family

Huzzah!

RenFaire 2012-parade

What else would a family of nerds do for their splurge day? Celebrate with hundreds of other fringe folks at the renaissance fair, of course. Yes, it’s true, I confess, I love ye olde faire. We hope to go every year, but it’s an expensive day, so we usually get there every other year or so. There’s something about the day of fantasy; the guys hawking huge pickles making bawdy jokes, the actors walking around, staying in character as they ad lib, and the costumes, oh the grand and glorious costumes.

First stop–always–Flower Child gets her hair braided.

Cascading Crown Braid

For this fabulous crown, we waited an hour and a half. Ludicrous, sure. Just the type of thing where Mrs Fringe would keep a tight hold on the girl’s hand and say, “absolutely not.” But it’s RENFAIRE!!!! It’s also a lovely way for her to ease into the day, she can sit in the shade, watching the actors–and guests– walk past in their costumes. Because, of course, the braiding booths are just past the entrance. The women doing the braiding love Flower Child, she waits patiently and doesn’t fidget, swing her head around, or bop up and down while they’re braiding. Part of her disorder involves excessive fatigue, so this is an excellent “activity” for her. We only have the front half braided, whatever design she gets, and she does have beautiful hair that goes past her waist, she’s an excellent walking ad for them once we’re done.

For a large gathering of many people on often crowded pathways, with alcohol and weaponry being sold, it’s amazingly…friendly. Kinda like Disney World, only with peasants, elves, fairies, and wenches instead of Mickey, Cinderella, and Pooh. It feels safe, inside this dusty nerdland bubble. Heavyset women are applauded, as their generous boobage is the perfect accessory to the low cut costumes; any child or adult in a wheelchair is bowed down to, gawky teenaged boys are engaged in long conversations, often involving dungeons and dragons references, about swords and catapults, hilts and scallywags.

It is a great teaching opportunity for children, any and all rides and games are powered by hand, history and mythology lessons abound. However, purists need not bother. I had a friend who is a history buff attend with her kids one year, she was horrified. Renaissance costumes and wares are mixed with medieval, age of exploration, and Camelot. Turkey legs and mead are sold alongside lattes and quesadillas, pewter figurines and wooden staffs next to earrings made from Swarovsky crystals and belly dancing costumes.

We don’t stroll in and forget the budget, but we don’t go unless we are ready to pay for just enough to make it a stress free, special day. There are plenty of customers dropping hundreds, sometimes I think it must be thousands, on elaborate costumes, accessories, and general tomfoolery that when I say something is out of budget, we aren’t pressured by anyone, and are free to look at everything.

I’m not sure why I enjoy this so much, there’s no sand, no ocean, and if the day is hot it can be uncomfortably ripe. Actually, I’ve never been a fan of historical romance for this reason, I can’t suspend disbelief enough to stop thinking about how long it’s been since the hero bathed, the heroine had the nits removed from her hair, and the stench of manure on a forbidden moonlit ride. But it’s straight fun, pretending that one day we’ll all be outfitted in pantaloons, cloaks, and feathers, hearing the serving wenches’ voices ring out as they jump up and down to maximize and flash the aforementioned boobage, “Huzzah for the generous tipp-ah!!!”

want

The Crown Jewels

Sandy Hook, NJ

No, I’m not posting about the beach today, but I was there yesterday, so I thought I’d look at this photo while I wrote. Crazy wild waves that this photo doesn’t capture, but beautiful.

On to the subject at hand. As mentioned, I spent several days of the past week sorting and packing my mother’s apartment. Still a long way to go, but that is to be expected. What I didn’t expect was one spot where I was caught in memories, and was unable to pack away one thing.

When I was a girl, I loved to play with the contents of my mother’s jewelry box. There in my mother’s closet, was the ornately sculpted-to-look-like-a-miniature-armoire box, in all its pressboard glory. Over the years, the subject of playing with our mothers’ jewelry has come up with various female friends. Maybe it’s a girl thing, maybe it’s a Brooklyn thing–though Flower Child enjoys the same.

carved jewelry box (Photo credit: Serenae)

There is and never was anything of value in that box, different colored beaded necklaces and bracelets, clip on paste rhinestone earrings (why? her ears were pierced), an old skate key (whose?). And pins, lots of pins. For the younger generation who might be reading, women used to regularly wear pins (brooches) on their blouses and sweaters.

beads (Photo credit: moirabot)

I would ask, is this real? is this one real? My mother’s answer was always yes, though these things are all inexpensive costume pieces.

Really, my mother was not a woman who was “into” jewelry, costume or otherwise. She had a few things she liked and wore regularly, but she didn’t hesitate to leave those pins tucked away, much like girdles, as soon as they were out of fashion. What she loved throughout her life was her collection of Lenox. Accumulated over years, she’s got enough of those ivory colored pieces to fill two aisles in a Hallmark store.

Memories that I didn’t know I had zipped to the surface as I handled each pin. The oddly shaped gold pin with a cluster of “pearls,” firmly attached to a black nylon blouse. A beautiful silver oval with blue, green, and black stones, stabbed through a gray sweater. An elaborately wrought gold flower in a nest of something I still can’t identify, dragging the collar of my grandmother’s green wool coat.

I went through the box on Sunday afternoon, put everything back and closed it. Sunday night after dogwalking I went back to do some more packing with Husband. When we finished the kitchen, I went back to the jewelry box, and showed the pieces to him. Again, I put everything away as it had been, and tucked it back into the corner of the closet.

I’m not sure why I couldn’t pack it up, why this sliver of her life has me stuck, in a way her treasured collection of Lenox knick knacks doesn’t.

