dreams

Hey 2012! Don’t Let the Door Hit You on Your Way Out

Cartoon showing baby representing New Year 1905 chasing old man 1904 into history. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It had moments, but overall, for me, 2012 sucked. Starting Mrs Fringe was definitely a highlight; it was my way of stomping my spread out and beat up old foot, saying,”Yes! There is still a me.”

This New Year’s, I’m going to pretend there’s a possibility that life will be better, and I will have more moments. And by better, I mean not any worse. I’m old enough, had my ass kicked enough, to know this won’t happen magically. The problem with downward mobility is picturing it as a spiral, the pure golden spiral of mathematics or the spiral galaxies of the universe.

English: Golden spiral in rectangles. Português: Espiral dourada dentro de retângulos. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In other words, a somewhat predictable, plottable course. I don’t think plottable is a word, but it suits my purposes, so I’ll call it poetic license. But for most of us living on the Fringe, it isn’t (assuming your descent isn’t the product of addiction, cause that’s a different sort of blog). It’s more of a roller coaster without the ups. Squeaking along wheels shrieking and scraping against the tracks, and then a plunge that drives your teeth into your tongue and cracks your shoulder blade against the too low back of the seat. But somehow, no matter how painful the ride is, you stay seated, following the directions like a good sheep, “Do Not Unbuckle Safety Belt While Ride is in Motion.”

I haven’t made any New Year’s resolutions in a gazillion years. It feels so Hallmark to me. But I’m thinking…gift giving at Christmastime is Hallmark, in and of itself. However, I received some amazing gifts this Christmas that made me leak in their acknowledgement of Mrs Fringe as someone who counts. Here , here, and I can’t thank you enough here. Also, here. So out of this commercial and Hallmark tradition came something beautiful and human. The New Comfort Food cookbook had me thinking about the importance of being ok with being me, being grounded enough to say trying something different doesn’t mean becoming someone different. I’m going to test this, and see if maybe I can make a resolution or two in order to recognize my own humanity. I have three days to decide on a resolution or two, I’m thinking one will involve regular writing submissions.

Do you use the new year to make resolutions?

If I can figure out how to unclench my jaw, and get my brain to release my fingers from their death grip on the sides of this box car, I’m going to search my pockets for the tickets that must be hidden, and try a different ride.

Get Yer Tickets Here! (Photo credit: HeyThereSpaceman.)

Self Aware…or Self Involved?

An illustration from page 30 of Mjallhvít (Snow White) an 1852 icelandic translation of the Grimm-version fairytale (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Among my many obsessions; lack of space/privacy, and the Real Housewives franchise.

I was catching up on the ladies in Atlanta (love them!). There was a scene where one of them was whining about losing her rental home, and possibly being forced to move back into her townhouse with her husband, 4 kids, and 2 dogs. I’m watching, and grooving on this scene. I can relate! Oh wait.

The townhouse she might move back into is 5000 square feet. Five thousand. Pfft. That’s more than six? seven? times the space I live in with Husband, Man Child, Nerd Child, Flower Child, Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Frankly, not even my dream home is 5000 square feet. Who wants to clean all that? Except this Housewife seemed genuinely freaked out, concerned about how they would be able to live in such a small space. This episode captured me, and has me thinking about the many people in this country (including but not limited to the thousands in NYC whose homes are destroyed or uninhabitable because of Hurricane Sandy) who would be happy to have my overcrowded apartment to live in right now.

Where’s your light bulb, Uncle Fester? (Photo credit: apollonia666)

Lightbulb moment, right? Angels singing, I felt the light-in-me recognizes the light-in-you connection of it all, and I smiled looking at the crap piled along the windowsill. Not really. Because despite my recognition of spoiled American capitalist values, well, I’m a spoiled American who was bred and raised in this capitalist society. As such, I want to keep my stuff, have more space, and enjoy some privacy.

