That’s what it feels like, this preparing to move and trying to find workers we can afford. I needed one thing to go smoothly, and this was it. We walked into the floor store, and I asked the guy to show me the least expensive hardwoods he had in stock. Excellent. Next day delivery, whee! The delivery guys even called when they said they would, and showed up on time. And that’s where the smoothness ended. Turns out the wood was in the wrong type of boxes, not packed correctly, or something. Because as they unloaded their truck onto the elevator, boxes were splitting and planks were spilling out. Off the elevator, more planks hitting the floor. Hi, new neighbors! No really, we’re quiet people, try not to hate us yet. Needless to say, lots of boards were damaged. This did make it easy for me to take some of the planks that didn’t have a box anymore and play puzzle on the floor.
And Art Child saw the piece. The perfect piece. She took it and placed it on the floor in what will be her room. Sure, the linoleum tiles currently in there are an excellent example of late ’60’s decor, but I don’t think we’ll miss them too much.
In the interest of budget and productivity, Husband took the wallpaper off of the bedroom walls. You never know what you’ll find behind wallpaper. You could find a hidden fortune, or maybe
just this.
I would pissercize my anxiety away, but I re-injured my back pulling old nails and hooks out of the walls. Ohhmmmm. I’ll just meditate on my future new tank. I’ve got the perfect spot all picked out.
Reef wall
Husband and I went to get little sample cans of paint colors this morning, and as I was hyperventilating, thinking of the work and cost ahead, this song came on the radio. I don’t think I’ve even heard it in twenty-five or thirty years. Not a soothing song, but I was soothed. Maybe it just threw me back all those years, to the many moves I’ve made, and how it’s always worked out. Besides, it’s Friday, and that’s always good.
Think I can trademark the name and be the new Jane Fonda? Jillian Michaels? No? How about Richard Simmons?
The point being I am still unable (will never be able?) to go back to my old yoga routine, or walk the same distances I was–until recently–able to walk. Oh, my back, she is old. But I needed to do something to get myself moving. I wouldn’t mind the weight gain if it hadn’t cut my wardrobe down from small to pitiful. And I still wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for my head. You know, the old advice about exercise releasing endorphins and being good for mood. For me it’s true, and I really, really needed to do something to work off some of the pissy factor. I found a yoga DVD specifically for back care. The workout is short, the poses are gentle, and they aren’t held for the usual amount of time. Bonus, it’s led by Rodney Yee, and I find his voice soothing.
Did I mention the chair?
Yes, it uses props, which I’ve never used before. A chair and a strap. Part of me feels like I’m cheating, and part of me is just grateful to have found a way to get back to a regular yoga routine. I don’t think this is doing a damn thing to whittle down the thickened waistline, but it is helping my head. This and some additional meditation exercises, I’ll be singing in no time (sorry, world). Pissercize, for the bitchy among us.
It’s helping enough so I went for my annual haircut this morning. Not only got my hair cut, but made the appointment in advance, so I was able to see the hairstylist who works magic with my mop, no easy feat.
Thank you, Frank!
An added plus–he’s fun, my age group, and very politely didn’t mention that the top of my skirt doesn’t actually close anymore. Maybe he didn’t notice, I kept my shirt untucked and over the waistband. It’s possible.
Still trying to figure out getting the work done on the new apartment. The price quotes we’ve received so far are literally exorbitant. The work that needs to be done on the walls is more than I can do, but I swear we’re talking about some plaster work to repair cracks/holes, and painting. No structural renovations. Thinking about the discussion re Brooklyn roots and Barbra Streisand’s new album as my hair was tamed, I’ve come to the realization that what/who I need is Dolly. As in, Hello.
Hello Fringelings! Lots of life since I last posted. Still adjusting to life without Big Senile Dog, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is continuing to have a hard time, searching for her buddy.
I just said goodbye to Nerd Child. You’d think with the years all this would get easier, wrapping up summer, saying goodbye to the boys, school starting up again…but it doesn’t. For me, anyway. Some people say the first year is the hardest, but I disagree because after the first year, you know just how much you’re going to miss them. Supporting each boy’s desire and decision to go to boarding school wasn’t easy, but the school Man Child attended was great for him, and the school Nerd Child is attending has him happier than I ever knew was possible to be in high school. This is a big year in Fringeland. Man Child is in his senior year of college, Nerd Child is a junior in high school (though they don’t call it junior year in his school, all the boarding schools have strange and individual terms for the grades), and Art Child…Art Child begins eighth grade tomorrow.
