um, no it isn’t ok. I’m glad your dog is friendly. That’s nice for you. My dogs aren’t friendly, therefore your dog charging up to my dog is a problem. You can consider your dog a member of your family (I do the same), you can call your dog your kid or your baby, but guess what? It’s a dog. Which means if your dog runs up to mine, and mine freak out, yours will too. Because they’re DOGS. I know you love your beasts, I love mine too.

Dogs in the city are generally pretty awesome. They tend to be well trained, and tolerant of sharing “their” space with others. Some are better than others. Mine fall into the “other” category when it comes to dealing with other dogs. They are not going to share the elevator nicely with your dogs, so when I see you on the elevator, I’m not getting on. I do this in the interests of everyone’s peace and safety. Trust me, they’re mine, I know them. So stop holding the fucking “open” button on the doors, trying to convince me to get on with them when you see them freaking out, and there’s an elderly woman cringing in the corner behind her shopping cart. It’s ok, they are my responsibility so I can wait for the next elevator.

Big Senile Dog won’t bark at another dog across the street or down the block, but he doesn’t want to pass right next to another. For the love of all that’s holy, you people with ultra friendly pups, when you see someone else walking a dog who is clearly bobbing and weaving to avoid run-ins with others, don’t wait for them, or follow them so the dogs can say hello and “make friends.” Sorry, my dog doesn’t want to make friends. He wants you and your dog to get the fuck away from him. I do my part, you do yours, please. Go to the dog run. Really. If Cesar Millan is with you, fine. Otherwise, let me move away.

Having a dog in the city is wonderful, but it’s tricky. You do have to make sure the dog gets enough exercise, and you have to be aware of the many dangers. Cars, bikes, poison, rats, the list goes on. I’m sure there are equivalent dangers in the suburbs and in rural areas. But somehow, we seem to have this privileged subset of dog owners who don’t think these dangers could ever, possibly apply to their beloved Rover.

Bucket-headed dog (Photo credit: Paul Kidd)

I’m always in awe of the sheer stupidity of some people. Truly, the vast majority of city dog owners are great, caring, and responsible. Their pets are well cared for, groomed, exercised, loved. But then you have the few who think all the dog needs to be happy and healthy is unconditional smooshies and freedom. There are leash laws for a reason. The reason is to PROTECT YOUR DOG as much if not more than anything else. You think your dog will always listen to you no matter what. Mmm hmm. These are the siblings of My-Kid-Would-Never, and their names are My-Dog-Would-Never. Yes, they will. Given the right/wrong circumstances, your dog will indeed get into a fight with another dog, scare a child, run into the street and become urban road kill. I have seen this more times than I can tell you, and it inevitably ends with the dog owner sobbing because they “don’t know what happened, Mitzi has never run into the street before.” I know what happened, Mitzi is a fucking dog and you treated her like a child old enough for higher order thinking! **I am excluding

professionally trained service dogs from this, because they truly are amazing**

Now here come the cousins to My-Dog-Would-Never-and-Doesn’t-Need-a-Leash, My-Dog-Would-Never-So-I-Let-Him-Have-All-25-feet-of-the-Retractable-Leash. Can I slap you now? The freakin dog might as well be off the damned lead! Large or small, if that dog runs into the street when a car is coming and the car doesn’t see him, that’s the end of the dog. If you’ve got a little dog who startles another, larger, unfriendly dog, your dog is getting his butt kicked before you can get him in your arms.

City Dogs Are Friends (Photo credit: ilovemypit)

If you’ve got a big dog at the end of that lead and they take off after a juicy rat, odds are excellent that you will either let go of the lead, get your wrist/arm broken trying to hold her back, or at the very least, you’ll end up on the ground. It’s science (physics?), a big dog with four on the floor with 15-25 feet of running lead has a lot more traction than you do. Hell, a 50 pound dog with four on the floor has more traction than many.

There are options for people with friendly, well trained dogs to be off leash and romp with other dogs. There are dog runs throughout the city, and dogs can be off-leash in Central Park from dawn until 9am, and from 9pm until park closing. By the way, just because you can let them off leash doesn’t mean you should. If your dog is not friendly or well trained, those ordinances won’t magically make your dog friendly and obedient.