But, I will remember the moment, and the honest it’s-impossible look on Dream Home Atlanta Barbie’s face when talking about living in a 5,000 square foot home, and think about those I come across or walk past in my little corner of the world who are puzzled by my complaints.

Let’s be honest, the very fact of this type of blog epitomizes self involvement, regardless of how self aware I might try to be.

Heh. Check out Mrs Fringe, being all Zen and the Art of Selfishness and shit. Or would that be zazen?

Cover of Remember, Be Here Now

Can I Bleed Those Pipes For You?

Editions Archipoche (Photo credit: dpcom.fr)

Caretaker vs Caregiver

You know how there are some words that are easy to confuse on the tongue–you intend to say one but the other comes out? I don’t have many, but the above are mine. Technically (at least, according to Dictionary.com) they’re synonyms. But really, not so much.

Caretaker usually refers to someone who takes care of things, like houses. Or cemeteries. When I hear caretaker in its more accepted context, I think of gothic women-in-peril novels, cover art showing the sweet young maiden running in terror against the howling wind, back of hand to forehead, while the creepy mansion looms over her. Is that he-ro going to save her in time? Oops, just the foolish caretaker, bearing yet another obscure message.

Caregiver, on the other hand…yup, that’s me. Taking care of people and critters. Every day. All day. And let’s face it, most honest long term caregivers will tell you the pay sucks and the benefits are even worse. Yeah, I know, there are some who don’t feel this way, no matter how many years the caregiving extends they feel it’s a noble calling. Vaya con Dios, that isn’t me.

English: Kkoktu figure of a Caregiver. Korea, 18th century. On display at the Spurlock Museum, Urbana-Champaign, Illinois, USA. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I like taking care of “mine,” doing the best I can to make sure all are as well as possible, even throw in some smiles. But time off would be divine. Time to take care of no one.

And no, I don’t mean take care of myself, either. I mean luxuriate in being a sloth for however long it takes to feel rested. Caregiving that doesn’t end, or doesn’t change within the “normal” time frames feels a lot like being the caretaker of a decrepit, leaky-creaky mansion, complete with its own graveyard. Slap some duct tape over the bathroom pipe, and then the dormer window in the attic blows out.

This being life, what do I do? I choose to add more caregiving to the schedule. I have a reef tank. Always something to be monitored, cleaned, checked, work to be done, no matter the size of the tank. A little over a year ago, I added Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Sure, I love all these critters, they bring moments of peace and warm fuzzies, but they are living beings who need to be taken care of. Why? What drives me to do these things? And I’m not the only one, I know plenty of other caregivers who make similar choices. Why do you do it?

Even when dreaming about home ownership, do I imagine a neat, new house? No. I fantasize about one of those lovely period homes with the creaky stairs and rattling windows. I may be an idiot, but I’m not dumb, I understand those charming houses filled with character involve endless projects and repairs. Am I a handy gal? Nope. I’m not naturally artistic or mechanical, nor do I have any experience with home repairs.

And the one thing I do that has nothing to do with taking care of anyone else? Writing, of course. That beautiful calling to hunch over the keyboard and open a vein.

Shallow Grave (Photo credit: jcoterhals)

30 Days and 30 Nights

late night writing (Photo credit: professor megan)

of literary abandon. So says the wisdom of NaNoWriMo. Sounds like an orgy with pens and laptops.

No, I’m not participating, never have. I think about it, most years. Usually on October 30th, and again on November 7th or so. Then I do the math–50,000 words by midnight November 30th divided by how many days? feel nauseous, and shelve the thought for the following year.