Eighth grade means insanity here in New York. High school admissions. For those unfamiliar with the pomp and circumstance of city schools, entering high school isn’t limited to the “usual” adolescent stress of worrying about getting lost in new hallways and remembering where your locker is. It’s a process. There is no zoned high school for us, so even limiting the choices to public schools, there are tours and applications and interviews, portfolios and auditions. Because being a young teen and parenting in the city isn’t stressful enough. So yesterday, in preparation, I approached the crate. Then I spent an hour and a half sorting through and tossing out all the junk we no longer need. I thought I did this after Nerd Child’s high school admission rounds were finished, but apparently not. From what I found, I hadn’t tossed anything since I cleared out after Man Child’s college admissions.
The Crate
This is my super system for school admissions. Sure, the savvy moms use Excel spreadsheets and apps, but I’ve got a crate. The above pic is what’s left after clearing out. The latest high school books from the Department of Education, a notebook I’ve used for notes and tracking since I began this fun eight years ago, a notebook from Nerd Child’s high school process (excellent tips that are still applicable from the admissions counselor of his middle school), and acceptance letters and packages (those I could find, anyway. I know several are missing). Because mama pride. All this experience, I’m more relaxed, right? Nope. This will be the first time everything is riding on the public school admissions, and Art Child would like an arts-focused school, so much will be new again. Three different kids, interests, and abilities means different school choices. Crap!!!!
New Yorkers, of course, believe this is the best and only valid way to have their kids in the best schools, and have the best college options later. Oh bullshit. Colleges around the world–even those “top,” Ivy League colleges–are filled with kids who didn’t go to the “top” NYC schools. And I’m having an ongoing panic attack thinking of many of those not top NY public schools that kiddos are assigned to when they don’t make their choice schools. Can’t I just go back to the beach and stay there, eyes closed and iPod in my ears? I may not have done anything fabulous or gone on vacation, but I will miss this summer.
I did have a couple of pieces of good news last week. *drumroll please* The larger apartment came through. Oh. my. God. I have no idea how we’re going to get it habitable and still have enough money to eat this year, no idea how we’re going to get packed and moved without the boys here to help without my back literally breaking, but it’s going to happen. Even if I have a stroke from the price quotes I’m hearing for painting and floor installation, it will happen. Even if they don’t fix the toilet that’s currently doubling as a fountain, it will happen. And luxury of luxuries, a second toilet, a little half bathroom. Two! I’m so thrilled by this the firstsecond third thing I did was go up and scrub that toilet. The first was sweeping, the second was bathe Little Incredibly Dumb Dog, who was gray and sneezing after spending a few hours up there with me. The thought of moving into an apartment that won’t immediately be covered in a layer of dog fur is…strange. Maybe not bad, but strange. (the little one doesn’t shed)
Another bit of good news. I had applied to be a mentee through the WoMentoring Project, and received an email from the agent I applied to for mentoring, and yes! I/Astonishing was chosen. What, specifically, will this mean for me and Astonishing? No fucking clue, but it won’t be bad, and could potentially be fantastic. Actually, being chosen is already fantastic. Funny, because when I wrote the essay for the application, I was thinking about all my application essay experience–writing parent essays for kiddos’ school admissions. And I’ve written many, many of those, each school has their own special set of essay questions. Hmmm, if I never earn a dollar for my fiction, maybe someone will pay me a dollar for admission essays. (Kidding of course, that would be unethical.)
Last week Mrs Smitholini and I celebrated thirty years of friendship. I suggested matching tattoos, but for some reason Mr S didn’t care for that idea. So we went to see Wicked. Just Mrs S and I, like two grownups, a perfect show to celebrate friendship.
So as the season gets ready to change, changes in Fringeland. Good stuff, nerve-wracking stuff, life.
If she could, she’d be dressing herself in black from head to tail.
And spent a couple of days looking at this view
Pool!
