But somehow, all perfect days include the beach. Today was one of those days, and the first officially unofficial beach day of the season for us. Must be summer! Warning: photo intensive post ahead.
This morning I charged the camera, Husband, Art Child and I threw towels and waters in the car, left our sleeping and completely-uninterested-in-all-things-beachy Nerd Child behind, and got on the highway.
Getting excited as we leave the city.
Lucky souls sailing down the Hudson River.
Yes, that Asbury Park–and I was Born to Run.
Pfft, no umbrellas required.
Wouldn’t be me without some macros thrown in.
The water is still cold, but I couldn’t believe how clear and lovely it was.
Something about this one, I like it.
I hadn’t been to Asbury Park since, well, a long, long time ago. The beach and water isn’t just cleaner than it used to be, it’s clean. And beautiful. One of my beach obsessions involves the critters that live in the sand. Funny how one roach in the hallway will send me on a three-day scrubbing and freak out spree, culminating in 50 Combat traps, but I’m fascinated by the creepy crawlies in and around the ocean.
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We didn’t stay too long. First day out, why ruin it with sunburn? So we packed up and walked along the boardwalk for a bit.
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Homeward bound.
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Ok, even I’ll admit these grains of sand are getting mighty uncomfortable.
I refuse to turn towards the terrace and see the snow. The snow that’s been falling and sticking for hours now, on this Sunday, March 1st. Nope, I’m not looking, and neither is Art Child, or the dog. Instead, we’re all watching the tank, pretending we’re on the beach. Join us.
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.
Mrs Fringe is 2 years old. I could write a fun post, a retrospective of the highlights, discuss how very much this blog and all of my followers mean to me, but in true fractured Fringeland style, I’m not going to do any of those today. No silliness, no photos. Instead, I’m writing a PSA post, asking you all to please read and remember.
I’ve written epilepsy awareness posts before, I usually post one in November, but I’m writing another one today.
On the train this morning I got a phone call from Man Child telling me he was on his way to the ER, and when I arrived at the beach it was raining. Ok, life.
After the rain stopped and the clouds moved off, someone several towels down had a tonic clonic seizure. Tonic clinics are what used to be called grand mal seizures. I went over, as did several other people. Really nice to see so many willing to get involved and see if they could help, lifeguards were hailed, police were flagged down, 911 was called.
I was umm, happy? I don’t think happy is the right word, to see the person was on their side, and they were on a towel on the sand, away from the water, nothing to be injured on. This is probably the safest scenario for a seizure when someone is alone and outside.
But I was quickly upset, and I’m still upset now.
The problem. One woman pushed through, trying to turn the person onto their back, saying they needed to be held down. NO. There is no reason to restrain someone having a seizure, and doing so risks injuring them. No less than two people stepped forward ready to grab the jaw and force the mouth open, yelling that they were going to choke on their tongue. NO. NEVER, EVER PUT ANYTHING IN THE MOUTH OF SOMEONE HAVING A SEIZURE. It is physically impossible for someone to choke on their tongue. It is, however, possible for the tongue to block the airway, which is why lying on their side is the safest position for someone having a seizure. One woman tried to hold their head, saying she was going to put her finger in their mouth to swipe away the saliva. NO. Nothing in the mouth includes fingers, it’s a good way to a) have your finger injured, possibly bitten off, b) break the jaw of the person having the seizure, c) trying to force anything into the mouth when someone is seizing can result in chipping their teeth.
Yes, I spoke up.
But, why, oh why, is there not more seizure awareness? Seizures aren’t rare. 1 in 100 people can expect to have a seizure in their lifetime. Anyone can have a seizure. Epilepsy is generally defined as 2 or more unprovoked seizures. Epilepsy can develop in any person at any time. It is the fourth most common neurological disorder.
So how come, as the person was coming out of the seizure, the only question asked was if they had taken anything or been drinking? These are valid, important, sensible questions. But they weren’t asked if they had epilepsy.
Most seizures are self limiting, — end on their own. Without anything else going on (injury, illness) they are usually not considered medical emergencies. But they can be. People can and do die– from SUDEP (Sudden Unexplained Death in Epilepsy), status epilepticus (prolonged seizures), and injuries sustained during seizures (head injury, drowning, etc). These events are not common, but they can and do happen.
Please. Know what to do in case someone around you has a seizure (and tonic clinics are just one of many types).
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.
Yesterday, I did something I haven’t done in over 21 years. I went to the beach. By myself. Come to think of it, beach or not, I haven’t had a day by myself, no obligations, in over 21 years. I took my towel, my phone, my metrocard, my iPod, and a frozen bottle of water.
The beach was packed, the subway was nose to armpit jammed, and it was heavenly.
One of the best things about New York is the diversity. On the beach
I heard Russian, I heard French, I heard Chinese, I heard Spanish, I heard English, I heard Hebrew, I saw a family of Asian descent speaking Russian, I saw senior citizens swimming in their underwear, young studs in cut offs, young women in thong bikinis, old women in string bikinis, an orthodox man in his beard and black suit sitting on the sand so his little ones could have a day in the ocean.
