Above, its own page labeled Fiction III will take you there. One of these days I need to reorganize the pages, figure out a better way to lay out the shorts I’ve got here.
You know those moments when you have so much to say you don’t know what to say? Yeah. But I believe we need to keep saying it, keep talking about it. My Facebook feed has been a steady stream of memes, quotes, and misquotes revolving around race, the Ferguson verdict, police and guns. It’s exhausting, often disheartening, sometimes nauseating, but I’m not closing the tab and I’m not choosing to unfriend the people who are clearly on the opposite end of the political spectrum from me. I have friends who are, and I understand their choice.
I’m going to branch off from the verdict itself, it’s been covered and continues to be covered by people who understand the intricacies of the law much better than I ever will.
One evening a couple of weeks ago, Husband and I were watching a prerecorded concert with a variety of performers. I’ll tell you the truth, I found the majority of the performances to be lackluster, and I was just marking time until a show I wanted to watch came on. Something quality, probably one of the Real Housewives. Mid-yawn, someone with some passion came onstage. My first thought, oh look, it’s Eminem. Immediately followed by my chastising myself for being racist, just because it’s a white rapper doesn’t mean it’s Eminem. It was, but that isn’t the point. The point is the assumption.
I’m sure some people are out there who are so evolved they don’t make assumptions at first glance, but most of us do. That’s why those memes are so popular–one picture, brief caption, all our assumptions fill in the blanks. What those assumptions are grow from our ideology, affiliations, backgrounds, socio-economic class, and race. I know there are memes I’ve liked posted by people who attribute a completely different meaning to them.
“It isn’t about race.” Yes, it is. When white kids are taught to be respectful of the police while kids of color are taught not to speak, not to question, not to move, it is. When the people harmed by laws, policies, and assumptions are disproportionately people of color, it is. The same way laws and policies that affect women’s bodies are indeed about women, limiting their options and freedoms. Do these laws, policies, and assumptions affect all? They certainly do. Especially the poor and working class, people for whom choices are already limited, which is why I never understand when people I know are struggling financially support policies that ultimately make life harder for themselves and their own families. Why, when posting quotes and discussing police brutality, would anyone focus on those few looters? a) it just gives them airtime, b) they truly are few in number, a fraction of those who are protesting peacefully, c) I don’t know anyone who supports looting. Peaceful is not the same as quiet, and it shouldn’t need to be. Sometimes noise has to be made in order for the issues to be heard.
Here in Manhattan everyone lives shoulder to shoulder, but that isn’t to be confused with racial and/or socio-economic harmony. This morning Husband and I were talking about an apartment building in the area that’s been under renovations for quite some time. The building used to be all affordable housing, but they opted out of the program that kept it that way. This has happened with quite a few buildings here in the city. Some tenants have been able to stay, others have been booted out. This building is creating a new entrance. I guess they weren’t able to boot everyone out, Husband and I are assuming the old entrance will now be a “poor door.”
If you aren’t a New Yorker, that expression may be unfamiliar to you. Building developers like tax breaks. To get the big tax breaks, luxury buildings offer 20% of their apartments to less privileged families, “affordable housing.” Pretty cool. We used to live in one of those apartments. Not exactly the same as the other apartments, our countertops weren’t granite, the bathroom fixtures weren’t marble, but still lovely. I want to be clear, those affordable apartments aren’t free. Much lower than market rent, but if you live more than 40 miles from New York, Boston, San Francisco or LA, odds are your mortgage is equivalent or less than our rent was. There was a private gym and community office available for an annual fee. We didn’t use those, no big deal. But some of these buildings have added “poor doors.” Yanno, for the peasants like us to use. No big deal? Yes, it’s a big deal. Legal segregation. Wasn’t separate but equal determined to be against the constitution a long time ago?
How do I get from race and Ferguson to poor doors? The majority of those living under affordable housing regulations are people of color. I live in a neighborhood that’s pretty active politically, including quite a few senior citizens who remember and marched for civil rights. But somehow, though those poor doors have been challenged, they’re still here, still being included in plans for new buildings. New buildings, of course, that are built on properties that used to be rented by people living on limited incomes. I’ve yet to see any multimillion dollar brownstones owned by the affluent being razed to make way for luxury buildings.
