fatigue

Poser!

Venecian Masks (Photo credit: ChaTo (Carlos Castillo))

This morning I made Flower Child scrambled eggs for breakfast. She thought it was her lucky day. Nope, I didn’t get to the grocery store yesterday morning, and that’s all I’ve got. The last two slices of bread are for her lunch. I would have made a smoothie, but there’s brown crap running from the faucet this morning, and the blender is still sitting in the sink waiting to be washed from Nerd Child’s smoothie yesterday morning. This also means I didn’t want to make another bowl dirty by beating the eggs first. What the hell, mixing them in the pan with the spatula is the same thing, right?

Fake it ’til you make it. Kinda sorta.

My motto is probably more along the lines of fake it ’til it’s bedtime. Out of standard, practical for a school day breakfast fare? Scrambled eggs. Haven’t done laundry? Wear dress clothes. “Oh, Mrs Fringe, look at you! Doing something fun/special/important today?” Why yes, yes I am. Pretending I haven’t worn every last t-shirt I own. Except for that Dallas Cowboys one circa 1981 with very inappropriate holes worn through it, that for some reason I never toss when getting rid of old clothes.

Feel like crap? Makeup. Double crap, can’t remember where I last put my makeup bag.

Gained some weight over the winter and too lazy to work out? God bless the designer who decided empire waists should come back into style (five years ago is too still in), along with seamstresses of flowing skirts and A-lines.

Housewife (Photo credit: garryknight)

Doubting that you’ve pulled off or can pull off a fun, light beach read type novel, cause let’s face it, you aren’t all that fun and lighthearted? Keep going, start the next one, only have this one be dark, not fun, and not likely to be spotted on the boardwalk. Wait, this doesn’t quite fit with the equation, does it? Hmm, well, at least I’ll have a writah-ly-type excuse when this one doesn’t sell. Angst isn’t for everyone, after all.

Given that I’m so fucking excellent at faking it, I can’t imagine why I haven’t yet made it.

1001 Questions of Mamaing

Happy Saturday, Fringelings!

It’s been an exhausting week for me, lots of ups and downs, how about you? Two highlights. One, Nerd Child is home for the summer, hooray! It was a seventeen hour day yesterday, much of it spent driving in torrential rains that seemed to call for an ark, but he’s home.

What’s the other highlight? SnapinTime, from The Voice from the Backseat very generously donated her limited time to watermarking some of my photos of Flower Child’s artwork, so I could share it here. Thank you, Snapin!

I love looking at art, and so does Flower Child. We’ve spent quite a bit of time in museums together. My sweetie has a real talent. It’s newly discovered, or perhaps it would be better stated to say newly unlocked. I can’t say why, for sure, but it emerged after receiving an iPad to use for schoolwork. Is it the preservation of energy (a precious and finite resource)? Excessive fatigue is one of the most, if not the most, debilitating features of her struggles. I don’t know, but as a mama who watches her struggle with so much–yet she always holds on to the positive–and as a person who is hard pressed to draw a stick figure, this work makes me weep, literally.

: angel

: truncated tree, with color

: dog and bird on a branch

: tree

: woman sleeping

: branch and moon

: Nerd Child

: woman with dreds

Flower Child is indeed, special. Her thoughts take twists and turns that can be difficult to follow, and clarity is connected to how she’s feeling physically. The drawing of the dog and bird looks like it was done by a different person, no? This was a work she produced last weekend, when she was unwell and “crashing,” as we call it, for lack of a better word. Not completely crashed, because then she’s hard pressed to hold a pencil. After several hours of rest, sleep, and her evening meds, she produced “woman with dreds.”

I’m hoping to figure out a way to get her art lessons this summer. We need someone who will be flexible and ok with these inconsistencies, and sympathetic to the &*$#% budget.

Braggage: Warning, Sap Ahead

No Whining (Photo credit: bepositivelyfit)

I do quite a bit of whining here, if you hadn’t noticed. I happily tell you I’ve got plenty to whine about. It’s a life, like anyone else’s, and I’ve got a few bright spots too. The beauty of a novel that makes me cry because I’ll never write anything as masterful, getting to know a new friend, writing a story, a scene, a sentence I’m proud of, the mango I cut open this morning that was absolutely perfect.

