family

What Was I Saying?

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.

Story of my fucking life.

Hey You: Story Time

Ahh, romance

I kept playing with that story. It started with the idea of a twisted nod to the pressures of “romance” and idealizing others. Sounds so modern, so 2014, right? Shakespeare wrote Romeo and Juliet over 400 years ago. You know the one where a 13 year old girl and a 17 year old boy decide they’re in love, and within days both of them and several others are dead. Who wants a glass of champagne?

While I was thinking about it and before I began writing it kept changing, of course. Filling in some parts and omitting others. I had the idea to put it in second person POV. For readers who aren’t writers and well past grammar classes, second person is when the protagonist is referred to as “you,” as opposed to “I” (first person) or he/she (third person). Not a popular narrative choice, it can be disastrous, calling attention to the fact that you’re reading a story (as opposed to getting lost in it) or, on rare occasion, it can work very well.

I’m still undecided as to how well it worked, but it was an interesting exercise for me. I’ve never tried it before, and it brought me very, very close inside the main character’s head, and left me feeling a little breathless, even while I felt the breath of the protagonist. Strange. And nice to stretch a bit while I created some new characters.

It’s got a touch of magical realism, which I might or might not leave in if I ever change or expand it, one of the bits inspired by a photo I took on the street recently of a dead rat next to a cigarette butt. I was going to put it here, but Husband tells me that would tip the scales from edgy to tasteless and gross. My gut tells me at least half of my readers would agree with him, so I’m leaving it out–I’ll let Husband know you all said thank you.

Tentatively titled “The One,” I’ve added a page above (cleverly titled Fiction II), you can reach it by clicking up top or the link right here.

Don’t Make Me Laugh

Seriously, it hurts. But I couldn’t stop myself from laughing a few times this morning. This is what I woke up to.

Feel like baking this morning?

The other night I made banana pancakes for dinner. Well actually, I made the batter and got them started, and then had Nerd Child make the majority, because I couldn’t stand upright to flip them. I also couldn’t reach to put the ingredients away, and haven’t paid enough attention to notice said ingredients were still on the counter.

Dumb freakin dogs. Why? I swear I feed those bozos every day, twice a day, and then they get treats multiple times per day in addition. 5:15 in the morning, I could barely walk, there was no way I could bend to sweep and wash the floors. And by no way, I mean physically no way. Over the years I’ve noticed the severity of many illnesses and injuries are contextual. In other words, if I had options, I’d have said I physically couldn’t get Flower Child to/from school the last couple of days. But there’s no choice, so in fact, I could and have done it, albeit slowly and painfully. But this? Even the thought of attracting roaches couldn’t get me to bend and stretch in the ways necessary to clean this up. Luckily Husband woke up when he heard me cursing, and got most of it.

Big Senile Dog went to his bed and kept his eyes away from mine, pretending he had nothing to do with it. Mmm hmm.

Who me? This isn’t flour, it’s umm, coke, yeah, it’s coke. The pugs down the hall threw this party and…

Ok. Now I’m on the couch, feet up and coffee in hand. Open my email and find a rejection for a query. Not just any rejection, but one that was so nice, personal, and friendly, I thought it was a request. Took me two times reading it through to realize it was, in fact, a rejection. I don’t think I’ve ever met this agent, it isn’t likely I wouldn’t remember, but maybe I have, the note seemed that friendly. Or maybe he follows Mrs Fringe.

I don’t know why it struck me as funny, but it did. Maybe it’s part of always being braced for “the worst,” as I go through the query process. Silly, because I have never experienced “the worst.” No one has ever responded to a query of mine in a way that was rude, disparaging, or questioned my abilities. And while I haven’t received any offers (yet!), I’m doing pretty well in terms of requests for more material.

This was turning out to be a banner day, and it wasn’t even 6am. Sometimes you really do have to laugh.

An hour later, Flower Child is awake and getting ready. And continuing a running conversation. The one where she tells me bits and pieces of her interactions at school. I’m continuing to pretend it’s possible to get socks on without bending.

“And you know what else he asked me.”

“Hmm, what did he ask you?”

“Is it true that white people don’t get cold? Why did he ask me that, what should I tell him?”

See what I mean about the universe conspiring, and having to laugh?