Injustice is injustice, a young black man is more likely to be shot by police than a young white man, and when an us/them mentality is allowed to spread, it’s only a matter of time before them includes you. So yes, I’m exhausted, disheartened, nauseated, and so so sad we’ve yet to truly move forward.
Let’s be honest. Good or bad, day to day life is mostly about the little things. Hitting on the right sentence, facing the overflowing laundry basket, kiddo feeling wobbly-wobbly, it’s all those small moments. See the teapot above? I love that thing, the little ritual of spooning out my favorite tea, pouring the water in and letting it steep. Now that we’re in a bigger space, I feel like I can breathe better and enjoy those moments more frequently. Let’s be honest, the dishwasher plays a big role in all of this. Oh, the joys of planning a snack or meal and not stopping to calculate how many dishes/pots/pans it will create.
And the tank. All the little things I get to watch in the tank now–and this is well before I purchase any livestock.
Full tank shot–now with live rock to jump start the cycle!
I got just a few pieces of live rock the other day, brought them home and put them in the tank, and surprise! The first hitchhikers. A patch of bubble algae–nuisance, though you can all snicker imagining me chasing these little green pimples through the water, a small patch of zoas (zoanthid, a type of soft polyped coral that looks like little flowers)–unlikely to survive the cycle–most living critters can’t tolerate the spikes in ammonia, nitrite, and nitrate that are an integral part of a new tank’s cycle, but still made me smile, a mushroom (corallimorpharian), and two red legged hermit crabs. Hmm.
Many people consider them a necessary and valuable part of the “clean up crew” in a reef tank. I don’t like hermit crabs. They’re cute and interesting to watch, until they spot the shell they like better than the one they’re wearing, and murder the snail inside to appropriate it. And then they decide switching shells and killing snails was great fun, and they go on a killing spree, ripping snails from their needed shells even when it’s a shell that wouldn’t cover their beady little eyes. But, they could survive the cycle, and in the meantime I have no snails. It’s nice to see a little life behind the glass. Couldn’t get a shot of them yet, sorry. One went half under a rock, the other is hiding at the back of the tank.
Poor tightly closed zoas, soon to melt away.
Most of the color on the live rock is coralline algae, a “good” algae that gives a nice purple color to the tank and ideally uses up the nutrients that would otherwise promote the growth of nuisance algae.
Left side
Right side
One of these days I’m going to find the tripod, still packed away somewhere. It makes a big difference in the quality of the pics I can take through the glass.
It’s Friday, Fringelings. I’m looking forward to Friday Night Madness with Fatigue and enjoying the little things. Excuse me while I go test the tank for ammonia levels. Let the cycle move forward! But no, you shouldn’t pee in the tank.
Where’ve I been? Playing tour guide, of course. I mentioned a while back one of my longtime reefing friends was coming to visit. I’ll call her Bella, because she’s a beautiful person. She came, she stayed, we walked, we rode the subways, and I laughed a whole lot. And of course, lots of eating. On a tight budget, many of the more traditional attractions are off limits, but there is still plenty of NY flavor to be experienced. Gave her a New Yorker’s NY experience, complete with 5am wake ups and a high school open house. Whaddya mean that isn’t a real tour? It’s city life once you’re beyond clubs and late night bars when you aren’t one of the wealthy and fabulous.
I didn’t take photos of all the food consumed, but I’ll just say between me and one of our other reefing friends–I’ll call him Blue, because blue is my favorite color and he’s currently sporting a fabulous steel blue mohawk, Bella was able to experience a broad variety of international flavors unavailable in her southern town. Yah, yah she says it’s a city, but population < 30,000 = a town to me. The first day was all about the food–and a little walk through Central Park.
Fall flora
And the fauna
Look! An authentic city rat. Aw, c’mon, he’s just a little one.
The second, I took her to the Met–after introducing her to the subway, Metrocards, and a city bus. The Met is my favorite museum, and the admission price is a recommended donation. In other words, you can give what’s comfortable and still enjoy the full experience. Sort of. The Metropolitan is huge, I don’t recommend trying to cover the whole thing in a day. Better to choose a couple of exhibits and take them in fully. Which we did.
