fatigue

Never Again! oh, and happy Thanksgiving

Yesterday was miserable weather here. Rain to sleet to snow and back again, all day. Little Incredibly Dumb Dog ran to the couch after her 7am walk and did this.

Apparently taking her outside for 5 minutes in cold rain was cruel and unusual punishment.

I took the girl to school, came home, woke Nerd Child–because he’s home, yay!!!–went to two grocery stores, began prep work for Thanksgiving dinner, and prepped, and cooked, and prepped. Nope, not going to do this anymore. Next year, we are going out to eat. My spine has handed in her official resignation letter, she refuses to support me in the chopping, lifting, mixing, and standing required for Thanksgiving dinner anymore.

Of course, I mentioned this to Fatigue on the phone last night, and his response was he’s heard me say this before. Oh. Well, this time I mean it. Really. And I did get Husband, Nerd Child, and Art Child to help me with some of the snipping and chopping, loading and unloading of the dishwasher, washing pots. Of course being an idiot, I didn’t ask for help until my back was already screaming. Man Child stayed up at school this year, he’s busy and working. I missed him yesterday, and I’ll miss him more when we sit down to dinner, but he’s living his life, enjoying all the man child stuff I’m happy he can experience.

With fewer people at the table, I thought I’d share dinner with you, Fringelings.

Trying a different stuffing this year

Cornbread based. One day I’ll figure out how to cook stuffing for fewer than 20 people.

I skipped the yams entirely. Went with an old favorite of mashed gold potatoes and parsnips.

I like to pretend the parsnips make this a healthier choice.

Of course, the very first dish completed yesterday was dessert. Another old favorite, pumpkin marble cheesecake. I didn’t have it in me to drag the mixer out of the closet–it’s heavy! As it turns out, my cooling racks are nowhere to be found. You know those boxes you stick away when you move to a new place, with the intention of getting to them when you have time? I hope they’re in there. They have to be in there. I’ll find them eventually.

Gingersnap pecan crust

Turns out I can’t beat things by hand as smooth as I used to. Oops.

Want a slice?

Today I’ll do the rest. Nerd Child was kind enough to prep the Swiss chard for me. Ready, clean and waiting in bags.

Pretty, isn’t it.

When I gave up yesterday and sat down at the laptop with a glass of Bailey’s, I looked over at the couch:

Seriously. All day.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

And of course, because it’s obligatory:

Splintering

New floors

That’s what it feels like, this preparing to move and trying to find workers we can afford. I needed one thing to go smoothly, and this was it. We walked into the floor store, and I asked the guy to show me the least expensive hardwoods he had in stock. Excellent. Next day delivery, whee! The delivery guys even called when they said they would, and showed up on time. And that’s where the smoothness ended. Turns out the wood was in the wrong type of boxes, not packed correctly, or something. Because as they unloaded their truck onto the elevator, boxes were splitting and planks were spilling out. Off the elevator, more planks hitting the floor. Hi, new neighbors! No really, we’re quiet people, try not to hate us yet. Needless to say, lots of boards were damaged. This did make it easy for me to take some of the planks that didn’t have a box anymore and play puzzle on the floor.

And Art Child saw the piece. The perfect piece. She took it and placed it on the floor in what will be her room. Sure, the linoleum tiles currently in there are an excellent example of late ’60’s decor, but I don’t think we’ll miss them too much.

In the interest of budget and productivity, Husband took the wallpaper off of the bedroom walls. You never know what you’ll find behind wallpaper. You could find a hidden fortune, or maybe

just this.

I would pissercize my anxiety away, but I re-injured my back pulling old nails and hooks out of the walls. Ohhmmmm. I’ll just meditate on my future new tank. I’ve got the perfect spot all picked out.

Reef wall

Husband and I went to get little sample cans of paint colors this morning, and as I was hyperventilating, thinking of the work and cost ahead, this song came on the radio. I don’t think I’ve even heard it in twenty-five or thirty years. Not a soothing song, but I was soothed. Maybe it just threw me back all those years, to the many moves I’ve made, and how it’s always worked out. Besides, it’s Friday, and that’s always good.

Pissercize

Think I can trademark the name and be the new Jane Fonda? Jillian Michaels? No? How about Richard Simmons?