But most braggage centers around my children. I’m broke, overcrowded, overtired and frustrated, but in so many ways I hit the lottery when it comes to my kids. They’re good people, all three of them.

Man Child isn’t coming home for the summer. I miss him like crazy, but he has a wonderful job opportunity–one that came from his hard work. the good impression he makes on others, and the fact that he has proven himself to be trustworthy and a hard worker.

Nerd Child comes home next week. I’m a lot more excited about this than he is. The fancy shmancy school he attends has turned out to be a perfect fit for him. Yesterday he called and told me he won an award for character and leadership.

Earth (Photo credit: tonynetone)

Flower Child couldn’t be sweeter than she is. She cares about the world and all of the people in it, honestly confused as to why people ever do harmful things to each other and the earth.

I woke up thinking about this stuff, feeling okay. Summer has arrived here in NY, ooh, bliss of a comfy old summer dress and flip flops. I even decided to spend a few hours pretending if I spent long enough Googling, I’d figure out how we’d be able to move to a beach town where we could afford a house, find employment, and have good health care for Flower Child.

Lily Tomlin (Photo credit: Larry He’s So Fine)

Instead of knock knock, my reality announces itself with a ring. First, my pharmacist called. Yes indeed, we have a close enough relationship that he called to say hey Mrs F, it’s Pharmacist, I’ve got a Led Zeppelin CD here for you that you and Husband are going to love. Ring ring, hi Mrs Fringe, it’s pediatrician’s office, the second round of paperwork for Nerd Child’s summer program is here for you to pick up. Yah, great, thank you so much, I’ll be there. First I’m going to try to finish the edits I’ve been trying to get through. Ring ring, Mrs Fringe? This is super special futuristic lab doing the next round of genetic testing the puzzle doctor ordered, we need your credit card information before we start running any of the tests. Fringelings, I can’t tell you how I love hearing other writers smugly announce that if writing is truly important to you, you can and do make time every day. Ring ring, Mrs Fringe, this is Puzzle Doctor’s office to confirm Flower Child’s appointment for next week. That appointment was canceled. No, you’re still on the schedule. It was supposed to be canceled. Well, we’ll have to speak with Puzzle Dr assistant and find out, I’ll call you back, ok, Mrs F? Sure.

Flower Child wasn’t feeling well this afternoon/evening. Not feeling well in a way that makes me nervous, but not a crisis. I was supposed to meet Fatigue, Husband was home, I was only going across the street for an hour…so I did. The day started out so promising, damn it–I wanted that feeling back! If you were wondering, the nectar of the gods is a cold glass of gin and lemonade. Until the stranger sitting next to you begins eating your french fries. Then it’s just time to give up. It’s a life, and tomorrow is another day.

Riveting, A Literary V-8

Edward_Lear_A_Book_of_Nonsense 115.jpg (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As mentioned often, I haven’t had a day off in years. Some days contain more suckage than others. Today, not starting off so well. I got up and decided to make blueberry muffins for breakfast. Flower Child choked on a piece of kale during dinner last night, freaked out, not much was eaten, therefore I wanted to be sure she would really eat this morning. No one else was up yet, I was able to make the batter and get them in the oven. Another often touched on point here in Fringeland, I have a teeny, tiny kitchen. Rules out cooking or baking anything that involves needing a lot of space, and involves regular accidents, because I’ve got about 8 inches of counter space to work with. Got the muffins in the oven without incident, washed what I used for prep, ignored the pot and dishes still in the sink from last night. Time to get those muffins out of the oven. First tray, balanced on top of the stove. Second tray, on the lilliputian amount of space on the dining room table that isn’t used as Husband’s office (read, overflowing with papers, pens, and crap). I now want to slide the rack back inside the oven, which of course, resulted in the first (full) tray flipping off of the stove and half of the muffins flying out and decorating the kitchen. Sigh.