Beautiful art to see and study no matter where your eyes land.
Prints and copies are lovely, but there is NOTHING like seeing the real deal in front of you.
After the museum, I had to introduce her to a dirty water hot dog and a knish in front of the steps to the museum. I don’t care what your budget is or isn’t, what the weather is or isn’t, these are integral NY experiences.
oh, the pigeons!
Bella was able to explore further with Blue, traveling by subway to the outer boroughs, experiencing a smaller gallery exhibit, and even catching the LIRR to meet with another friend and see Oyster Bay. We had a small gathering of fishy friends at my place over the weekend, such a treat to laugh in person–and of course, show off my new tank. Our Long Island friend even brought me a cup of live sand from one of her incredible reef tanks to “seed” mine. Yes, we’re nerds and proud of it.
Yesterday was her last day in the city, so I took her back to Central Park and headed uptown, then to St John the Divine–one of the most breathtaking sights of the city, in my opinion, and certainly my favorite church. Bonus, it’s another “recommended” donation, you pay what you can to enter.
How is scaffolding erected with signposts and trees already there? Like this, of course.
Outside the cathedral, I never tire of this one.
I posted exterior shots here on the blog several months back, now I’ll take you inside. In addition to the incredible architecture, stained glass, community classes offered, and private school (love the way you hear children singing and giggling from below as you walk through the cathedral), it is used as a gallery, and there are usually a few temporary exhibits on display in addition to permanent ones.
One more exhibit I want to revisit before it leaves–and take Art Child and Blue with me–It’s a collaborative effort of interfaith and international artists (along with some other photos of the Cathedral mixed in):
Bella had only one request for me this visit, she’d heard me mention, maybe seen photos, of the rice pudding I make. No problem. It takes hours to cook, but it isn’t labor intensive. I made it on Sunday while she and Blue were out sightseeing, since they planned to come back here for dinner. Of course, my oven has been acting up, and when I dished out the pudding, more than half my arborio grains were, well, crunchy. Oops. We were still able to share and enjoy my favorite part of the new apartment. Sunrise or nighttime, clear or cloudy, it’s a hell of a view.
I suppose I should have dusted before taking this photo, heh.
Happy Friday, Fringelings. It’s Halloween, and I’m feeling nostalgic this morning. Maybe not nostalgic because no, I would not want to set the calendar back thirty years, just looking/thinking back. That means the iPod is cranked– sorry neighbors, hope you enjoy some morning Doobie Bros.
Art Child has been working hard to get me into the Halloween spirit, and I’m just not feeling it, no matter how many fun sized candy bars I’ve eaten. I always loved this day with my kiddos, so much fun planning and choosing the right costumes, the perfect accessories, the appropriate offerings for every age/dietary restrictions of trick or treaters who showed up at the door. And let’s not forget 8000 viewings of the Nightmare Before Christmas. “Oh yes! I am the Pumpkin King!” I’ve found Halloween to be a whole lot more fun as a parent than as a kid. I don’t know if it’s a neighborhood thing or times have changed, but we definitely didn’t dress up and go trick-or-treating for as many years as the kids around me (including my own) do now. Plus the costumes are better. I remember two choices as a child, raid mom’s (or dad’s) closet, or wear one of those godawful masks from the drugstore that left you walking blind and bleeding from little nicks the plastic gave. Halloween makeup meant your mother let you put her lipstick on, if you were lucky the powder, too.
I’m looking at the bags of candy I’ve got ready to dump into the bowl.
You didn’t really think I was going to give the Snickers away, did you?
Charleston Chews were my brother’s favorite. Maybe this is what has me looking back. They used to come in these long, long bars. He would sit down after school with a Charleston Chew, a bag of Wise butter-flavor popcorn, and a glass of water. Daily. One year, I think the last I went trick-or-treating, he took me. Naturally, we went down the block we weren’t supposed to go down first thing. As I remember it, I had gotten to ring one bell before a group of older, bigger boys spotted us and began heading our way. My brother pushed me into someone’s yard and closed their gate to keep me out of harm’s way, saying something warm and loving like, “don’t you fucking move,” and was then egged and shaving creamed head to toe by those boys. I was untouched, half terrified and half thrilled by the drama. My he-ro. Every little girl should have one. After self defense lessons, of course.