Ok, maybe it’s true that an overnight in the suburbs with Art Child isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I imagined a vacation this summer, but I take what I can get. I needed to get out of the city, away from the waiting and waiting to hear about the apartment, because I’m a peasant. And apparently peasants aren’t worthy of timely responses, regardless of how much money is involved. And a couple of days of laughter with friends are always a good thing. Besides, look what I got to snack on while poolside
Blackberries!
once I valiantly fought off this guy
Ok, I waited for him to finish and fly away, but I was still brave.
I floated in the pool, felt my freckles multiply, and watched Art Child turn blue having a great time
Don’t be silly, I don’t sub skate, but it makes an excellent flotation device.
Mr and Mrs Smitholini and I had dinner outside, and had a visit from a neighboring family.
Mr and Mrs Tick dropped by
with their children, Lyme and Disease
The four legged members of the household were particularly happy for the company.
She let the guests know exactly where they should go
while he watched her
and he wished they would both stfu and let him enjoy his massage.
Later in the evening, Mr. Chic–artist and model extraordinaire, third born of the Smitholinis, about to return to his art college– gave Art Child a trim. Her bangs are now perfect, she is beyond thrilled, and all is right with the world.
The following morning, I tried to snap photos of the bluejays chasing each other from tree to tree, but they were too damned fast. On the way home, we stopped in a new to us fish store, where Mrs Smitholini and I drooled over the gorgeous and healthy fish and coral. They even had frag tanks with very reasonably priced pieces (“frags” are fragments of coral reef colonies, a more budget friendly option than buying entire colonies for your tank, not to mention the thrill of watching a tiny frag thrive and grow into a colony in your very own slice of the ocean). I had a long chat with the manager about the latest in LED fixtures for the best coral growth, and then, in the back, I found they had the tank of my dreams. THE tank. 80 gallons of shallow reef goodness. I inspected the glass, the silicone, inspected the cabinet under the tank, climbed a ladder and peered into the back chambers. Mrs Smitholini stopped me from actually climbing into the tank. She’s always been my voice of reason.
Yes, messy apartment, try to ignore the clutter–I do. Everyone knows I’m waiting to hear about the larger apartment. In the meantime, I know it will need some work before we can move in, and that means paying on two apartments. Obviously, I want to minimize the hemorrhage of funds. I’m not buying anything (what if it doesn’t come through?), but my current place is hung with paint swatches and little floor samples scattered in different lighting. My kitchen table won’t fit in the new space, and Art Child needs new furniture, so we’re cyber-window-shopping. We like to look at the web sites for the out of budget stores, and get ideas from those. One thing we saw that we both thought was a great idea was a wardrobe rack for her bedroom. The site we saw this on is charging $300. For a coat rack! It’s ok, we aren’t buying anything, just looking.
Yesterday afternoon we splurged and went for tea at our favorite place, lots of fun. Afterwards, we made our way to the thrift store. I rarely find anything in there, I think you have to be more of a shopper to do well. But then, there it was. A perfectly good coat rack. $30. How could I not? It’s on wheels, so we walked it home. Of course, those wheels aren’t meant for city streets, so we lost two screws by the tenth block, and the bottom rack was now perpendicular to the top. Five more blocks, found a hardware store, where the manager got us two new screws and fixed it. $1.19
Between the find and a conversation with a writing friend, I’m thinking about this second hand life. For the record, I’m a big supporter of recycling and reusing. In its way, Astonishing is recycled. Do you know it’s my fourth completed manuscript? I want to kick myself, each and every day, feeling like I wasted so much time. First I felt like I had plenty of time ahead of me to sit down and write that Great American Novel. Then I started, but practicality (also known as fear and insecurity) had me write romances first. Romance isn’t easy, or an easy market, but it is a larger market, a bit more open to newcomers.
When I wrote Wanna Bees (third manuscript) it was an attempt to blend my two loves, reefing and writing. It was also my first experience writing something close to magical realism. I loved it. Sent a small number of queries, a couple of requests–rejected–and realized I didn’t care enough. So I recycled. Both Wanna Bees and Astonishing begin with the death of a mother (within one year, I lost my mother and learned of the death of my birth mother. Writing may not be as effective as traditional therapy, but it’s easier on the budget.) both open in New York, both main characters have sisters they’re close with, both have magical realism. But very, very different books. I had fun writing Wanna Bees. I love Astonishing.