This has been a public service announcement from Mrs Fringe.

Polski: trufla nosowa psa (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Good Morning, Angels

Publicity photo of the cast of the television program Charlie’s Angels. From left: Jaclyn Smith, Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and Kate Jackson. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remember them? By today’s standards, it was a sweet show, despite being the beginning of “Jiggle Power” on tv, also known as “Jiggle TV.” Funny, the themes and outfits would probably be rated G now, and yet with all the toning, tanning, muscles, and enhancements on the female tv stars you see now, there’s nothing natural enough to jiggle.

Now we have different angels.

victoria’s secret fashion show 2010 (Photo credit: cattias.photos)

Not my definition of angelic, but that’s okay. I don’t have to shop there, and don’t. We’re all grown up women, and can decide for ourselves what type of underwear we’d like to wear. I find dental floss up my ass to be uncomfortable, and don’t see a woman picking her butt as an enticement, but whatever floats your boat, or lifts your boobs, or frames your artfully sculpted hoo ha. God Bless.

But wait. Victoria’s Secret has realized there’s an untapped market waiting for them. That’s right, jail bait. Future pedophile victims. Have I gone too far? Maybe. But certainly victims of a society that doesn’t know how to allow children to be children. Make no mistake, at 10, 11, 12, 13 years old, they’re still children, regardless of when their bodies begin to change.

I would like to hear from the adolescent and child psychology experts who sat on the panel in the Victoria’s Secret meetings, and said this is a good idea. That there’s nothing wrong with teaching little girls to start objectifying themselves early by wearing padded push up bras, panties that say “Call Me” (WTF happened to the ones that said Monday?), and of course, lacy thongs.

What mother who gives a shit about her daughter’s sense of self is buying her this type of underwear? Am I being judgmental, perhaps alienating readers who might buy my books down the road? Yup, and that’s okay. There are some things I feel strongly enough to take a stand on, and this is one of them. Am I uptight when it comes to my children? You betcha. Childhood is short, life is long. But the lessons learned in childhood last a lifetime. I’d like them to gain the tools they need during childhood for long, productive, happy, and healthy adulthoods.

Middle schoolers, tweens, are a mass of hormones and changes. This is the very beginning of independence. By the time a child is 14, you can see the adult they will become–though they aren’t that adult yet. What are they prioritizing, what have we taught them to prioritize? This is the time for young people to develop a sense of self, a sense of conscience, an understanding of their place in the world, and what roles they might step into. This is a time of self doubts and insecurities. If we parents buy them these types of garments we are prioritizing sexuality, and dating (or hooking up), over social justice, respect, community, intelligence, productivity, healthy body images, and healthy relationships. Yanno, to “get” the cute boy, strip down to your skivvies so he can see the message stamped on your butt. Because that’s what he should be paying attention to, right? Of course, with all these messages, stripping, and hoo ha infections caused by these special undies, I understand, there was no need or time to study for your biology test. And now that he/she has broken your heart because he/she has no clue or emotional tools to have a healthy relationship because he/she is also a child, no one wrote that Language Arts paper, either. Because they’re crushed, the very fragile beginnings of self esteem have been stepped on because Mary is cuter, or John is a better dancer.

This isn’t new, really. OK, marketing thongs to 10 year olds is new, but does anyone else remember this?

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Calvins (Photo credit: Evil Erin)

Brooke Shields was fourteen years old when this ad campaign for Calvin Klein jeans came out, implying there was no underwear between her and her super tight, super sexy jeans. That was in 1980. We should have known better. But certainly, we should know better by now. And none of this even begins to touch on the damage done to adult women, who are looking at ads that show models they can’t possibly look like, yet are told they should.