My mother was one of the keep-the-blinds-closed-and-pretend-you-aren’t-home moms. I’m definitely not one of those, and hope I never will be. It’s all very civilized here in the city, anyway. There’s a sign up sheet left at the guard’s desk for several days before Halloween, and after school today copies of the list showing which apartments are willing to receive trick-or-treaters and when will be distributed. Older people can be funny about the Halloween costumes, even the ones who open the door and give candy. They seem to stop looking at what the kids are wearing, just throw out guesses. Overheard from one senior this morning, “Oh, how beautiful! Are you a princess?” The child was wearing furry ears and a tail.
So in my oh-my-God-it’s-been-how-many-years? mood, I started surfing Facebook. I saw the page of someone I went to high school with, and did the thing I said I was never interested in using Facebook for. I sent a friend request and a message. I’m guessing the request will be ignored (different last name than I used to have) and the message unseen, as FB told me the request will go to his “other” folder, since we aren’t friended. I didn’t even know the “other” folder existed until recently. Shocking as this might be, I was kind of a fuck-up in high school. He wasn’t, and is now successful in his field, while I scarf the Halloween candy hours to ensure I have to go back to the store and buy a bag of whatever is left that the kids will make faces at. Remember, that one old lady who always gave those Bit’o’ Honey bars?
Well ok, maybe I’ll share the Reese’s. But that beer tucked away in the back of the fridge? Mine, after the bell stops ringing.
I should be doing laundry today. The plan was to do laundry today. Dragged Husband to the store yesterday for laundry detergent so I could do laundry today. The store didn’t have the brand/type I like, I told myself not to be an idiot and chose something else. And yet, see my basket, perched on top of the full hamper, filled with…not laundry. Behind it, my file cabinet, filled with school stuff from the kids, medical info, and old bits of manuscripts, printouts of agent info, ancient rejection letters.
The good part of this move was that it kept me too busy to think for a bit. And by think, I mean obsessing about the lack of agent responses on my manuscript. I told myself if I hadn’t heard anything by the time we were moved in, it was okay. I’m still in a bigger better space, I still have a brand new dishwasher I’m infatuated with, I still have my own, personal workspace with a desk, I still wrote a novel I’m proud of. If I don’t receive any offers, so be it, right? This end is out of my control. So what if I never make a dollar from my writing? I’m sure as hell not alone in that. I will not sit at my new desk and wonder what the point of having it is. I’ll focus on my new space, I’ll continue to fix it up, I’ll keep blogging, I’ll continue planning my tank, I’ll stay on top of the laundry.
Recuperating, settling in, where do the days go? Happy Friday, Fringelings!
Welcome to my future beach house in a glass box. Remember that spot I said I was planning for a new tank? Fatigue came over last week, looked at it, and dubbed it the interrogation corner. He could have a point.
Where were you, on the night of the 25th?!
I will admit to being amused by the double take done by every person who’s walked into the apartment. I made a game of guessing a) if they would stop and stare or keep glancing at it, and b) how long before they broke down and asked. Hard to tell from this angle, but the tiled area is 4′ x 5′. Alas, I don’t get much company so the game lost its charm after a week.
Allow me to present the new future fringie reef.
Eventually this will be 80 gallons of sexy reefing goodness.
Even better, it’s in a prime viewing spot, easily watched from the couch and I can see it from my desk–though not so close as to be distracting when I’m trying to write. Assuming, of course, the rest of life settles down enough for me to write again. My desk. Have I mentioned that 100 times yet? It may not be a room of my own, but it feels pretty close.
A desk that isn’t my lap!
From this point on it will be slow going, for budgetary reasons and in the interests of good husbandry. The first commandment of reefing, “Nothing good happens fast in a reef tank.”
In case you’re wondering, poor Little Incredibly Stupid Dog hasn’t quite settled in yet. She’s still nervous, afraid of every new sound. Just breaks my heart, seeing how anxious she is.