Will it get published? I have no idea. Is is good enough? Good enough is the underlying theme in all of my manuscripts. I think so, but I have researched enough, listened to and had enough conversations with the pubbed and unpubbed, agents and editors, to know good enough isn’t always enough. There are other considerations. Some of the mistakes I’ve made are part of the process, the only way to learn (unless, maybe, you go the MFA route, have real life mentors and such, but even then I suspect those craft mistakes need to happen). But waiting so long to take myself seriously? Avoidable. Waiting even longer to write a manuscript I really wanted to write? Avoidable. This is where I can and you should say, “that Mrs Fringe is a hard-headed woman.” It’s okay, Husband says it all the time.
Everyone who writes has their own process, what works for them. Personally, I don’t believe in writing only for yourself if you’re interested in publication. I write with an eye/ear towards what I think would be interesting to others, intrigue them enough to keep reading. But if you want to do this writing thing, if you want to be published–be just hard-headed enough to do it. Don’t wait for the right time, don’t write what you think is the more practical choice–just because it’s more practical. Writing fiction isn’t exactly practical. I saw plenty of items in the thrift store that were still impractical and out of budget, second hand or not. But when it’s in budget, right in front of you? Grab it and fix the wheels when you get it home.
This is my morning. Every morning. I begin each day on the terrace with my coffee and my phone for a morning email check in with a friend–“ready?”– who lives many states away. Whichever of us is awake first sends the first email and cybercup.
But there’s a new and important difference to this little tableau. Can you guess what it is? Until yesterday morning, I didn’t have a real grown up sized chair, or this cute table. That’s right, for the past seven years I have woken up anywhere between four and six AM, gone onto the terrace, and sat down with my coffee and phone, pretty much on the floor, no table.
What do I mean by pretty much on the floor? This.
See the difference?
Yes, I’d been using the low-slung reject beach chair–rejected for the beach because the back can’t be adjusted/reclined. Why, Mrs Fringe, wasn’t your butt cold sitting on that in the winter months? Yes, yes it was. Mrs Fringe, didn’t that aggravate your back over the past year, when you’ve been dealing with the back pain from Satan? Yes, yes it did. When I first moved into this apartment, a little patio set went on the list. But yanno, the list is long, and things like a real outside chair for myself fall way down to the bottom of the list of needs and wants that never stops growing. We’re still waiting for an official *go* on the larger apartment, but it seems like it is going to come through, and this would push a patio set that much further down the list. Because budget.
Initially, I didn’t really mind. First of all, how could I complain when I actually had an apartment with a terrace? And you all know how much I love the beach, so I would sit in my little chair, close my eyes, and pretend I was on a beautiful beach somewhere else.
When Mr Smitholini first saw this, years ago, he laughed and told me he was going to bring me the sandbox from when his kids were younger, so I could really live the dream. Not a bad thought, really. It became a running joke, every time I spoke with Mrs Smitholini on the phone, every time they came to visit. They don’t come very often. Let’s face it, driving and parking in the city sucks, we are 8000 people and creatures in a two bedroom apartment, and their family of seven squished around the dining room table in addition to my family of five creates an, ummm, cozy dinner. They have a spacious and beautiful home in the suburbs, so it’s more frequent that we go to visit at their house.
Until about two weeks ago, it had been a couple of years since they were here. Life, work, twelve people’s schedules…not so easy to coordinate. But then they were here, in dress clothes because they came over after a family function. Mr Smitholini wanted to sit on the terrace to have his cigar, and I, the hostess with the mostest, offered him the beach chair. He was a good sport about it, Mrs Smitholini and I sat on the ground, but, ummm, suit + beach chair + middle aged bodies + middle of Manhattan = not so fun. We went to visit them two days ago, and Mrs Smitholini had this present for me.
A real, grown-up patio set. Two (matching!) chairs and a table. One of her kiddos even put it together for me before we got there. Squee! It isn’t just the furniture that’s a gift, the past two mornings have been a gift to my back, as I settled with my coffee and phone, watching the sun rise.