I don’t know the whole story behind the history of NaNoWriMo other than it’s grown exponentially and started by a small group out in California, but this I know–whoever conceived this brain child cannot possibly have been responsible for cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

I would like to do it one year, though not in November. I think February sounds right. It’s a boring month, no major holidays, guaranteed to be foul outside here in NY, making me want to hide inside my laptop, perfect. Sure it’s a short month, but what the hell. 28 days and 28 nights of literary abandon sounds so much more manageable anyway. I’m pretty sure the NYC Dept of Ed is going to take away the February break this year since the kids were off all of last week, so I’ll get to incorporate all the fun of getting Flower Child to and from school each day. I’ll even give it a cute name. PerNoWriFeb. Personal Novel Writing February. Catchy, isn’t it?

I’ve got the perfect manuscript to work on, the romance in progress. I think romance lends itself to this type of writing frenzy. Keep the momentum building, move it forward, get the hero and heroine to the happily ever after before anyone starts to sag. Add in the whole Valentine’s Day kitsch and both reader and writer hearts can remain intact. Please don’t tell me you’re supposed to start fresh, a new manuscript.

Depiction of Queen Scheherazade telling her stories to King Shahryar in The Arabian Nights. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I get to be king in Fringeland, and queen of PerNoWriFeb so I’m making the rules.

None of this will come to pass. By the time my days are free enough to put this much time and focus on writing, my fingers will be too arthritic to tap on the keyboard. But I think about it. The same way I think about a beach house, a second bathroom, and a space of my own. And a dishwasher. And a washer and dryer. Oh wait. I’m getting off track aren’t I? Especially in this month of November, when I’m supposed to be thinking of something I’m grateful for each day. When did that start, anyway?

For personal space there’s no answer other than retreating into my mind. I’m pretty good at that. Mebbe too good, it could put me over the border of quirky and into the land of looney. Second bathroom? Definitely no answer to that one, unless I develop a fondness for chamber pots. Beach house? That’s what my nano tank is for. Limping along, having a little problem holding my calcium and alk levels steady at the moment, the front panel is in desperate need of a good cleaning, but still, it’s alive and mine.

Mrs Fringe is not Mary Sunshine. Seeing so many who have lost so much from Hurricane Sandy doesn’t make me happy with life as it is, but I do feel grateful that me and mine are safe and warm, and I excel at putting blinders on and chugging along. So maybe 1785.71 words per day won’t be possible in PerNoWriFeb, but I can shoot for working on the manuscript every single day that month.

Pom Pom Crab, my favorite critter in the tank. She’s survived several disasters, and every time I think she must be dead, haven’t spotted her in weeks, she pops up again, shaking her pom poms at every imagined threat and proving that some creatures are much tougher than they appear to be.

Is it Trash Day?

New York City Department of Sanitation (Photo credit: BriYYZ)

This is what I’d like, a battalion of garbage trucks for me to toss everything in my apartment and start fresh.

Been home for several days with sick Flower Child; raw, damp, and gray outside. Can you say aargh? A couple of days ago I was “good,” used the time at home to do some overdue sorting and cleaning. Clearly, the best use of my time yesterday was to spend hours online, cyber-shopping and buying imaginary furniture for my imaginary house. Don’t think I’m not practical, I made sure to only look at couches that will fit in my current apartment in the meantime. In varying shades of cream and beige, to really play up the dog hair and paw prints that will make it mine.

All this led me to varying blogs and websites dedicated to decorating small spaces, making them chic and practical. I don’t have this talent. Many do, and I don’t think it’s about money. I’ve been to some homes where the owner has plenty of money, but it still looks like those dump trucks are waiting at the corner. Others where the owner/renter has very little money, but a great sense of style and organization that allows the space to look and feel great when you walk through the door. I wish the latter was me, but it isn’t.

Women nest at different times. Me? I nest early in a writing phase. I’ve heard a lot of writers talk about this phenomenon, referencing it as a procrastination tactic. I see how it can be. But for myself, it gives me a reason to pace while I’m creating scenes, lets me think about what type of home my protagonist lives in. Maybe it’s easier to lose my head in the characters’ lives when I’ve got a little real life elbow room.