I’d like to share her level of anxiety. Oh, and don’t tell Husband she’s on the couch.
Change the he to she and yup, that’s Mrs Fringe. Proof that Nerd Child was able to predict the future.
This move has not gone smoothly. In fact, I can say without hesitation this has been the most disorganized, chaotic, and s-l-o-w move I’ve ever made–and I’ve made many.
First there was the realization I was living in a clown car. Seriously, we had ten times the amount of shit we should have been able to fit in the last apartment. Then there was the fact that every time I lifted a hefty bag or moved a box, my back would cry. And then the kicker, an early flu/virus season. Art Child got sick, and then I caught it. The first day I was sick, I happened to have a meeting with Art Child’s teachers. “Sick while moving? Oh no.” “No worries, I have a strong immune system, never more than a nuisance head cold.” Mmm hmm. What’s that about famous last words? By the following night, I had 102° fever. I’m still not completely recovered, but no one else has gotten sick, so I’m not contagious, and I am improving. What I don’t have is stamina. Yanno, that trait needed to pack, move, and unpack.
We have been staying in the new apartment for the last six nights, but still have some miscellaneous crud to move up here, and then turn in the keys to the old apartment. Every morning I think, we should be able to knock this out by the end of the day, and every afternoon, round about noon, I think, oh-my-gawd-I’m-dying-I-can’t-do-one-more-thing. A model of efficiency, I tell ya.
The most welcome sight in the world.
Above, the saving grace. Big boy sneakers. My godson has come the last couple of weekends, to help with heavy lifting, shlepping, and bringing bags o’ crud to the basement. Man Child, bless his Herculean heart, also came last week. He took two days off from school to help sort and pack, and then did the majority of the heavy furniture lifting and moving. Mr and Mrs Smitholini also pitched in, putting up curtains and ceiling fans, general assistance and wondering what the fuck happened to me.
We did get some new pieces of furniture. I have a desk! A real desk! And it’s all mine, bwahahaha! And a new kitchen table, because mine didn’t fit in our new, smaller dining space. Luckily, Husband is in the furniture business, so when we realized the new table wobbles, he was able to fix it in no time.
Maybe I should have gone with my first instinct, a couple of matchbooks.
It is all getting done though. The first several days were like camping. The stove wasn’t hooked up, the kitchen sink didn’t work, the dishwasher (hooray!) was sitting in the living room, and did I mention that my refrigerator died the night before we moved it? The wireless internet didn’t reach the living room (where my desk is), and then it was spotty. Finally I have a reasonable connection, for the moment I’ll pretend those cables aren’t slithering down the hall floor waiting to trip me.
Sure she looks innocent while she’s sleeping.
Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is very unhappy with the move and attendant chaos, and has been displaying her displeasure by peeing on the floor. Yesterday she decided it was time to meet the new neighbors. While I was cleaning, she snuck under the divider of our shared terrace, and walked into my next door neighbor’s living room. My bell rang, she came running and barking as usual. It was my neighbor, reporting the visit. Are you kidding me?! We had the same set up downstairs, she never did that.
Almost done. That’s what I keep saying. Well, that and knowing I’m getting myself a new tank as soon as possible. Besides, with the new, higher apartment comes a better view. This was our first morning, not a bad way to wake up–and no boxes on the horizon.
While it doesn’t quite feel like anything is happening, I am making headway. The envelopes above. There were over twenty of them on high shelves that lined my halls, plus dozens of loose rolled preschool paintings and 5 boxes of school and kiddo related stuff. And cards. Cards from them to us, us to them, Abuela y Abuelo to them, Grandma and Grandpa to them, even one from my grandmother to Man Child. Cards to me and Art Child from several friends met online. So freaking sweet, I wanted to melt with many of them.
My poor Man Child, we had a couple of years when he was 8,9,10 where it felt like a round robin of funerals and ICU visits. “Dear Dad, Please don’t die.” And Nerd Child, from homework on a page of vocabulary sentences, 1st grade, “My aunt was in a ventilator in the hospital.” There are fun ones, too. From NC’s second grade teacher, a note in response to his first homework of the year, an “about me” letter: “Dear Nerd Child, Wow, I’ve never met a kid who said Pink Floyd was his favorite band before.” A note from Art Child to me, “Dear Momy, Im sory, Im doo it nw. Lov lov lov lov” Whittled down to 5 envelopes, period. The shelves have been taken down.