I plugged my ear buds in and blasted all my old beach favorites–to the group three towels down, thanks for sharing your rap, but I was sticking to Cream. And Creedance and Kate Bush and Melissa Etheridge.
It’s true, the Brooklyn beaches aren’t the prettiest, that glint of green in the sand is as likely to be part of a beer bottle as seaweed, but yesterday it was bliss.
After about an hour, I realized I was free to enjoy another beach pleasure I haven’t indulged in years.
Why yes, I do think a beach towel is equivalent to a brown paper bag. I have to ask though, wtf is a nutcracker? Guys in heavy jeans and towels walk up and down the beach same as always, selling water, beer, and Newports out of black plastic bags. But now they offer nutcrackers too.
When I was young, there was nothing I wanted more than to get out of Brooklyn. But yesterday, I looked at the fancy newer condos along the boardwalk and thought, “not so bad.”
Hell, I looked at the ancient buildings on the side streets, the ones with wiring too old and fragile to support an air conditioner and lights at the same time–trust me, I used to live in one–and thought, “not so bad.”
If you called me yesterday, or texted or messaged or emailed and I didn’t answer, forgive me. I ran away. And Nerd Child, thank you.
It’s my sigh of almost relief. Not quite, but getting closer. We’ve had a few beautiful days in the neighborhood, so a photo post today.
Even the pigeons shut up to enjoy a perfect moment in the sun.
The light was unbelievable here.
Yesterday, Art Child and I ran away for a couple of hours. We got on the train and headed to Brooklyn. Come ride with us, and enjoy the sights as seen by the group of young women sitting across from us, excited by their intention to walk the boardwalk–each one carrying a purse that I’m fairly certain cost more than my entire wardrobe, and each one wearing more makeup than I own–or can identify.
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Oh, dirty sand and ocean, aggressive seagulls and competing radios, how I’ve missed you…beach!
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After way too short an afternoon, on the way home again.
The presentation isn’t much, but what do you want at 6am?
Felt like we’d never get to this day–or to warm weather, but here we are. Figs with ricotta and honey for everyone, a perfect summer breakfast.
And speaking of summer foods, there’s a great, brand new blog I recommend, Resident Cook. It’s a cooking blog, geared towards cooking in college dorms, which to me = not only college students but anyone with a limited budget and limited space–my two primary concerns for recipes.
Traditionally, summer is a time for Art Child and I to rest and recup, soak up the sun and store energy for the fall. This summer, Art Child will be taking an art intensive class. Just a month, a few times a week, but it changes the dynamic. There was even an orientation for the class.
End of year mama brain is like damp cotton candy–if you poke it, it disappears. I saved the email about orientation, certain it was last Thursday afternoon. So Thursday morning, I pulled up the email to check where it was going to be, and print the registration papers. Doesn’t everyone do their paperwork at 5am? Oh shit. Tuesday. It was Tuesday. Imagine Mrs Fringe freaking out, trying to decide how serious they were about the orientation being mandatory. I get in the shower, and I’m seeing that email in my mind. And realize I didn’t miss it. I did indeed have the day wrong, but I also had the week wrong, it was this past Tuesday. Didn’t miss it. If I didn’t already mention it, I hate cotton candy.
And I’ve been thinking. There’s a manuscript I have started and abandoned many times over the last humenahhumenah years. I’ve deleted triple the number of words that are actually in the file. But maybe. Maybe once I get some rest and some sun, maybe I’ll play with it.
Gah! I can’t think about it now, first I need some real beach time. Tomorrow, if it isn’t raining, Mrs Fringe will be found with toes in the sand, listening to the sweet sounds of sweaty guys hawking warm beer, and toddlers screaming that they don’t want to go in the water. Coney Island has missed me, I’m certain of it.
I’m in this strange in between space. Between waiting and doing and deciding on the waiting and the doing and the deciding. This leaves too much time devoted to thinking. And remembering.
This morning I was talking with a friend about my love of the beach. Now pretty much limited to summer time, when I was young I used to go year round. In fall and winter I would sit on the rocks of that Brooklyn beach with my radio (and then walkman), spiral notebook and pencil, and write poor, angsty poetry. Of course then I didn’t see it as poor or angsty. But yeah, it was.
Strangely enough, though I don’t write much poetry anymore, when I do it’s still poor and angsty. And when I do, I still enjoy the process.
a lousy poem, by Mrs Fringe
Unplug that old Frigidaire with the frayed cord and the rusted coils Coffee, screwdriver, gin Prepared
Words of frost six inches thick trap the right phrase only the wrong fits Flathead now an ice pick Chink clunk
Ice drips, words melt until eventually The pan overflows with gray sentences Seeping through asbestos tiles
Happy Friday, everyone–and an extra special Friday it is, spring break starts this afternoon for my girl.
mrsfringe 