Snake Attacks Bird Nest (Photo credit: johnynek)

I don’t know, maybe it’s because I know if I really get going, the housework completely falls down on the priority list. Usually long before the sorting and organization are finished.

At the moment though, I’m imagining a tasteful and elegant home, with a clearly defined space for me to work in. Preferably an enclosed porch type thing, with lots of glass and screens and light. In the Florida Keys. Somewhere like that. But not here, tucked into the corner of my ratty blue couch, laptop balanced on the sinking arm, stinky from the rain Little Incredibly Dumb dog pressed against me.

I’m going to take up cigars and fishing, since I apparently fantasize about being Hemingway.

Ernest Hemingway House, Key West, Florida (Photo credit: Mat McDermott)

Way Over Yonder

For someone who isn’t going anywhere, I spend a lot of time thinking about where I’d like to be.

Hawaii (Photo credit: jmauerer)

I’ve never been to Hawaii, so it’s pure fantasy to say I’d like to live there. But I know I love warm weather, and sun, and the beach. I’d have to give up my mixed reef tank, it’s illegal to buy most corals there, but I could have an excellent softie tank, with some beautiful fish. Besides, I’d be able to see the corals in the ocean. Wouldn’t that be something? Unfortunately, I’d also love to live somewhere I could afford a little house and groceries, with a good school system for Flower Child, so Hawaii isn’t a likely scenario.

So many beautiful places to fantasize about, even limiting my game of “let’s pretend” to America. Sometimes I think about going north, have you been to Vermont? Awesome sharp cheddar, real maple syrup, elderberry wine! It’s stunning; peaceful, sunny, and many parts are affordable.

Vermont (Photo credit: Dougtone)

I love to read the descriptions and study the photographs posted by my online friends who live in various parts of the country. I envy their gardens, their scenery, their reasonable cost of living, and their space. Then I keep reading. And hear about raccoons and deer and bear, and beavers and possums and snakes. *** I had to pause here, because my shudders made it impossible to work the keyboard.

Yes, it’s true, Mrs Fringe is a weenie. I’m willing to brave underwater creepy crawlies, willing to brave the subways, I’ll even, on occasion if need be, brave the tourists in Times Square. But rabies and lyme disease and giardia? Oh my!

When I was a kid, I thought I was an animal lover. I loved dogs, I even the loved the gazillion stray cats that lived in the neighborhood. My parents told me I was an animal lover. There were plenty of breadcrumbs, if I had thought to follow the trail. I hated the chickens at the live poultry place on McDonald Ave. But they were there to be killed, plucked, and taken home for Sunday dinner, the F train roaring and clanking above, so I didn’t think of them as nature. I also didn’t think of them as dinner, I think I stopped eating chicken by the time I was eight. I hated the zoo. But this was before the days when zoos became humane, who could love the scrawny, flea bitten lion tearing into a hunk of bloody raw meat in his cage? I loved the track. I loved Black Beauty. Very exciting. Beautiful animals, those thoroughbred horses. From a distance. Up close, they’re really, really big. Scary. I was an adult before I found myself next to a cow. They’re huge! And they stink. I know how to hold my breath on a steamy day in August when walking down the subway steps, so the waves of funk and urine don’t penetrate. But farm animals? There is no holding your breath for that stench. Pfft, clean smell of manure…I don’t think so.

Thinking back, again, they weren’t so much breadcrumbs on a trail as bright yellow strips of divider on an interstate highway.

Are you living where you want? If you could move, where would you go?

For all my fantasy time, I’m not sure where I want to end up. But I don’t want to be here.

Theater District/Times Square

Where’s My Union Rep?

Women corset workers on strike walk down the street wearing undergarments (Photo credit: Kheel Center, Cornell University)

I’m going to join the ladies in the photo above and go on strike. Mrs Fringe needs a day off! I’m also going to digress for a moment.