Dating and early acting out of sexuality, by its very nature, is emphasizing exclusivity. How does this make sense for young people who are searching desperately to be included? It might seem like nothing, innocence, “puppy love.” But it isn’t nothing, it sends a message about what is most important. Kids of this age need to find safe ways and places to be included. How about respect? How does that fit into this equation? Certainly, we aren’t teaching respect of self or others when we place value on prepubescent sexuality. How about self esteem? Doesn’t this bring us right back to encourage girls “not to be too smart,” and boys to value their sexuality over other, tangible, long term and contributory accomplishments. How about caring about other human beings, not just cataloguing them? Yes, let’s all cry about America slipping further down in academic standing when compared to other countries. Bottom line, with this type of message, we’re teaching our kids that commitment to self and others doesn’t matter. Because 12 year olds can’t commit to a long term, healthy relationship. Why? Because they haven’t yet learned how to commit to themselves, their future. For the love of all that’s holy, their brains aren’t finished yet, even if their boobs/butts/dangly bits are almost there.

Will there be a separate fashion show for the prepubescent line? Will it be photographed, filmed, televised? What’s that? You think that might be icky, uncomfortably close to child pornography? You should be thinking that, because it is. These garments are designed to be looked at, encourage fantasies so they will be purchased. There is no reason for these sweet whispers of lace and cotton to exist outside of sexual ones. I’m saying no thanks, I’m saying fuck you Victoria’s Secret.

Hey, you, adult woman! You don’t get to complain about men objectifying you, not taking you seriously, not giving you equal pay for equal work, and not holding up their end of child rearing if you’re feeding into this crap, and teaching another generation that these priorities are okay.

Perhaps we should bring corsets back. You know, the ones that literally warped the rib cage and cut off oxygen. Obviously our girls don’t need those brain cells anyway, since we’re teaching them to put their sexuality above other aspects of their development, or sense of self.

English: Corsets (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: FIG. 15.—The effect of bending forward, when seated, with and without corsets. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Justifiers and Qualifiers

The two women friends are shocked at a third woman dressed as a man. But Harlequin and Pierrot are also men. From the Danish “Punch” magazine (not the British Punch), July 1876 no. 30 page 233 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I feel like I’ve done quite a bit of moaning and groaning here on Mrs Fringe in the past couple of weeks. New week, I’d like to start out positive before beginning my usual ~~obsessing~~ musings. While I didn’t write as much as I would have liked at this point in the month, I have worked on both my WIP and a couple of short stories. There. I’ve given my dear readers unicorns and rainbows, you too, can chase your tail while sorting laundry and cleaning lost bodily fluids from canines and dependents.

On to the whine portion of happy hour. As I’ve said in the past, I write romance (the current WIP) and literary fiction (short stories, and a temporarily shelved WIP). None of this includes the blogging, which is another entirely different style of writing. Everybody’s a critic. Those who like romance, other types of genre fiction, or even–squee–my romances, don’t understand why I write lit fic. “Ew. Oh. It’s so dark. Aren’t those the books where nothing ever happens? Why do you write that? Well, it’s not my cup of tea.”

For those who like lit fic, or even–squee–my lit fic, when they hear I also write romance. “Really? Why are you wasting your time with that shit? You can do better than that. Well, I guess it’s easy money.”

I can’t win for losing. First of all, let me repeat, for the 8000th time, nothing in writing is easy money, or an easy path to publication. After 40,000 years I am still, but hopefully not always, one of the unwashed and unpublished masses. Maybe not unwashed, I bought an absolutely divine magnolia pear scented soap.

As a reader, I have a wide variety of books on my shelves. Romance, lit fic, short stories, poems, biographies, essays, non fiction books about economics, various religions, cookbooks, thrillers, horror, mysteries, even a fantasy or two. Some people are more focused, but I know many whose bookshelves look like mine.

Fiction Stacks (Photo credit: chelmsfordpubliclibrary)

So why do these same people with varied titles on their reading lists sneer at me for writing two seemingly disparate styles? Yes, the style of writing, pacing, sentence structure, word choice, these things are different. One is more introspective and character driven, the other quicker paced and it’s true, the black moment is a lot more, ummm, navy blue. But honestly, most (all) fiction is about exploring people, our emotions, our responses, our needs, wants, desires, connection to others, how we respond in any given situation, societal dilemmas and individual dilemmas.