And the fridge magnets. I don’t have any on my fridge in this apartment, it makes the kitchen feel too cluttered when you’re talking about such a small space. But my last apartment? Like 90% of other moms, the refrigerator was covered. Magnets holding pictures, drawings, receipts, phone numbers, appointment cards, glucose level logs, seizure logs, med titration schedules. Ok, maybe not quite like most other moms, but close enough. Apparently I had put all of those into one box when I was moving in here, it got put on a shelf to be dealt with later. Guess it’s later. In the box was the complete set of these:
Two sets, actually. I don’t know if they still sell them, they’re a little electronic learning game, magnetized so the main component and letters can all be stuck on the fridge, and it says the name and sound of the letter when fit into the main piece. The other set does the same, next step, slots for three letter words. Many, many hours playing with these. I was happy to pass them on to the nursery school.
The painting and the floors are close to finished in the new apartment. If all goes well, we’ll be able to really move within the next week or two, hooray! I spent the day celebrating by cuddling with my sick and sniffling girl, Dr Who on the TV. Ok, maybe I wasn’t hanging onto the Dr’s every word quite the way Art Child would have liked. Maybe I was cyber window shopping for tank equipment. I don’t know why I find shopping for curtains and medicine cabinets tedious, but protein skimmers and RO/DI water systems and salt mixes, oh my! Bestill my shriveled reefing heart.
We saw this sky the other evening, I had to take a photo to share.
True, my eyes are bloodshot as usual, but when I woke up and went out on the terrace, I had a moment. A really good moment. I could see stars. Several–the sky was that clear. And dark.
I was able to do my abbreviated yoga routine without hurting myself, another plus.
I know the summer is really over, because I’m sitting here with hot tea instead of iced. Still took Art Child to school wearing my shorts and flip-flops, though.
In between yoga and waking the girl, I found this on the table. He did it. Husband found the absolute perfect card for my annual 29th birthday celebration.
The new new math. Or, if you prefer, the new middle aged math.
I was able to get a decent amount of crap sorting and tossing accomplished yesterday, only 3,493 more piles to go! Unreal. How does so much shit accumulate? I look around and swear I don’t want any of it, I’m going to throw it all away. Then I start sorting through, and can only convince myself to part with half. I can weed through the kids old schoolwork. I don’t really need every test, homework assignment, and nursery school painting. I can’t throw away Man Child’s 9/11 journal: his eight year old perspective on what happened from a child’s point of view here in New York, in the days and weeks following the attacks. I can’t throw away Nerd Child’s book from kindergarten, which he dedicated to himself, because he did the work. I can’t throw away Art Child’s early art, or the eleventy billion logs, notes, and receipts that comprise her medical history. I can’t throw away the Christmas card from Husband, assuring me the prior bad year would soon fade from memory. (lies, by the way–crystal clear) I can’t throw away my old, snail mail rejection letters. Can I? Maybe I can. Though they are safely tucked away in the file cabinet, it isn’t like they’re making a mess.
I went up to the new apartment, stared down the ancient monster of a range that comprises half the kitchen.
Chocolate pudding brown. When it was in style, it was called coppertone.
In case you’re wondering, I’m going to bring my beautifully plain white stove upstairs with me. The work is being done. I’m not sure how we’re going to eat for the rest of the year, but most of the major cracks and holes in the walls have already been repaired.
I haven’t worked on my short story in several days, and doubt I will today. I’d like to, but there’s more crap sorting to do. I’m still waiting on agent responses for Astonishing, and as I sort crap, I can imagine my little email bing is notifying me of an offer, and fantasy-stock my soon to be real (maybe, I hope) new tank. One of my friends is making plans to come and visit later this fall. Whee! We’ve never met in person, but after years and conversations, photos and laughs, she’s as real to me as Fatigue.
mrsfringe 