In looking for an old photo of women on strike, I noticed something interesting. The women are smiling in these photos. Not so in photos of men on strike. Why? Is it so ingrained in women to smile and be polite, even when making a political statement and fighting for a living wage? Or did the photographers give women an alert and admonission, “Smile pretty for the camera!” that wasn’t offered to men? I can see it now, “Oh yeah, this is important, we’re gonna to a big story on you, front page. What’s that you say, your sister lost three fingers in the industrial sewing machine cause she worked 27 days in a row? C’mon girls, you have to smile, nobody’s gonna look at a photo of a bunch of sourpusses.” Then again, I have a vivid imagination, and my observation could mean nothing more than smiling women are the photos that caught my eye.

I like my coffee analogue, like my photography (Photo credit: futurowoman)

But mostly, my imagination has been taking me back to my youth, when a day off meant a day of nothing. Not a day of less, but a day where I could stay in my pjs, lie in bed and read all day, my biggest energy expenditure when I got up to make coffee. It isn’t a mystery why I can’t do this anymore. I live in the city with two dogs, they need to be walked three times a day. I have people, little and big, brought to life and brought into my life by choice, who depend on me for household supplies, clean laundry, meds, food, chaperoning, homework help, and a clean toilet.

Fatigue and I went out for Friday Night Madness this week. Due to life, we had missed the past few Fridays. He has arranged his finances so he’ll be able to take a few months off from his day job, beginning next month. This will mean tightening his already tight budget to a stranglehold. But I get it; he’s going to rest, regroup, and use the time to work on his art. I’m almost envious. Almost, because even my vivid imagination can’t quite imagine being in a position to do this.

One of the “tells” in writing as to whether or not a piece was written by a man or woman has to do with qualifiers. Women tend to write the way they speak; lots of almosts, quites, somewhats, sort-ofs, tend-tos,in-my-opinions. Many of us live that way, too. Almost a day off, not quite a day off, somewhat of a day off, sort of keeping it a light day.

Sunday, not a day off, not a day of rest, but I’m going to try to keep this to a day of less. How about you? Do you get days that are truly off?

Ch ch ch ch

…gonna have to be a different man.

English: David Bowie in the early 1970s (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Or a different woman, as the case may be. Continuing to think about my scheduling challenges, and how so much of that blasted to-do list is bullshit. Yeah, yeah the laundry has to be done. But for the love of God, I need…something. A change that’s more than a new coif–though I could use that, too.

A friend advised me to focus in on a specific goal. Logical. But what? And where is the line between reality and excuses? I love the idea, the fantasy, of reinventing myself. But it feels squishy, new age-y. Not to mention suspiciously like the 21st century equivalent of a middle aged man buying a convertible. Impractical. Yes, circumstances have changed. Man Child and Nerd Child each have a foot out the door. Husband has an AARP card. But the nest isn’t empty and isn’t likely to be. I don’t have degrees or the freedom to commit set hours each week to an entry level job.

And the ghosts of old choices, born of circumstance and poor judgement.

Der Poltergeist (Photo credit: Lab604)

More than ghosts, they’re poltergeists. I think, I ramble, I do laundry, I time seizures, I write, I walk dogs. I excel at navel gazing. Which of these are likely to be capitalized upon? That’s what I thought.

I wasn’t born with a silver spoon; I wasn’t raised in a war torn and poverty filled hovel where I never saw anything different. Somehow, along with too many others of my generation, I’ve been caught in a spiral of downward mobility. I don’t want to be stuck. I don’t want to be desperate. I also don’t want to be hungry. But right now, I am. Starving for something.

I know how to get by, stretch a budget, do what needs to be done. What I don’t know is how to make major changes, how to truly divert my trajectory while still taking care of my current and forever responsibilities, the human beings in my little fringe world that give my life value. Because while I want to feel there is a “me,” it isn’t all about me, and I don’t want it to be. How lonely, how boring, how bitter.