I’m guessing there are slurs for every style and genre, but it feels like the two I write in are particular targets. Romance is for frustrated housewives, girly-porn (not sure what these critics make of M/M romance, but hey), they can be knocked out in a week, blah blah blah. And this doesn’t begin to touch the many subgenres of romance, or the different levels of “heat,” from sweet to yowza! I like writing romance. It isn’t easy, but it’s fun. How do two people (or vampires, if that’s your thing) fall in love? What makes someone heroic, or lovable, for that matter? What makes someone with an independent, fulfilling life want to make the drastic changes necessary to incorporate a significant other and arrive at happily ever after, or even happy for now?

And literary fiction. Sigh. It’s pretentious, self conscious, an excuse to break the rules of grammar, there’s no plot, it can’t be literary if it hasn’t won an award, navel gazing, yada, yada, yada. If you haven’t been following Mrs Fringe for long, let me tell you, I’m quite fond of navel gazing, and wondering why the fuck we make the decisions we do. Yanno, the human condition. Also, not easy to write, and for me, even the pace of production is slower than when I write romance. Is it “fun” to write? No, but there’s a depth of satisfaction I can’t describe, and I love it.

I wish I was like Stephen King, able to create believable, relatable characters that battle unreal creatures and situations. I wish I was like Margaret Atwood, sculpting a marriage of poetry, brilliant prose, and speculative fiction. I don’t have either of their levels of talent, certainly not the imaginations required. But if I did have an imagination that leaned towards alternate realities and creatures that go bump in the night? I’d write those stories too.

Why this rant? Because I am feeling good about working on both, I get different but definite satisfaction from working on each, but I’ve received several of these not so sly little pinches in conversation this week. Unknot your panties, folks. If I’m ever blessed enough to be published in both, they’ll be in different sections of the bookstore (assuming there still are brick and mortar bookstores by then), and I’ll use a pen name for one of the styles.

“Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.” Margaret Atwood (Photo credit: katerha)

Plucked, Tucked, and Fucked

¿Rolling Stones? No, gracias (Photo credit: alvarezperea)

As a no longer young woman who doesn’t travel with the movers and shakers of society, it sometimes takes me a while to hear about trends and movements. Last night, I saw an article on Facebook that horrified me. So much so, I suspected it was a hoax, and googled. Labiaplasty. Not a hoax. A (sur)real cosmetic plastic surgery, available at a doctor’s office near you. Heh.

Just in case you’re as behind the times as I am, labiaplasty is a surgery to trim, or completely remove, a woman’s inner labia. Ready for the kicker? This is a purely optional procedure.

So I ranted with my feminist FB buddies for a bit, and then kept googling. I did find instances of women who said they chose to have the procedure done for more than aesthetic reasons, citing discomfort when running or biking. I read about one woman who said she was tired of her lips falling out of her underwear. Now those are lips. Except when I continued reading, it turns out she was referring to thong underwear. What’s that, dear? Your dental floss isn’t as comfortable as you’d like it to be? Get off my lawn!

old lady feeding pigeons (Photo credit: mvhargan)

Adult women look different from young girls, the body changes in many ways. This surgery seems to be an effort to replicate the appearance of prepubescent girls. As a woman, as a mother, as a sorta kinda feminist, I am appalled. Exactly how does this fit into “first do no harm?” Those labia aren’t like your appendix, serving no function. They are part of your body’s natural defenses, protecting the vagina and urethra, have glands that produce secretions that kill bacteria, and I’m no gynecologist, but I’m pretty sure they help keep your urine from spraying out between the bowl and the seat. As someone who is a designated toilet scrubber, I approve of this function.

I am naturally slim, always was. Somehow, it’s more socially acceptable to admit to surgical body sculpting and radical diets than to say this. We, as women, are supposed to spend our entire lives hating our images, taking ever more extreme measures to look like a continually changing physical ideal. Men seem to be jumping on this bandwagon for themselves, can be found waiting to have their eyebrows threaded, pedicures done, chests waxed, and of course, cosmetic surgeries.

How much more can we hate ourselves? We starve, we shave, pour hot wax and rip it off, send electric shocks through our pores, apply acid to remove layers of skin, vacuum fat, lift, tuck, stick bits of plastic on our eyeballs, we paint, we polish, tattoo, pierce, inject water, silicone, and botulism.