The point being I am still unable (will never be able?) to go back to my old yoga routine, or walk the same distances I was–until recently–able to walk. Oh, my back, she is old. But I needed to do something to get myself moving. I wouldn’t mind the weight gain if it hadn’t cut my wardrobe down from small to pitiful. And I still wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for my head. You know, the old advice about exercise releasing endorphins and being good for mood. For me it’s true, and I really, really needed to do something to work off some of the pissy factor. I found a yoga DVD specifically for back care. The workout is short, the poses are gentle, and they aren’t held for the usual amount of time. Bonus, it’s led by Rodney Yee, and I find his voice soothing.

Did I mention the chair?

Yes, it uses props, which I’ve never used before. A chair and a strap. Part of me feels like I’m cheating, and part of me is just grateful to have found a way to get back to a regular yoga routine. I don’t think this is doing a damn thing to whittle down the thickened waistline, but it is helping my head. This and some additional meditation exercises, I’ll be singing in no time (sorry, world). Pissercize, for the bitchy among us.

It’s helping enough so I went for my annual haircut this morning. Not only got my hair cut, but made the appointment in advance, so I was able to see the hairstylist who works magic with my mop, no easy feat.

Thank you, Frank!

An added plus–he’s fun, my age group, and very politely didn’t mention that the top of my skirt doesn’t actually close anymore. Maybe he didn’t notice, I kept my shirt untucked and over the waistband. It’s possible.

Still trying to figure out getting the work done on the new apartment. The price quotes we’ve received so far are literally exorbitant. The work that needs to be done on the walls is more than I can do, but I swear we’re talking about some plaster work to repair cracks/holes, and painting. No structural renovations. Thinking about the discussion re Brooklyn roots and Barbra Streisand’s new album as my hair was tamed, I’ve come to the realization that what/who I need is Dolly. As in, Hello.

Cross The Line

and hit the wall.

Because I’m more than a bit out of focus. I think about lines a lot. Don’t cross this line, don’t cross that line, balance on that one over there. Sometimes I feel like the lines shift, but do they really, or is it my perception–and oh! is that line on a fucking hill?

The line I’m thinking about this morning is, of course, writing and publishing. There’s a small group I’ve been spending some online time with. All talented and writing varied genres, all filled with optimism and hope. Different stages of pursuing publication, a couple who are self pubbing with thought and intention. Needless to say angst and self-doubts are part and parcel of writing, querying, and submitting, everyone takes turns pumping up whoever needs it most on any given day. Most of the members of this group are young, those who aren’t young are relatively new to the process. I don’t mean new as in still learning basic storytelling, but new as in less than 5 years of seriously pursuing publication.

I’m not young. Or new. At the moment I’m not writing or submitting. I still have several requested fulls out, but at this point any responses that come from them will be unexpected.

Am I the fly about to be captured, the trap that can only wait for food, or the blackened trap that needs to be removed before fungus sets in?

I don’t want any pep talks. I’m not angsting, thinking my words and stories truly suck. They don’t.

To me, worse than limping along to the battle cry of “I coulda been a contender” is the nonagenarian still waiting for their big break. Yes, I see/hear it. New York. Not that I’m ninety, or qualify for the senior discounted Metrocard, but still. I have to figure out if I’ve crossed the line from being patient and persistent to delusional.

There’s a part of my brain that will always be taking notes for future characters, will see that one moment, hear that one phrase that begins a story in my head. I will probably always write. I love blogging, I’ve enjoyed the experience of posting a couple of stories here on the blog, and suspect I will continue doing so every so often. But full length novels? Querying? Submitting? There’s a phrase I’ve heard a lot over the past ten years or so, maybe it was always there and didn’t come across my radar before, I don’t know–return on investment. Writing full length manuscripts, querying, submitting to the paying lit mags, these are things that require a lot of time, energy, work, and focus. I can’t help but wonder at this point if it’s a poor use of limited resources.

What to Do?

When you’re frustrated as hell with life and what is or isn’t happening? Today was going to be the day I ran away to the beach by myself, but due to more life and clouds, that won’t be happening. So. Shut the hell up and wander around the city with a camera.

We’ve had some really great, southern feeling storms recently. The kind that come through quickly, pour while the sun is shining or make afternoon feel like night.

: And look, here’s the spider!

Over to the east side yesterday, along 5th Avenue and wandering the eastern edges of Central Park.

For the record, this isn’t the type of dog walking I do. I walk one dog at a time.

The birds and the bees. Which reminds me–city pro tip: If you’re going to watch porn in a dark room at night, close your blinds. Oh, apartment life. It was really hot and humid in the afternoon, caught my attention to see the flowers in all the stages of blooming and dying on the same day.