I’m sitting on my little terrace right now, looking at the herbs and flowers I planted with Flower Child back in May. And I’m wondering, worrying. If I figure out a focus, replant myself; will my roots take hold in new soil? Or are they already too brittle; like the first basil plant we tried, attacked by the pigeons before it could adjust.

Dead Basil (Photo credit: olaeinang)

Tripping Over Boxes

And here we are. Down to the last days of summer, which for me means a turmoil of angst, packing, and insomnia. It’s cool here in NY this morning, and I want to scream, “No! I don’t want it to be cool, a reminder autumn is just around the corner. I want it to be hot and sunny, and lie on the beach pretending I never have to leave!” Last week I was still doing just that, got on the train with Flower Child and spent the day in Brooklyn.

Under the B train

Ever wonder why the sand has that oily film on it?

When my children were young, I practiced attachment parenting, mostly. I used a midwife, breastfed, made my own baby food, carried them in pouches on my chest and slings on my hip. There are many facets and ideas behind it that might draw someone to attachment parent, and the one I’m thinking about this morning is the idea that children who are raised this way grow to be more independent, more secure. As an older parent now, with older children, do I believe this is Truth? Maybe; it worked for us, but there are so many factors involved in raising children, so many variables, I don’t believe there is a one size fits all approach.

Man Child is preparing to go back to school. He’s entering his second year in a small, private liberal arts college, and his head and heart are ready, if his suitcases aren’t. This is our sixth year of helping him pack up and leave for school. He attended a small private, boarding school for high school. Seems like the antithesis of attachment parenting, doesn’t it? Maybe, maybe not. Boarding school was his idea, supported by the staff at his middle school. He earned a full scholarship to attend, and did well there; successful academically, grew as a person, made friends, connected with teachers, and came home frequently for both long breaks and quick weekend visits. The school wasn’t that far away, so it was an easy drive–if you weren’t trying to get there or back through the hell that is the Lincoln Tunnel on a Friday–or he could and often did take the train.

DSC00562.JPG (Photo credit: Kramchang)

Originally, I was vehemently opposed to the idea of boarding school. Not my kid, uh-uh-no-way. First of all, I like my kid, why would I support him leaving the house 4 years earlier than I “had” to? Second, boarding school, what the heck is that? Is that the new politically correct term for jeuvie? He’s a good kid and a good person, spent hours each week serving food to the homeless beginning when he was 12 because it hurt him to see people hungry on the street. We were (and are) a close family, wouldn’t boarding school destroy that bond? Then there was the cousin of not-my-kid, you know, my-kid-would-never. I don’t believe in my-kid-would-never, some kids might be more or less likely, but every kid, given the right/wrong circumstances– can make mistakes, show poor judgement, or be caught up in something before they know they’re caught.

But. He campaigned, and eventually, I promised to keep an open mind.

View of the Blue Ridge Mountains from Asheville School Campus (View 1) (Photo credit: AdmissionsQuest)

Which meant listening to the teachers and staff at his middle school, when they talked about supporting opportunities, the safety of boarding schools as opposed to riding the subways each day, the endowments available for scholarship monies, the beauty, the support of teachers and staff who actually live with the kids, and on and on. So we went to look, he interviewed and filled out pages of applications, we both wrote upteen essays. Husband and I were bowled over by the opportunities available, the breadth of courses, the safety, the indescribable beauty and history of the campuses, the people who had attended these schools and the kids who were attending. These were not cold, impersonal places to dump your kid while you jet set around Europe (or some such idea I had from Harold Robbins novels). *This picture is not a school he attended, nor one that we visited, but the beauty is representative of many campuses we’ve seen. *

I was excited for him, I was proud of him–it was his efforts, his hard work, his maturity, and his humanity that opened the way for this opportunity, affording him a choice of schools offering full scholarships when the decisions came in. Leaving him at school that first day was among the most difficult days I have ever faced as a parent. I cried all the way home. Husband (who had been even more opposed than I when we first heard the term boarding school) held my hand and reminded me of all the reasons we were doing this, the way I had talked about wishing I had had this type of opportunity, and of course, how soon we would go visit him. I thought it would get easier. Experienced parents told me it would get easier. Wrong. I have cried every year, and every year it got harder, because I knew and know exactly how much I would miss him.