But after I logged off, and kept thinking, that pesky little voice in my head kept whispering. You know the voice, the one that calls you out on your own bullshit and contradictions. Is this really so different than any other plastic surgery done for purely cosmetic reasons? I’ve never had any plastic surgery done, and I’m not likely to, but I can’t say I wouldn’t if an opportunity presented itself. The younger, more militant me hates this.

I have what I like to think of as probiscis magnificus. Yanno, a nose that qualifies as a shnoz. When I was younger, the opportunity for a nose job presented itself. Did I already hate my nose, wish it didn’t look like a mountain climbing challenge? Yes I did. But I declined the offer, because it was so against my political views, my belief that each of us needs to embrace who we are, including our physical characteristics. In other words, my shnoz is and always was a part of me, and our physical self contributes to who we become, our self image in every way. I’d also had my nose broken twice. It hurts like hell, and I wasn’t in a phase of life where I wanted to volunteer for pain.

At this stage in my life, though, I’m not so young, perky, or firm. I’m in reasonably good shape, but my skin isn’t so tight. I’ve nursed three children. I know who I am, and understand physical changes won’t change the woman I’ve become. So I’ve thought about it, and if I won the lottery, I might have a rhinoplasty done, and a boob lift to get the girls back to the zip code they used to reside in. Is there a difference between these procedures and labiaplasty? I could justify a nose job for medical reasons, the two breaks left me with scar tissue that make my nasal passages permanently stuffy and a snore that rivals an old coal train. No justification other than vanity for a breast lift. I think this means I don’t have the right to judge anyone else’s elective procedures. What’s the line?

Description unavailable (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

Blogging With A Scarlet B

Fallen Woman (Photo credit: Mr Jaded)

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

Broken doll (Photo credit: noii’s)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She Said What?!

Angry-man-rights illustration (Photo credit: HikingArtist.com)

Can we talk about the human side of this election? Yanno, the post-voting fallout?

I’m stunned by the numbers of people posting complete vitriol–from both sides. On my personal Facebook page it’s been limited, but frankly I think that has more to do with having a small circle of friends than anything else. Even within that small circle, I’ve seen plenty of people unFriending each other. Is the shrinking middle class being reflected in shrinking moderation in all areas?

If you’re new to Fringeland, let me tell you now, I’m broke and lean left. If you’re already offended, this blog isn’t for you.

I have friends on both sides, listen to opinions on both sides, see the same facts and figures get skewed by both sides. To me the choice, if not all of the issues, was clear. For all of my reading and listening, I don’t really understand how some of my friends have the beliefs they do. Some, I think I get it even if I disagree, based on clues and things I know are true in their lives.

My Foot is Slipping (Photo credit: Old Shoe Woman)

Others, I don’t get it at all. It seems to me they’re fighting against their own interests, one foot in the same muck mine is in and the other heel grinding into the dirt to be buried alongside the first one.

But here’s the thing. I know they’re looking, listening/reading, and thinking the same about me. They believe our country, our values, and our basic rights are slipping away under Obama. And no, I’m not talking about any of the hateful, ignorant worms we’ve all seen photos of and quotes from online– you know the ones, those who proudly held up signs saying “Bring the White Back into the White House,” or any of their despicable cohorts.

I’m talking about people who aren’t in the 1%, people who are intelligent, reasonably well read, often highly educated. Maybe they have children they’d like to send to college, maybe they have children with significant chronic medical needs, maybe they work union jobs, maybe they’re on disability, or collecting unemployment benefits, maybe they’re women, maybe they’re people of color, maybe they consider themselves caring and moral people (with or without religion), maybe they’re gay, maybe they’re counting on help from FEMA, or the Federal government to rebuild the infrastructure of their community in the wake of Hurricane Sandy.

In my opinion, these are all people who have the potential to benefit more from Obama than they would have under Romney. Some of them disagree. Fine. I accept that, I was raised with and am quite comfortable with our two party system. Frankly, I’d like to see some teeth from one or two of the smaller alternative parties in addition, to keep people thinking and evolving along with the world. I don’t have enough hubris to write all of these people off, blanketing myself in the assumption that they’re all either dim, heartless, or evil.