I don’t consider myself an outdoorsy gal, but I need to start my days like this. Sun, rain, or snow, I have to be outside. My beach house will remain a fantasy, but I figure out what I can to get my imagination there with the pesky reality of my body being here in the city. Time on the terrace, forever friends, and soon I hope, another little slice of the ocean in a glass box.
So here I sit, on a grown-up chair, like a real person on the terrace. My laptop even fits comfortably on the table, coffee cup to the side. Are you ready for coffee?
While nothing is official yet (which means plenty of room for something to go wrong) it’s looking likely we will get the larger apartment. Please don’t shout hooray and tempt the fates yet.
Wonderful news, right? Of course it is. What I’ve wanted forever, right? Of course. But there’s that part of me that keeps whispering, “suckerrrrrr!” Because getting and moving into the bigger apartment moves my dream of living by the beach from the category of infinitesimal to bwahahahaha. Which in turn leads me to I want a big tank again.
I miss reefing. I miss Sadie the fire shrimp and Gloria the glorious yellow tang. I miss my electric blue crocea clam and my florescent green hydnophora colony. I miss stinking of low tide and vinegar from doing tank maintenance. I miss playing God in a glass box, having my own little slice of the ocean. And I really miss having a big tank. I’ve been thinking this for a few months. Several months. OK, since the first time I heard the larger apartment was a possibility. Hearing Big Senile Dog’s diagnosis of kidney failure turned the thought into a rumination. (There’s a limit to how many creatures with significant needs I can take care of at once, and setting up a new tank is a lot of work.)
The other day I was at a friend’s house. Her tank is currently a mess, choked with cyanobacteria. I stared into those waving reddish snot flags and thought, “I miss my tank.” Yeah, I got it bad. My hands were itching to get into that water. Bizarre, because the skin on my hands and arms is in better condition than it’s been in for years because I’ve been tankless for a while. If I had been able to find her turkey baster I would have started doing some manual removal for her.
Part of what made keeping up with a big tank unmanageable would be much easier in the larger apartment. Because there’s an extra half bath, I could set up an RO/DI unit, mix my own saltwater and not have to buy and lug distilled or RO/DI water from the local fish store. Or be begging Husband or boys to pick it up for me.
My tanks have always been my beach house, my fantasy measured in gallons. At this point in my tsunami of downward mobility, I’m thinking eighty gallons sounds about right.
I swear I had a post in my head ready to go, just needed to sit down and type it up. Now that I’m at the keyboard, I can’t remember one word of what I intended to blog about.
Long and busy days here, though I’m not sure what I’ve been so busy with. Not much fun happening, behind on laundry and the fridge is alarmingly empty. Must be mid-summer. Art Child has been busy with her art intensive, and I’ve been trekking all over the borough for drop off and pick up. The other day, I had to meet her in the East Village. A fun neighborhood, one of the few left in Manhattan that still feels like New York, art, artists, small businesses. We weren’t in the fun part, but I got a couple of photos.
Rainbow brownstone
Love this, and I’m not the only one.
What better place for a small theater than an abandoned Catholic school?
Some neighborhoods still have interesting graffiti
Hi there.
To get to that area from my apartment is kind of a haul, required train transfers and many flights of stairs to get from one station to another without leaving the subway and having to pay another fare. By the time we got home my back was on fire. I was just starting to relax into one of the back meds when I heard that siren call, “Mom, the toilet’s overflowing!”
Does everyone else have low flow toilets now also? Low flow saves a lot of water, theoretically. Unless you try to flush more than one square of toilet paper. Because that requires many flushes, and often an overflow. I don’t know what the heck happened, but this was more stopped up than I’ve seen in years. And I couldn’t lift the damned pail to force water down. The good news, Nerd Child got a complete plumbing in NYC lesson. The bad news, the many hours it took to clear the clog.
The whole thing earned me a day at the beach, no? Maybe.
Nice view of the new World Trade Center on our way to the Holland Tunnel.
Oh, I went. With Husband and Art Child, so we went to one of the NJ beaches, supposed to be cleaner and nicer.
In the parking lot, some lovely plantings around.
It was going to be a perfect beach day.
It just didn’t quite work out the way I hoped.
When we got our stuff spread out and settled, a cloud settled on top of us and the wind increased.
Then we realized the family next to us was the Loud Family. The cloud will pass, right? Those kids will go back in the water, right?