Brooch (Photo credit: hannah karina)

On the Downhill Side

Downhill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This week I’ve been feeling as if I’m in a winding down phase. Summer isn’t over, but I know it will be soon enough. This makes me very sad, as it does every year. Kinda nutty, to live for three months a year, but I do.

The budget being what it is, we haven’t really done much with the kids. Add in time spent focused on unwell Flower Child and dying mother, and the past 7 weeks have been lost.

I’ve begun the process of cleaning out my mother’s apartment. It’s slow, she had an incredible amount of stuff packed into that tiny space. Strange, because she seemed to be the opposite of a hoarder. Why did a woman who never entertained and never cooked need enough china for 50? Also, I’m pretty sure the salt I found in the shakers belonging to that set was from 1961.

P1140885-1 (Photo credit: leechungyu)

I haven’t even begun the work of sorting through photographs. I know that will take forever. My parents weren’t big on pictures or photography, but still, it’s a lifetime. More than one, because I’m sure I’ll find the photos from my grandmother, and whatever my father had from his family. For all the purging she did, I never saw my mother throw a photo away. I get it, it feels wrong to do so, the guilt of a sin. When I first got a digital camera, the concept of the “delete” button for terrible photos took a while to sink in. Should I do it? Maybe I’m going to need four shaky, dark photos of that door knob. Is anyone looking? Yes, yes I can delete the fuzzy picture of the floor taken by one of the kids. Liberation of the digital age!

Can’t I just stay on the beach for the next three weeks? I know there are plenty of people around me who will. The problem is knowing that this gentle, mild-palpitation inducing slide downward will be full tilt careening within days. Three weeks, and I haven’t finished paperwork! Two weeks, the boys still need clothes! And shoes, and everything else. One week, where did the summer go, can’t we squeeze one fantastic splurge day out of the budget? Flower Child still hasn’t recovered from the last school year.

English: Kirnu, a steel roller coaster in Linnanmäki. Suomi: Kuva Kirnusta. Français : Les montagnes russes finlandaises Kirnu à Linnanmäki (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t do roller coasters. Ever. But if all goes well, I’ll be on the beach later today.

Sana Sana

Juvenile frog with tail (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sana sana culito de rana

Si no sanas hoy, sanaras manana

For those who are unfamiliar, this is a Spanish rhyme told to children when they get a bump/bruise/small cut. Loosely translated, “heal, heal, little frog’s ass, if it doesn’t heal today, it will heal tomorrow.”

Does this make sense? I don’t know, but lots of the rhymes and songs we sing to children don’t make any sense if we take them apart (Rock a bye, baby, anyone?) It’s a silly song, intended to distract and comfort with laughter. It always worked for my kiddos, Nerd Child would ask for “sana” instead of asking for a bandaid. When he began nursery school, that was his concern. What if I get hurt? Who’s going to do sana for me? We confirmed together that one of the teachers knew the rhyme, and all was well.

Frog+ (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Lately, it seems to me if my Friday Night Madness buddy is Fatigue, then I am Inertia. Yanno, that fabulous vaudeville act of the Upper West Side, “Fatigue and Inertia!” “Inertia and Fatigue!”

Vaudeville (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m trying. I have things, as we all do, that I force myself to do in order to motivate myself and feel better.

I get up and work out every day. Hell, I’ve done so many jackknives in the past several months it’s confusing to still see the middle aged broad looking back at me from the mirror.

Going to the beach makes me feel better. I believe I must have an unnamed chemical imbalance, that makes the salt air and salty foods give me a sense of well being. Nope, it isn’t solely the sun, my Vit D levels are fine, and lakes just don’t give me the same feeling. I try to get to the beach with Flower Child at least once a week during the summer. It helps her feel better too, part of her disorder makes her unable to sweat or self regulate her temperature, so being able to stay wet, and the (usually) constant breeze off the water is absolute joy for her.

Other things that used to be certain ways to make myself feel centered don’t work consistently anymore, like cooking, or cleaning the bathroom (I never said I wasn’t a quirky gal). Poor Husband.

I woke up today thinking how lovely it would be for someone to sing Sana to me; maybe then I would find my focus.

What do you do to counteract the blues?

Why Peripheral?

Why Peripheral?

Life on the edge sounds so exciting, glamorous. Except when it has nothing to do with sky diving, race car driving, espionage, or vampires. Sometimes the edge is crumbling, and what lies below is an abyss of bills, uncertainty, medical needs, caregiving, and desperation. Oh yeah, another feel good blog.

You know those fabulous apartments you’ve seen on tv and in the movies showcasing life in Manhattan? Luxury buildings that line the parks, brownstones on tree lined, historic side streets? They exist, but that isn’t me. We live in one of a series of buildings that went up in the late ’60s and early ’70s; designed to keep working class and middle class people in the city. The rent isn’t pornographic, but the overall cost of living in the city is so high that the grocery bill is. People earning $200,000 a year consider themselves middle class around here, and they aren’t far from wrong. Husband’s plan of getting into a smaller apartment in one of these buildings to then transfer to one large enough to accommodate us didn’t quite work out. So we’re 5 people, 2 dogs, and a reef tank in a 2 bedroom, 1 bath apartment. Jealous yet?

Yes, all the best restaurants, shops, museums, schools, and medical care, but we can’t patronize any of these. It’s kind of like being a two year old visiting at Elegant Grandma’s adults only condo, decorated in shades of white and ecru, “Don’t touch!” So yes, I live on the periphery of that Manhattan you see in the movies.

I used to write regularly, even considered myself a writer (though never a writ-ahhh). I dreamed of a beach house somewhere beautiful and clean. I imagined having enough, and being enough. Now that I’m forty thousand years old, I dream of eight hours of uninterrupted sleep followed by two days of peace.