Some people ranting, roaring, and picketing is good. We need people with that level of passion to get everyone else paying attention. I admire those who fully devote themselves to the causes they believe in, and I thank them for putting their time and energy into these causes, caring enough to keep up the work and attention when elections end, and others might think there’s no more work to be done.

I rarely, rarely see honest, potentially helpful political discourse. The closest is Real Time with Bill Maher, which I’m sure will have 2 of my 3 readers screaming at the computer screen when they read this. The third will wail that I’m rolling over and giving in, not passionate enough.

But. When did it turn into everyone screaming? If everyone is screaming, no one is listening. I see rants, misleading partial quotes, and a whole lotta lalalala.

Franz von Stuck: Dissonanz Heliogravur von Hanfstaengl. Plattengröße 53 x 46,5 cm, (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I grew up in a home where there was a lot of political arguing. My father would rant, calling my brother a fascist and my brother would bellow back, calling my father a communist. I would go hide in my room, wishing they would both shut the fuck up. The past year has felt like old home week. Except I’m not hiding in my room and don’t want everyone to shut up. I care very deeply about my life, your life, and the world my children are going to live in. Just lower your voices so I can hear your words, and the intention behind them.

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)

Go Play In Traffic

Lower center of the The Last Judgement by Michelangelo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Several years ago, I read “A Complaint Free World,” by Will Bowen. In it, there’s a challenge to go 21 days without complaining, gossiping, or criticizing. You put a bracelet on, and when you catch yourself in one of the aforementioned activities, you switch wrists, and begin the count again. It wasn’t magical, I didn’t “start enjoying the life I always wanted,” but it was enlightening, to say the least. Now, I don’t think anyone will nominate Mrs Fringe for sainthood, but the exercise left an impression on my brain, if only so I’m aware, and recognize when I’m engaging in these behaviors.

So, I’m quite aware I’m about to be judgmental. Mea Culpa.

The other day I was walking up my block, when I heard, “Hey, hey, HEY STOP!” I looked across the street to where the voice was coming from, and saw a man yelling and running towards a toddler who was running into the street, with a truck coming pretty fast. There was a group of people in front of a building, the little guy was obviously part of that group and had wandered away. Maybe he lost his ball, maybe he was following a pigeon. It was fine, little guy was spotted and safe before the scene was a script for the evening news. It happens. Dad thinks Mom is watching the baby, Mom thinks Auntie is watching the baby, Auntie thinks Grandma is watching the baby, etc. Frightening, but not shocking or cause for judgement.

But then, I was walking along Central Park West and saw a man in a snappy suit, riding his bike. Nice, thanks for saving the environment while getting your workout in. His baby was on the bike with him.

English: Looking north past AMNH along Central Park West. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you aren’t a New Yorker, let me tell you, Central Park West is not part of the park, it’s a big, busy avenue. And it was dusk, when visibility is worst. Aww, look at dad, doing his share. Only one problem, baby wasn’t in a safety seat designed for a bike, she was strapped to Dad’s chest in a soft, front carrier. WTF are you doing, Dad? I see you had a helmet strapped on your own head. This is not safe, can’t possibly be legal.

Suddenly, it all made sense to me. All those ridiculous labels on walkers (which I don’t think exist anymore, “don’t leave baby unattended near stairs”), the danger of bath seats. Heh, imagine, you shouldn’t walk away from your 5 month old in the tub, even if they’re in that nifty seat? There really are adults who can read who need these warning labels.

I can’t say that was a regular sight, but it wasn’t surprising. I don’t get it. New York parents are the most paranoid bunch you’ll ever see. Inside. God forbid their toddler should learn not to touch something. There’s an entire industry, not just comprised of safety products to pad those corners, but of people who are paid to “consult,” come to your apartment and make it safe for baby. The earlier the better, preferably long before baby is born. Because, you never know, baby could slip out of your irritable uterus at 26 weeks, just when you’re standing near an outlet, amniotic fluid spraying into said outlet just as baby flings out his arm in a startle reflex, poking one delicate finger into the open socket. Could happen, right? What a racket.