So I took a little walk with my camera.
The cloud passed and those kids did go off somewhere. Then we realized it was the mother–who did not wander off again–who was making the most noise. Then another cloud came.
But okay, the family left, yay! Everywhere else the sky looked blue. Surely this massive gray cloud above us was going to move off any moment.
It started to move off, then it came back. And the Louder and Larger Family settled right next to us, complete with screaming children and mother spraying sunscreen in futility against the wind. Thanks, my sandwich was missing something.
When you’re frustrated as hell with life and what is or isn’t happening? Today was going to be the day I ran away to the beach by myself, but due to more life and clouds, that won’t be happening. So. Shut the hell up and wander around the city with a camera.
We’ve had some really great, southern feeling storms recently. The kind that come through quickly, pour while the sun is shining or make afternoon feel like night.
And look, here’s the spider!
Over to the east side yesterday, along 5th Avenue and wandering the eastern edges of Central Park.
For the record, this isn’t the type of dog walking I do. I walk one dog at a time.
The birds and the bees. Which reminds me–city pro tip: If you’re going to watch porn in a dark room at night, close your blinds. Oh, apartment life. It was really hot and humid in the afternoon, caught my attention to see the flowers in all the stages of blooming and dying on the same day.
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And then, at the end of the day, I sat on this bench, just outside the park. It’s a thing here in NY, you can “buy” a bench, and get a plaque attached with your name or the name of a loved one. I’m always intrigued, sometimes there’s a hint of a story, and you know this was someone who spent a lot of time enjoying park benches, other times I’m free to imagine whatever I’d like for the name attached. Many are “in memory of.” It’s unbelievably expensive, I looked into it about a year ago for a friend. In any case, on this one bench were two plaques, on the same slat. I wondered what the people who paid a gazillion dollars each to buy a bench thought of this. More than that, I wondered about who Mopsy is/was.
^^The above title means nothing. I’m a bit scattered today but feel like yapping, so this will be a scattered post.
I woke up this morning happy to not hear the sound of rain, looking forward to that first morning vat of coffee with an hour to myself. All quiet, Art Child still asleep, dogs still on their bed and Husband left early for work.
That early morning brain didn’t calculate quickly enough. Dogs still on their bed with me out of mine. Yup, left the bedroom and walked through a stream of dog piss. Aaah, kidney disease in an old, sizable dog. Remember folks, I don’t live in a house. It’s a high rise building, which means even if I “catch him” mid pee, at this point there’s no stopping him til I can push him out the door to the yard. It’s leaving the apartment, waiting for the elevator, riding the elevator down, and then walking through the lobby to get outside. Don’t ask, the answer is yes, I have been walking him more frequently. Good times.
So after I washed the floor for the twelfth time this week and got the girl to school, I went for a walk.
Nice morning, cool angles.
Strolled down Broadway to the super duper stupor inducing home store. I’ve spent a lot of money in that store over the years, but most of it has been outfitting dorm rooms for the boys. Not today. Today I was buying a mop. Why yes, I have been washing the floor with a sponge on my hands and knees. And double yes, my back has been singing an aria between the extra walks and the floor washing. I’m tired, I’m frustrated, I was not just buying a mop, I was buying the king of all mops. Of course, the one I wanted wasn’t on a shelf reachable by customers, but the man in the store was nice and accommodating, brought over the 50 foot rolling ladder and brought down the box I wanted.
Came home, opened the box, and found these.
A little daunting that the bit packed on top was the stop sign.
Have no fear, Fringelings. I’m a mother of three. I’ve assembled countless Lego sets and performed surgery on multiple Barbies. Not nearly as tricky as all the individual little bags made it seem it would be. And now, a question.
Why has no one made me buy this before today? I love this fucking thing. I honestly couldn’t believe what a great job it did, while leaving the floor dry within seconds. Well worth the $11,000 for a mop. Less 20%, because I remembered the coupon, whee!
Soon I have to go pick up Art Child. But first, I’m going to enjoy my floors while they’re clean and dry.
In the interest of budget and productivity, Husband took the wallpaper off of the bedroom walls. You never know what you’ll find behind wallpaper. You could find a hidden fortune, or maybe
mrsfringe 