Scales of Mama

C major scale on guitar (Photo credit: Ethan Hein)

This morning I was chatting in an off-topic section of the writer’s forum, and the subject turned to musical instruments. One friend posted a photo of her dream flute. Very fancy. One friend posted a picture of her dream guitar. Funny enough, it happened to be a photo of my favorite guitar, a Gretsch. Yeah, I know I don’t play guitar (or anything else) but I love that hollow body sound. Then I told her about Nerd Child’s electric guitar, made for him by a super cool luthier in the East Village. One of those New York secrets, you have to have a referral, call and leave a message, appointment only, high quality for great prices.

Wish I had a better photo of it.

I began looking through my photos, trying to find a pic of Nerd Child’s guitar. I knew I had a few in a folder somewhere. I found them, but didn’t post or send them. Because then I just started looking through these photos, all downloaded from my old phone. And several videos, short clips of Nerd Child playing and singing.

He hates when I video him. He isn’t shy, never had or has a problem getting up on stage and performing. This is a kid who didn’t hesitate to quote Eminem when he gave a speech at his middle school graduation. In church. At the alter. Nothing inappropriate, but not what you’d call a shy choice. Nope. It’s a mom/kiddo thing. You know, “Mo-om.”

I adore each of my kids. They are individuals, and as such, I feel like I have an individual relationship with each of them. I cook and wax philosophical with Man Child. I can be smooshy and explore museums with Flower Child. Nerd Child is the one I was able to share my love of Stephen King with. Seriously, watching him read The Stand was pure Nerd Mama joy.

I spent a good chunk of the morning watching and listening to these little video clips, thinking about how much I miss him and feeling a bit ~~weepy~~ leaky. None of the videos are recent. I don’t care. He isn’t a hugger. I get it, neither am I–except for my kiddos. Yanno, I’m mo-om, so he doesn’t feel the same exception. But he’s got this rich, deep warm voice that makes me feel like he’s giving me a hug when he sings. His spring break is about to start but he’ll be gone for half of it, on a service trip to help build a house.

I’m happy he’s happy. We video chat when we can, or a quick note or link through Facebook, a text…but he’s busy up at school. That’s why he’s there, so he can do and experience all he wanted to do and experience. I’m lucky. He’s healthy, a good guy, grounded, great judgement, an excellent sense of humor. He’s beautifully supportive of my writing, I think he was genuinely happy for me when we spoke the other day and I told him about agent requests. But I miss his youtube playlists coming from the desktop while I grumble into my coffee and start the day, ranging from classic rock to classical, meringue, show tunes, rap, alternative. I miss him. I’m looking forward to him coming home and seeing my funky new glasses, raising that eyebrow and shrugging as he says, “If you like them, Mom.”

In The Eye of Ooo, That Girl is Ugly!

loudspeaker (Photo credit: tutam)

Do you know that voice? I grew up with it. My version of The Mirror in Snow White. First I was scrawny. Then I was scrawny with coke bottle glasses. Then I was scrawny with coke-bottle glasses and boobs before anyone else in my class. Then I stopped growing and everyone else started. I was certain I was hideous.

My mother, like so many of her generation and our neighborhood, was always looking at what came next. When you get contact lenses, you’re going to be so pretty. When your braces come off, you’re going to be so pretty. If you would wear a little make-up, you would look so pretty. If you would gain weight–oh my God, did you see that girl, she’s so fat! did you ever think of trying blonde, you know they have those colored contacts….

The thing is, I grew up. And I educated myself. And I got a wee bit political, aware of the unrealistic pressures put on women to look a certain way, act a certain way, the keep-women-under-your-bootheel history of so many of these expectations. And of course, the magic of make-up, photo processing tricks, and plastic surgery. All that stuff that makes the women on tv, film screens and magazines look like no human being can really look. I was not going to be stomped on by those pressures, the false gods of retail and advertising. But I still thought I was ugly.

A year or two ago I came across a picture of myself in my late teens. You know what’s funny? I wasn’t ugly. In fact, I looked pretty damned good. Like every other girl/young woman in their youth. Firm and smooth, a little overly made-up but ready to go kick some ass.

After a lifetime of being skinny, I’m now not. Still slim, just not skinny. I’m not sure I’m ok with it, but not bothered enough to get back to my yoga routine. I know myself well enough to know there’s a disconnect between what I see when I look down, the voice whispering from the mirror, and what the rest of the world sees. There have been three other times I haven’t been skinny, after the birth of each of my kids. Strangely enough, I never felt more attractive, never felt sexier, than I did during those times. I thought it was the extra weight. It was the fucking hormones. Oh those postpartum, breastfeeding hormones. I swear I might as well have woken up and snorted an eight ball every day. I didn’t have postpartum depression, I had postpartum euphoria. Life is wonderful, my babies are wonderful, your babies are wonderful, I’m beeyootiful! evidenced by my beautiful babies.