Historical Oven cooking depicted in a painting by Jean-François Millet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flower Child is now up, curled on one end of the couch under a blanket, and waiting anxiously for the muffins not covered in dog hair and drool to cool off. I sit on the couch with my laptop and my coffee. After a little bit, I tell her she can take a muffin. She throws her blanket off, and my coffee spills onto the couch, the floor, my phone, and my book. Fuuuuuck! For the record, she’s been standing in front of the muffins for twenty minutes now, waiting for me to tell her which muffin to take, afraid to move at all despite the fact that I told her six times to just pick one. I don’t want to look at them anymore. Husband woke up, looked in the kitchen, and asked if I made scrambled muffins for breakfast.

So, what to do when you need to escape life and you can’t actually have a day off? Read, and try to pretend your couch doesn’t reek of cafe con leche. I was thinking about books and reading this morning, anyway.

What makes a novel great? And I mean fantastic, enduring, cross genre and cross generational. The type of book that you either can’t put down, or have to put down every so often so the perfect line of prose you just read and reread can be examined, dissected and allowed to swim through the synapses of your brain until it’s coming out of your pores like the morning after a night of drinking cheap vodka.

I think it’s when the story is so clear but so flexible you not only want to be the main character, or in that world, you can apply it to yourself in your world, your life. Open for interpretation, if you will, allowing for projection. Kind of weird, because many of my favorite novels involve stories and lives I wouldn’t really want, they’re tragic. But I can feel them. And you, opening the book with a different viewpoint, different life experiences, different locale, different socio-economic background, can see yourself in that main character, in that story, and feel them too.

I don’t want to say ambiguous, because that has negative connotations, and too often makes readers think of torturous works of literature assigned by pompous and musty professors. You know the ones, they smell like my couch. Personally, I’m ok with ambiguous, especially ambiguous endings, but many aren’t. They want to know there is a happy ever after for Joe Smith, or maybe they want to see Mrs Fringe get her comeuppance. Maybe the story, the character, needs to be pliable. Something that has it’s own form, shape, and limits, but can be stretched through a reader’s brain to mold to individual interpretations.

I’m going to make more coffee and give Flower Child a muffin. Tell me what you think.

English: Constellation of Literature pavilion in the Temple of Literature, Hanoi. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Happy Mother’s Day–to all the Fringelings

Flowers for all the Mommies

If you hadn’t noticed by now, I’m not generally a fan of the “Hallmark” holidays. But I have to admit, Mother’s Day can be kind of nice. Today is extra nice on several levels. One, after a spectacularly crappy week, it’s a better day. Friday showed a glimmer of light, yesterday showed promise, and today is a good day. I hope all of you are feeling the same.

Husband read the note I left on the chalkboard, and gave me a couple of much needed and much appreciated gifts. Both boys were in touch with me yesterday, to be sure they didn’t forget to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day.

Flower Child had a rough week, and so did I. There’s the obvious–if she isn’t doing well I’m nervous and holding my breath, my brain hurts with all the coulda-woulda-shouldas and general foot stomping unfairness of life. But she’s smiling and perky now, working on her art and a vision of love.

And then of course, there’s revision hell, which grew to include query writing hell. You know that little voice in your head that whispers, who the fuck are you kidding? You can’t pull off a traditional romance, that’s for woman who are sweetness and light and roses; not women who hope for sleep, a new alarm clock, and money to get their legs waxed. Not for women who were told their last romance was well written, good characters, but just a little too far off the beaten path.

The way I see it, I enjoy writing. Even with an eye towards success and publication, it’s important for me to enjoy it. Not every last aspect, but overall, it should be pleasurable, like Mama-ing. You should be able to weather the difficult or boring parts and stay strong throughout, knowing there will be release, relief, and an ability to hold onto the good days and moments of pure love, so you don’t actually run away or give up when the next hard part comes along. At the moment, no one is paying me for writing any more than I’m being paid for the Mom gig, so the motivation and reward has to come from the act of doing, and hope for eventual external validation. As a Mom, that external validation will (hopefully) include a positive, healthy relationship with adult kiddos. As a writer, the external validation will (hopefully) include a dollar and a contract.