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And then, at the end of the day, I sat on this bench, just outside the park. It’s a thing here in NY, you can “buy” a bench, and get a plaque attached with your name or the name of a loved one. I’m always intrigued, sometimes there’s a hint of a story, and you know this was someone who spent a lot of time enjoying park benches, other times I’m free to imagine whatever I’d like for the name attached. Many are “in memory of.” It’s unbelievably expensive, I looked into it about a year ago for a friend. In any case, on this one bench were two plaques, on the same slat. I wondered what the people who paid a gazillion dollars each to buy a bench thought of this. More than that, I wondered about who Mopsy is/was.

Hear That?

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.

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Happy Last Day of School!

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.

Possibility: A Pseudo-Lesson on Defensive Living

Crossing a threshold, maybe

Mrs Fringe and Husband were informed a 3 bedroom has opened up in the building. We’re going for it. Again. Sounds good, right?

It may or may not come through. We’ve been this close before a couple of times, and life happened. There’s a little part of me that’s crying. If it really comes through, and we take the apartment, it will cost us money, a lot of work, and acceptance that I’m not leaving New York anytime soon.

As I’m typing this, my little email notification popped up, there’s a new listing in Oahu! Yeah, yeah, I can and do dream. Why would I take this apartment if I know it takes me further away from leaving the city? Because for whatever life hasn’t taught me, I’ve learned a few lessons well. One of them is I don’t know what next year, next month, or even tomorrow will bring. So if there’s an opportunity in front of me now, I need to take it. Get it while you can and all that. And hey, a 3 BR apartment in Manhattan that’s practically affordable–not to be taken lightly. Besides, I made my buddy Mrs Smitholini promise about a million times that when I die, she’ll take my ashes to Hawaii. So eventually, in some form or another, I’ll get there.

I saw a neighbor earlier, she asked me if Big Senile Dog was still alive because she hasn’t heard him. He is, but the truth is when I woke up this morning I thought he wasn’t. As I’ve said before, he always wakes me up, cries until I get out of bed and go to the bathroom, and then he goes back to bed as soon as I start making my coffee. This morning he cried, but then stopped. All was quiet when I was in the bathroom so I went to check on him, and he was all curled up, not snoring, on his doggie-pedic bed. Still alive, but slowing down a little more each day.

I swear his jowls are sagging.

Yup, good and bad, life happens.

Here, a little fusion jazz for us all.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSksWyHsYw8

Gray Skies and Social Media Wallflowers

After a teaser of spring yesterday, this morning is pure damp and gloom.

This week I thought quite a bit about social media, the concept of “platforms” and followings, blogging and tweeting. Mostly tweeting, because so far it’s the thing I’m having the hardest time catching the rhythm of.

I keep saying this, but I just don’t get it. I hop on dutifully most days, but usually end up feeling like the girl who needs electrolysis and a better girdle at a 1961 dance. There are the cool kids, the nerdy kids, the popular rah-rah we’re running your student government kids, and the wallflowers. Then there are the spammers. Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop it! I will usually follow links from new followers, check out blogs, etc. But if you’re tweeting multiple times a day for days, weeks, months on end about how I should buy your book, just stop it. I will start to remember your name/title of book, but only to make a note not to purchase it. But they say it’s a good thing to do, have a Twitter account and tweet, so I keep trying. I favorite, I retweet, I reply, occasionally I send out a tweet. Somehow it isn’t shocking when no one cares what I ate for dinner. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s not going to be the thing that gets me/my writing noticed.

Is blogging going to help me? I have no clue. As I query, some agents want to know about “web presence,” a more common term than platform when querying fiction. My stats won’t make anyone drool, but hopefully won’t make them cringe, either. If anyone looks closely enough, I think it could help that I tend to have long term followers who are engaged (thank you!). Maybe an agent or two will like the content, think I’m someone they’d be interested in working with. Or *gasp* become a follower. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll click onto the blog and be disgusted by my appalling language. (If so, they probably wouldn’t be into my fiction, either.) Maybe they’ll think, “Wow, this woman is a fucking fruitcake, I’m steering clear.”

If you hadn’t noticed, I like blogging. Mrs Fringe isn’t an overnight sensation, but I’ve got Fringelings, and gather more on a weekly, sometimes daily basis. Many can relate to that feeling of living on the fringe. As a wannabe writer, I should be keeping a blog about writing. Yawn. Pretty sure I’ve said this before, but I find most blogs on writing to be tedious. Writers, their individual lives and processes? Interesting. A good blog with an thoughtful or entertaining voice will compel me to follow links and click the little buy button for a book. Does this make me a voyeur?