Spiegel 1963 maternity bras (Photo credit: genibee)

I was not going to raise my kids with that other bullshit. I was going to let them know how beautiful they were, all the time, no matter what. Lucky for me, that’s been the easy part, they are, in fact, the three most beautiful people in the world. I know, it’s strange, because you’re sitting there thinking your children are the most beautiful people in the world. I was going to point out the politics behind false advertising, what matters and what doesn’t, what’s real and what isn’t. Because the whole concept of ugly is bullshit, dictated by others (except, of course, for me). That was going to take care of that voice.

All of the women like myself were arming themselves with awareness of what to say and not say to their children. But none of us raised our children in caves, and society’s focus on the external gets in. Generation after generation of kids (girls and boys) coming home talking about who called who ugly, who has good hair, who’s too fat, too skinny, too tall, too short, too light, too dark, nose too big, nose too flat, eyes too small, eyes too big. Who am I kidding? It’s already in. In the way I don’t like to look at myself in the mirror, buy jeans that are too large because when I’m looking online I’m certain that I’m two sizes bigger than I used to be, in the way no matter who says it, no matter how many say it, I don’t see a hint of myself in any of my kiddos’ faces.

Several years ago I was sitting in a dr’s office with Flower Child, who was having a particularly rough stretch medically, no answers in sight. Dr Ologist shrugged and said, “But she’s beautiful.”

What? Did I mishear? Did that medical degree come from the Maybelline factory? What a fucking world, where even specialologists see this as something to offer. I was stunned, wanted to scream. Pretty sure I cried on the way home instead. Once again, fucking hormones.

With salt and pepper hair and skin that’s become intimately acquainted with gravity, now I’m more comfortable with who I am and how I look, but it would be nice if that voice wasn’t even a whisper.

It isn’t that I don’t think appearances matter. They do. How you’re dressed, if you’re clean, style…these things tell others about you. How you see yourself, how you’d like to be perceived, what is or isn’t important to you, maybe what type of job you have. But beauty is a whole different thing.

The standards and definition of beauty change. But the message of you aren’t this hasn’t.

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

That’s what I think of, when I think of Valentine’s Day. Remember that scene from The Rose? Bette Midler playing a Joplin-esque character, breaking down on stage as she tries to croak out Let Me Call You Sweetheart. That and the fact that St. Valentine is the patron saint of epilepsy. Ya caught me, a true romantic. I’m also allergic to roses.

flowers for Flower Child. We need the pop of color during this endless stretch of gray and snow.

Husband is away, so we won’t be doing our normal Valentine’s Day celebrations. Oh wait, we don’t normally do anything. I don’t think we ever have done anything special for VD. We just aren’t that couple, never were. We’re both bad at stuff like that, cards, remembering specific dates, anniversaries. How many years are we married, Husband? I think it’s 43,000 years, but I could be off by a year or two. We’ve known each other for-ev-er, were friends for a long long time before anything else.

I think without getting into the realm of the spiritual, after my insane devotion to my children, I believe in the healing and strengthening powers of friendship more than anything else on earth. Friendship can come from our significant others, siblings, children, parents, classmates, workmates, online, any of the many places we humans interact. I’m very lucky to have some wonderful friends in my life, and wish that everyone could say they have at least two great, long-term friends.

Too many people are out there feeling they are alone, and “holidays” like this one seem to magnify those feelings of loneliness.

So it feels fine for Husband to be off doing his thing on Valentine’s Day, and for me to not-celebrate by having Fatigue over for Friday Night Madness. Because…friendship. In honor of low days, snowstorms, downwardly mobile lives and overly commercialized holidays, I decided comfort food is in order for tonight.

That’s right, mac n cheese. My version of macaroni and cheese involves whatever cheeses I happen to have in the fridge.

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Feel free to come join us at the cyber table, Fringelings, I’ve even got a few beers on the terrace. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Oh Mama!

This winter is feeling very, very long. I’ve barely taken my boots off in the last six weeks.

Sure they’re ugly, but they’re warm and dry.

You know I’m just waiting for beach season, but this morning it occurred to me we’re nowhere near the end of winter. Blargh. So I thought about what’s been good. Writing and editing have been very good.

Continuing to try and capture a sharp from the terrace moon pic…not as good, but getting there. This was from this morning, somewhere between 5:30 and 6am.

But not bad, getting closer.