Between internal angst, hammering out query thoughts at the writer’s forum, and pushing through, I’ve come to realize I need to shift the focus of my manuscript, a little. Basically, still the same story, but ultimately not a romance. I’ll keep the strong romantic elements, but focus on my heroine and her challenges and obstacles outside of the relationship. I still want it to be a fun read, this isn’t meant to be a navel gazing allegory on the ills of society (I’ve got my lit fic short stories for that, along with an unfinished manuscript that may or may not ever be completed), but this feels better.

I hope everyone is having a day of peace, or beauty, or whatever it is that lets you feel tomorrow might be okay.

Photos from time in Central Park last weekend with Flower Child.

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And one more, a super bonus surprise sent to me from Nerd Child, delivered yesterday afternoon.

I’m all gooshy inside, wouldn’t you be?

First Draft Purgatory

End of the road (Photo credit: benuski)

Today I finished the first draft of my WIP. I would happy dance, but I’m too drained. I feel like I’ve been wrung out and run over by a truck. Wouldn’t be so bad if you would be so kind as to hold off on throwing it in reverse and running me down again.

It’s been too long since I’ve done this. Funny, I remember it feeling…different, when I’ve completed first drafts before. More yippee! and less holy shit, I’m going to spend forever in revisions! Forcing myself to push through and keep writing until I had a complete draft was a good thing, but it leaves me looking at a lot more work that *needs* to be done.

For every manuscript, I have a corresponding composition book. This is where I first begin notes; character sketches, motivation, plot lines, rough outline, and a quick sentence or two for every scene as I go along. It’s also where I write down ideas I want to revisit, possible plot holes, thoughts for details to enhance Chapter 6 when I’m already in Chapter 14. So going back to edit and revise, not a new concept. I’ve got plenty of notes, ideas, and questions to address. But I’m going to have to look very carefully at my female main character in the second half of the manuscript.

Tragic (Photo credit: Tanya Dawn)

There’s a scene at the end where she’s wondering if she’s about to get dumped, and as I was writing it, part of me was thinking, “Yes! For the love of God, dump her! She’s a great big yawn.” I’m no expert, but that isn’t a good sign. I’m definitely going to have to look at what happened to her in that second half.

For the next few days, though, I’m not even going to open the file. Maybe I’ll rest. Or give Little Incredibly Dumb Dog a bath. Then I should be able to start catching up with the blogging friends on my blog roll. Soon enough, I’ll be out of Purgatory and into Revision Hell.

El Purgatorio (1890). Óleo sobre tela 339 x 256 cm. GAN.Cararas – Venezuela. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Knock Knock

Knock the Door ! (Photo credit: Elias Pirasteh)

Busy writing, busy reading, busy mamaing, busy stressing.

And a bit blue. Probably from all the busying of daily life nonsense, and the need for warmer weather to stay for more than three days. I’m not even going to mention continued problems maintaining a signal to stay online, and the fact that it took 3 hours to post this.

Last week, Man Child confirmed he’ll be staying in the area of his school this summer, he’s got a great job offer. Fabulous on so many levels. Not least of which because that’s my goal as a parent; independent, happy, thriving kiddos. Then he called needing some information because he was on his way to the ER, a kitchen accident.

Evidence – Screaming Woman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He was treated, all is well, he even had a long weekend to recuperate. I asked if he wanted to come home for a few days, rest, visit, etc. No, he had plans. No problem, take care of yourself, have fun, rest. This is what I want for him, right? Right?

I love being a mama. I love my kids. I even like my kids. I’m a human being, I have made mistakes as both a person and a parent, but mostly, I feel like I do a decent job. In our house, we don’t run with the assumption that parents and teens/young adults are natural adversaries with different goals. Objectively, I think it’s worked out pretty well so far.

But add over-busy to writing angst, stress, Flower Child missing her brothers, blueness, thinking of how many months before I see Man Child…well, mama brain goes into overdrive. Maybe no matter what decisions Husband and I made, no matter how we tried to parent, we can’t do anything to avert the stereotypical outcome of our kids never wanting to visit, cataloguing our mistakes and couldn’t-dos…. Maybe he’s never coming to visit again!

Okay, okay. Stop being a drama mama, suck it up, be happy that he calls. Plant some new seeds with Flower Child, think about what kind of cake she’d like for her birthday later this week. Flower Child and I were doing our Sunday stuff. I’m sweeping the floor, and the front door opens. Husband hasn’t been feeling great, oh crap, he must really be sick if he left work.