And now, it’s Nerd Child’s turn. He is leaving in a couple of weeks to attend Hogwarts. Not the same boarding school Man Child attended, but the one that is perfect for him. If my heart broke from having to smile and pack up for one child, it’s absolutely melting doing it for two. Any morning now I’m going to wipe my eyes and find my aorta in the Kleenex. Nerd Child, how can I let him go? This is the toddler who would wail if I went anywhere without him, trying to stick his little fingers in the crack under the front door so he could reach me. He isn’t wailing now, he isn’t even visibly nervous. He’s psyched and he’s ready to embrace every opportunity that he can earn, learn from every experience he can have. Like Man Child, he earned this opportunity, was blessed with several acceptances and excellent offers, and he’s headed off with a full scholarship and strong values to help him navigate the pitfalls of high school–cause after all, it’s still high school.

During these anxiety ridden days of preparation I ask myself why I’m doing this. I have friends who wonder why I’m doing this, even as they’ve seen the positives through Man Child. Believe me, life is easier with the two of them home, they make me laugh, they help with Flower Child, they help with the heavy lifting of life in the city. Because I believe it’s my job as a parent. To help them see what’s out there, what they can strive for, and how to find and make use of opportunities, so their adult lives will (hopefully) be easier than mine and Husband’s. My kids don’t have a lot of stuff, they know all about living on a tight budget, and they don’t arrive in their dorms with fabulous matching everything and the latest in clothing trends. They arrive with strength, faith, and hope. I expect them to do the “right” thing because it’s the right thing, even though it’s often the more difficult choice. The least I can do is the same.

Hogwarts (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Editing for clarity: Boarding school isn’t right for every kid, nor is it right for every family. For us, it seems to have been the best choice for both boys, I don’t assume the same is true for all.

Squeee!!!

I’m excited. This Friday night there will be a midnight sale/event at a (somewhat) local fish store. This is a big, annual event that I’ve been trying to get to for several years, but haven’t yet gone. So far, so good for this year.

I have a little cash put aside for this, hoping to buy a fish (if the one I want is still there when I get there), and a frag or two. For the uninitiated, frags are small branches, heads, or polyps of living coral colonies that can be purchased, traded, or gifted to grow in a new tank. Like, my tank

Bird’s Nest frag, Small Polyp Stony coral

Green Polyps, “softie”

Equally exciting is the prospect of meeting up with a reefing friend (or 2 or 3) who I’ve known online for several years, but because the stars haven’t aligned, we’ve yet to meet in person.

I need to write a wish list of corals/critters, so I don’t get overexcited and spend all my dollars within the first 10 feet of the store. Cash only, that’s my rule in order to stick to the budget. I’d love to push the boundaries, blow the budget, and go crazy coral shopping. But I won’t. Yes, yes, I’ve embraced my not-so-inner nerd. It’s also important to keep in mind which corals will live peacefully next to each other, particularly so in a nano tank, otherwise it’s a set up for yet another tank crash.

Before anything else, I’ve got to do a big water change and some general maintenance beforehand, and have fresh, clean saltwater on hand in case of excessive sliming from new corals. Many corals, particularly SPS, slime after being rehomed, fragged, or just generally pissed off at being in different water with slightly different parameters.

Time to drag myself out of my underwater fantasy. Flower Child is awake and hungry, the dogs are waiting to be walked, and if I don’t start my workout, it isn’t going to happen.

English: A variety of corals form an outcrop on Flynn Reef, part of the Great Barrier Reef near Cairns, Queensland, Australia. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)