Flower Child began art classes, excellent. Man Child has been home, which has been beautiful. He hasn’t been home for a good length of time since last winter, and I’m thoroughly enjoying having him here. He helps out, he cooks and bakes (really, really well), and he makes me laugh. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I like my kids.

Woke to fresh, home baked by Man Child cinnamon rolls the other morning…bliss.

His goal, for his time at home this winter involved driving. New York kids aren’t as driving focused as teens in other areas, so it isn’t unusual that he didn’t get a license as soon as the law allowed. But now it just makes sense, he’s been spending more and more of his time up North, and who knows where he’ll go when he graduates. So he got his learner’s permit within days of being home, and has been practicing. If staying up North is a consideration, this was certainly the winter to learn on, plenty of opportunity for finding out about driving in snow and ice.

Today he went to take his road test. Like any mother, I felt compelled to give last minute words of wisdom. With a song.

Comma Coma

Like a gazillion little commas.

Since finishing the draft of Astonishing, I’ve been worthless. Seriously, it sucked it all out of me. I know there is editing to do, revising to do, but I’ve yet to even sit and do a read through. And there is always editing/revisions to be done. If nothing else (ha!) I’ve got to address those pesky commas.

They know I adore them, know I won’t notice until later, so they sneak in, get fruitful and multiply between the pages of text. Each one a little love note to my fevered writing brain, slow down and think. Some say our mutual love is unnatural, I say we’re misunderstood. I want to keep each and every one, stop trying to get between us! Unless you’re an agent with interest and publishers in mind in which case ptooey i will stomp out those little marks like roaches revise the text into one long stream of consciousness

My love of this pedestrian punctuation is so great, Man Child penned an ode to us:

And,so,I,saw,no,shadow,from,anoth,r,parting.,In,my,youth,growing,up,as,a,young,boy,in,rural,K,ntucky,,I,r,m,mb,r,my,dog,,lassi,.,Lassi,,was,d,licious,dog,and,it,was,quit,,sad,wh,n,w,,had,to,,ast,h,r,out,of,n,c,ssity.,And,so,th,,sun,ros,,on,Notr,,Dam,,onc,,again!,Th,,gargoyl,s,w,r,,afoot,and,th,,ghostbust,rs,nowh,r,,to,b,,s,,n.,My,fri,nds,and,I,w,r,,fr,qu,nt,rs,of,th,,automobil,,shop,sp,cializing,in,ch,vy,,mon,ch,ri.,And,so,th,,girl,aft,r,having,com,,hom,,from,school,d,cid,d,to,wast,,tim,,idly,b,,at,th,,couch,in,st,ad,of,addr,ssing,th,,pr,ssing,cup,of,t,a,that,h,r,moth,r,d,r,ast,was,bringing.,Th,,t,a,is,known,as,African,d,w,for,it,is,produc,d,northw,st,rn,costa,rica,,which,is,in,south,Am,rica.,How,v,r,,aft,r,y,ars,of,studying,wat,r,charts,and,w,ath,r,patt,rns,on,,might,r,aliz,,that,th,,d,ws,from,Africa—ov,r,th,,cours,,of,millions,of,y,ars—,v,ntually,migrat,,from,to,south,Am,rica;,wh,r,,my,d,ar,fri,nd,Z,is,curr,ntly,r,siding,with,h,r,moth,r,,,xploring,th,,and,s.,FC,got,a,pap,r,cut,today.

There are others who would like to get between my love and I, citing disdain for my little Oxfordian friend, who toss around slanderous words like redundancy. Jealous, they’re all just jealous, wishing they had the freedom of intimacy, the long history we share.

If you couldn’t tell from my ramblings, my sleep has been a bit off for the past few days. Friday night I was snoring by 9:30. Unfortunately that left me wide awake at 3:30 Saturday morning. I thought by last night, I would be able to not only get a normal night’s sleep, I would get to sleep in this morning–MLK day, Flower Child has no school. And then I could be productive today, do my read through, maybe even make notes for when I’m ready to begin revisions. But no, my phone rang at 5:30. “Hello. Hello!” No one there. Crap. Then I had to pee. Double crap. Once I get up, I’m up, doesn’t matter if I had 2 hours or 8 hours of sleep. For the record, it wasn’t the phone ringing, it was my alarm. I forgot to turn it off, it’s set to go off automatically on weekday mornings.

Maybe I will be able to read through today. Maybe not. I’ve been thinking this could be the perfect opportunity to get back to a regular Yoga routine. It would be, if I didn’t have the motivation of a slug.