So in the apartment, all is non toxic, organic, non breakable yet sturdy, soft and yet firm enough not to suffocate, elegant yet flaccid–no wait, that’s Mom’s wine, out of reach, of course.

But outside, on the streets and sidewalks, suddenly a different story. These same parents seem quite vested in proving to the world that even their toddlers are sophisticated New Yorkers, eating edamame at snack time, and intuitively understanding the flow of traffic patterns in New York. Except they don’t. Because even if they did, often they can’t be seen by a driver or bicyclist. So these parents who have spent hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars for a baby proofing consultant to divulge the secrets of padded walls and common sense don’t think any of these rules apply outside. Every day I see kids running, scootering, or wheeling their little wooden scooter bikes down the sidewalk on their way to school (of course, morning rush hour when sidewalks and streets are busiest), half a block to a block ahead of the parent, while mom or dad calls out a gentle stop-at-the-corner reminder. Watch and give it a minute, then you see the same mom or dad running to catch the two, three, or four year old who didn’t stop and is now crossing the street by themselves, or forgot they were going past an active parking garage.

And let’s not forget the other pedestrians, who are expected to move out of the way for little Susie and Johnny so they can enjoy their childhoods unfettered, and show their suburban cousins they get just as much time playing outside, and it really is worth paying $3500 a month for a two bedroom apartment.

I get it, to some degree. The same child who will whine about walking seven blocks to school will happily pedal there. It’s nice to give them an opportunity to burn off some energy before they’re indoors and building their SAT vocab skills. Can’t start too early, yanno, competition is fierce.

If you haven’t been to Manhattan, let me tell you, all the horror stories you’ve heard about driving in New York are true. The streets are crowded with cars, buses, taxis, bikers, and pedestrians. Don’t forget the ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars on their way to an emergency. Lots going on, every driver has to be aware of every possibility.

wrong way, lady! (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

For the most part, I think they do a great job. But with all this going on, so much congestion, parking, double parking, taxis stopping and starting without notice, delivery guys on bikes who don’t watch where they’re going but say a prayer instead, ummm, accidents happen. All the time. People get hurt. Car vs bike, bike loses. Bike vs bike, both lose. Car vs pedestrian, pedestrian loses. Bike vs pedestrian, pedestrian loses.

Parenting is hard, nobody makes the right call all of the time. Parents whose children are diagnosed with epilepsy are cautioned by pediatric neurologists about bathtubs and swimming pools; NY parents are cautioned about bathtubs and the subway. Parenting in NY does carry extra challenges, I’ve made decisions that my suburban counterparts don’t understand. But I can say with a clear conscience that I’ve never sent my kids out to play in traffic.

This has been a Public Service Judgment by Mrs Fringe.

20070901 – Greg Z’s birthday party – Nicole – new tattoo – the more you know – (by AE) – 1306312142_8cf5b6332e o (Photo credit: Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL))

Mrs Fringe is a Dirty Stay Out

English: Natalie in Fur Cape (ca. 1905) – A portrait of the writer and salonist Natalie Clifford Barney. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, I left my apartment at 5:15 yesterday afternoon, dropped Flower Child off at Mother In Law’s apartment, clip clopped to the train station in a kick ass pair of boots, and didn’t get back home until 9:30. I was invited to a reading at a lit bar down in the East Village, very cool. Even had a gin and tonic. Look Ma– it’s me, Virginia Woolf!

The East Village is definitely outside of my usual zone these days. The only time I have reason to find myself there is to go with Nerd Child and his guitars to the super secret, super cool luthier off of Avenue A.

Mom’s Tattoo Heart (Photo credit: Smeerch)

I was going to take a picture of one of the piercing/tattoo parlors and text it to Man Child, asking his opinion of whether or not I should get a new tattoo while I was in the neighborhood, but alas, coming out of the train station I turned the wrong way, went East when I should have gone West, and had no time to play. You could blame my advancing age for the misdirection, but instead, I’ll blame the annoying train ride.

The subway was unexpectedly packed for early evening on a Saturday. Maybe due to the recent cab fare hike. So there I was, smashed onto the 2 train, making my way downtown. The other passengers were a typical New York mix; young, old, all ethnicities, styles of dress, and of course, aromas. A particularly ripe group of young men were squooshed right next to me, looking like they were coming from a soccer game. Or basketball. Or polo, or something. Mrs Fringe doesn’t follow athletics, couldn’t tell the difference between golf shoes and football sneakers if there was a publishing contract on the line.