No longer needed (Photo credit: eric.r)

Could be. Blogging lets me ramble with no pressure. I look at the blogs that hit it big, and the blogs that barely get any views, and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, it’s hard to see why one way or the other. My buddy kk blogged about this yesterday. I enjoy different bloggers and blogs, like making connections through reading and commenting. I don’t read and comment as frequently as I did when I started. Honestly, it gets harder to do the more followers I have, and I apologize to those whose blogs I’m not stopping by often enough. Every view, every like, every comment is important and valuable to me, thank you. It’s a process, I’m learning the curve. So I’m saying to kk and anyone else trying to figure out this blogging thing, relax. Figure out what you most enjoy blogging about, the voice that feels the most comfortable.

It’s Friday again. Not sure if Fatigue will come for Friday Night Madness, his pup has been sick. But if he does, we’ll have dinner and our usual routine discussing the trials and tribulations of being a wannabe in New York, trying to make it; one pen/voice/monologue/dance routine trying to hold firm and be noticed among millions. Funny, because I grew up here, pretty much always lived here, I always knew I wasn’t special by virtue of being a wannabe, having a dream I didn’t want to give up. Maybe the internet and social media have done the same for everyone everywhere.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qm6IJIVWLT4

You Talkin’ To Me?

Put up yer dukes! (Photo credit: sirenbrian)

It seems like most everyone I know and see is either on edge, depressed, or downright cranky. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the beginning of Lent and people are adjusting to the lack of whatever they’ve given up, maybe it’s just me, like channeling like and all that.

For all the bad rap New York has had over the years, it’s a pretty civil town. I rarely see fights or arguments among the over 16 crowd–excluding drunken slurs.

Yesterday I saw three. One on my way to the subway, after dropping off Flower Child. One man was standing with his kiddo, yelling and cursing at a woman trying to catch a cab with her kiddo. Then, as I was getting on the train, another woman getting off the train was loudly berating a man standing by the doors for not getting out of the way quickly enough. Then in the afternoon, two men were all in each other’s faces. These weren’t young men or kids, these were two grown-ass men on a block filled with multi-million dollar brownstones, standing in front of a fancy juice bar getting up in arms about who pushed into who as they rushed down the street.

Is it something in the air?

Smog Over Louisville And Ohio River, September 1972 (Photo credit: The U.S. National Archives)

I went about my day, yoga, grocery shopping, picked up a bottle of wine and cooked. Husband got home early, Fatigue came over for Friday Night Madness, and we had dinner. Afterwards, Fatigue and I went out for coffee, chatted about budgets, dreams, and blues, and then each went home to walk our respective beasts.

On my way back into the building with the dogs, I noticed a guy a little bit behind me, also seemed to be on his way in. I held the door, and then he lagged, so I let go. Sometimes people don’t like to be that close to the dogs, sometimes someone wants to finish a conversation on their cell before entering the building, sometimes they aren’t actually coming inside at all, just waiting to meet someone. Whatever.

Now I’m waiting for the elevator, the same guy walks over, maybe 8 feet away from me, and he’s talking. I assume he’s talking on the phone. I give a half nod, turn back to watching the elevator numbers decrease. Then I realize he’s (now? the whole time?) talking to me.

“Don’t pretend to hold the door, lady. If you don’t want to hold it, fine, but if you’re holding it, hold it, don’t pretend. I don’t need that shit.” His tone is completely conversational. And then he keeps rambling.

WTF?

For the record, we’re talking about a very flimsy door, one of those little plastic and aluminum things that are put up in front of buildings and stores in NY in the winter to block some wind, try to save on heating costs. This is a healthy looking guy, certainly younger than me. I might even go so far as to think of him as a strapping young man. Ooookay. But I know not all disabilities are visible, who knows what story someone has?

At this point I’m not even annoyed, just mildly amused at finding myself in this bizarro moment. I’m not looking for a fight, I recognize his face as someone I run into every so often, not a big deal. I say something mildly neutral and conciliatory along the lines of, “hey, sorry, thought you were behind me.”

I expect this to end there. Nope. He keeps going, and is getting louder. Now it’s taking more to hold my beasts, because Big Senile Dog is still alert enough to get testy if he perceives a threat. My patience, and my sense of humor, are finished.

I’d like to tell you I was calm and mature to the end. When he started cursing me, I had enough. One clear “fuck you” from the frayed tips of my Brooklyn roots. Calm but not mature. Maybe this means the yoga is starting to have an effect.