One of the things I like about waking early is seeing the sun rise. My apartment faces east, a beautiful way to have my first (or second) cup of coffee, on the terrace. I’ll share today’s.

Are you ready?

Looks like a promise of a good day, no?

Breaking News: Cold in NY, in January

Yeah, I know, this is more than the usual cold. Pretty sure the meteorological term is fucking freezing. Or en español, frio con cojones. But first it was strangely warm, and we saw a spectacular sunset as the temperature plummeted yesterday evening.

The view facing east, sun reflecting off of the buildings.

This being NY, nothing stops for weather (-12 windchill be damned) so it was school and business as usual today. I had an appointment that I expected to take about an hour.

Bring on the leeches!

After a quick consult, I was sent to the lab. Except the usual lab was closed for renovations, so I had to bundle up and head outside to walk closer to the river, and then register to wait. To register insurance info. And then wait for a broken printer which wasn’t fixed. And then register for the actual lab part of the lab. And then wait. And wait. Free entertainment, something broke on an upper floor causing flooding, and I was treated to an hour of alarms and flashing lights. This is a hospital and lab that is crazy crowded under the best of circumstances. Add in sub freezing temps outside (lots of accidents, illnesses, and people just looking for anything that will get them out of the cold), the second lab of the hospital being closed, and chaos on another floor, and well. Sigh.

I’ll admit, met a nice bunch of folks all talking about (surprise!) the weather. One reminded me of one of my mother’s friends, very elegant older woman there with her daughter for pre-op fun. I started to worry that I wouldn’t make it home on time to pick up Flower Child. I said this out loud (why?) and the group prodded me to go into the lab and tell them. When the lab tech came out and called my name, I stood up and this small group cheered for me. Not kidding. NY is never more wonderful than when faced with a challenge/crisis–be it natural or manmade.

I felt worst for the phlebotomist, the inner rooms of the lab were so cold, my hand was literally blue as she took my blood. I was only in there for five minutes, I can’t imagine how that woman was keeping her hand steady in the middle of an 8 or 12 hour shift. Thank you! After a mere four hours, I was on my way to the subway.

The show might go on, but the streets are strangely empty today. No one is loitering outside, everyone is bundled up and hurrying to be indoors. The streets along the hospital are usually lined with panhandlers/homeless. I didn’t see one today, and I’m glad, it means they’re all inside somewhere. Even the pigeons are suspiciously absent.

Just about everyone is as bundled as they can be and still navigate the steps down to the station. I saw two exceptions. One, a woman running to the train this morning in a short skirt and heels, no tights at all. Umm, honey, I know bare legs are awesome, but no one was admiring your daring. And another on the train, sure she was cute in her short peacoat and no hat. Young women always look good. But psst,

you would have looked just as cute in boots. At least put a pair of socks on.

I took note of the empty benches in the street and waiting for the light to change when I noticed this:

Sometimes I really don’t want to know.

I’m just ready to be done for the day, and join Big Senile Dog on his tempurpedic.

Warm and cozy.

Pick-Up

You know those friendships. We all have them. Pick-up friendships. The people you don’t see, or don’t speak to, or don’t see an email/post from for months and months, and then when you do it’s like you saw them last week and it feels so…good. They are the sweetness in life that leave us smiling, seemingly small but full blessings within the frustrations and drudgery of day to day life.

I saw one of those friends this evening, Honor, and in fact I think it was from him that I first heard the expression, of friendships being like a game of pick-up basketball you find on the public playgrounds of the city. Just walk onto the court and start playing. He was a teacher of Man Child’s years ago, and over the years became a friend to Man Child, a friend to all of us. I call him Honor because he is one of those rare people who lives his principles, always kind, always thoughtful. He was raised by a mother who believes you never show up at someone’s house empty handed. Old fashioned? Yup. Unnecessary? Absolutely. And completely lovely.

A frigid, snowy night. Could there be a more perfect gift?

After a little catching up, Honor, Man Child, and Miss Music left to go out for dinner. They went to a local restaurant that’s about to close. Priced out of the neighborhood after more than thirty years. Oh New York. I’m sorry I won’t get the opportunity to go in before they’re gone, but I didn’t realize they were closing in time to plan. Ah well.

I didn’t get to have my favorite sandwich one last time, but Flower Child and I were treated to our favorite live music.

Thank you, Nerd Child!

Now all is quiet. I’m just watching the snow coming down, waiting to hear if the public schools will be closed tomorrow. Thinking about the WIP, turning a few ideas over in my mind. Tomorrow I write. And continue avoiding the mirrors, I got my hair cut today. Blech.