I don’t mind riding the trains, you could say I like the subway. Sure it’s dirty and stinky, but I don’t have to drive, don’t have to think about parking, and the cost is reasonable. It’s also an excellent time to read or people watch, two of my favorite pastimes. New Yorkers are a skilled, creative lot. We know how to maintain boundaries and anonymity, even when jammed in nose to armpit. Usually.

I honestly wanted to slap each one of that group of young athletes upside their collective heads. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re young Wall Streeters, probably still in the operations departments, putting in their year or three of work experience before going back to school for their graduate degrees. One was holding a neon green bottle of what I assume was an electrolyte drink, to prepare his body for an evening of heavy drinking and peacockery. Unscrewing the cap, he fumbled it into the lap of a man sitting in front of me, not with their group. Glad I don’t have any money on his team. Another kept his backpack on, very rude on a crowded subway car, packed full of shit with yet another pair of sneakers coming out the front pocket, poking me in the chest. WTF? Personal space, guys. But the prince of this crew of entitled young shits, well, he was extra special.

He kept jamming his hands down the front of his nylon shorts. Adjusting himself? Fondling himself? Checking that his dangly bits were really his and still attached? I’m old enough that I could be the mother of any of these kids, but I’m not their mother. As such, I didn’t find his self exploration to be endearing, cute, or thrilling. I think he got the wrong message back in preschool, when admonished to keep his hands to himself. And their conversation, the verbal equivalent of his masturbatory display. My end of the train car got to hear all about his sexual exploits; who he banged when and where, which one of his buddies texted the results to the rest of their crew and everyone else on their contact list, and their tag line after each story, “Did you shower?” Maybe that’s a script reference I’m unfamiliar with, maybe it references an incident from their dorm days. I could barely contain my excitement. Ooh baby ooh baby.

I’d say I hope they missed their stop and ended up lost in Bushwick, but that would be uncharitable. And I think that’s become yet another hipster neighborhood.

Autumn in New York

There are clues that fall is here. More stouts on the menu, pumpkin soup, boots instead of flip flops, and of course, it’s COLD!

And let’s not forget, New York City fail.

Glowing Gingko (Photo credit: Puzzler4879)

Gingkos recognize that it’s fall earlier than the rest of the city trees. Their leaves turn a beautiful shade of yellow, and the female trees drop juicy seed pods all over the sidewalk. If you aren’t familiar with gingko trees, you might not recognize the why I refer to them as a fail. They stink. I didn’t know what type of tree this was until I was thirty, because they’re referred to as vomit trees. Yes, the beautiful “fruit” that drops continually from these majestic glowing leaves, splattering the sidewalks in competition with pigeon shit, smells just like vomit.

See the tourists.

See the tourists head towards the pretty trees, cameras at the ready.

See the tourists look around, turning green, inching and then running away from the smell they can’t locate the origin of.

See the New York women.

See the New York women in their fabulous new boots, legs still bare.

See the New York women hopscotch around the smashed gingko pods more carefully than they skirt a subway grate.

See the problem?

Why do we have these trees all over the city? I don’t know. I always figured whoever planned and implemented the planting of these trees was unfamiliar with this phenomenon, and now the politics of chopping down so many trees would cause too much of an uproar. Except a couple of years ago, I saw the parks department plant more of these grotesque tricks two blocks away from me. Why, NY?

Big Senile Dog is a true chow hound. Completely motivated by food, he will eat anything that is food, could be food, smells like food, etc. Several years ago he ate part of the bottom of a broken bottle on the street. Cause, yanno, it once held food. Even he won’t eat the gingko fruit.

Do you have these monstrosities in your area?

In case you’re thinking we could reap the benefits of the beauty and avoid the stench by planting the male trees, think again. The male trees can morph into female. Like clownfish. Cute little Nemo is quite the sight when he decides he doesn’t want to be Nemette’s bitch anymore, and he grows larger, turns female, and kills her.