I look up from my pile of dog hair and

Surprise!

It’s Man Child and his friend, Miss Lovely Music. Just for the afternoon, Flower Child and I showed off our microscopic seedlings, they sat for a bit and then they went downtown to run a couple of errands. Came back, chatted a little while more, and then left to surprise Husband for a few minutes at work before heading back to school.

That’s a long drive and a lot of gas money for two broke college students who had to be back at school last night, with no way of knowing if I would have cash to reimburse them (I did and I did).

Thank you.

sunrise (Photo credit: Sean MacEntee)

Hear That?

It’s the sound of Mrs Fringe having a quiet day.

Black Sand Beach, Maui (Photo credit: szeke)

In my mind, the scene above is where I am today. And man, do I need it. This neverending winter has felt torturous.

But, Spring Break started for Flower Child at 2:35 yesterday afternoon, and Nerd Child is home for another week, so it counts as Spring Break for me, too. In the spirit of the day, Big Senile Dog decided to start us off right by peeing all over the apartment last night. In case you were wondering, I don’t call him Senile for no reason. Occasionally, these days, he forgets the protocol for when and how to void his bladder. He isn’t the biggest dog, but he is sizable, and has a bladder appropriate for an elephant.

A busy week this week. I did a fair amount of work on the WIP, submitted eek!!! two short stories, picked up a mountain’s worth of dog poop, all the usual Mama stuff, and had a conversation with the puzzle doctor without crying, pretended I’m moving to New Hampshire and saw some fabulous real estate porn, managed to keep my brain inside my skull despite the ongoing jackhammering on my corner. Great success. To reward myself, I made an extra pot of French Press this morning, and spent the last two hours reading.

Reading (Photo credit: – Annetta -)

Just reading. No research, no Facebooking, no crushing myself with literature I’ll never measure up to, just a nice read. What else would one do lying on an empty beach?

At some point this week, I read about Michelle Shocked’s rant in California. I liked her back in the day. Didn’t love her, but I had a couple of cassettes with her music. I wasn’t shocked that she’s now found religion, and embraced a different outlook along with it–to put it mildly. She isn’t the first, won’t be the last. There’s a difference though, between someone who changes their views, actions, or even their beliefs, with age, time, and their personal experiences and someone who can’t commit to who they are now or admit who they were way back when. It made me wonder, who are/where are the young women we can look at and admire now? Odd, isn’t it, the things that can trigger sadness for lost youth, commitment, and passion?

Gawd, I’m maudlin today.

Imma go put some Patti Smith on the iPod. I would dance along, but I’m afraid to get Big Senile Dog excited, since I’ve only got three paper towels left.

Dog Poop Picker Upper

Poop Scooping Bag Instructions (Photo credit: reinvented)

Last night I was out with Fatigue for Friday Night Madness. While we waited for our beers to arrive, we caught each other up on the bits and pieces of the last couple of weeks since we were last out. I talked at him, telling him what’s happening with my writing, he talked at me, telling me what’s happening with his singing. A nice evening, the bar wasn’t too crowded, all our favorite waitresses were working, and as usual, the customers were a cross section of our neighborhood. $16 a pint hipsters sitting at one table with a table of $5 pitcher drinkers next to them.

I was pleased to have a funny story to share with Fatigue. Earlier in the day I was cruising the writer’s forum, and came across a thread looking for some ideas for humiliating jobs that a character might have. Jobs that would be super embarrassing, easy targets for being looked down upon, lots of opportunity for humor. Yanno where I’m headed with this, right?

English: Pooper scooper detail at end of the Cherry Blossom Festival Parade in Washington, D.C. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

No less than three people volunteered the idea of dog poop picker upper. Now it’s true, lots of opportunity for comedy in this, and it doesn’t have quite the same ring as “My Son The Doctah,” but we all do what we have to do. Fatigue is a singer, who walks dogs to pay his rent. Mrs Fringe is a Mama, a writer, and walks dogs to put the pharmacist’s kid through college. Yes, dog poop picker uppers. Try not to be jealous, as we spend our days skipping through the rain and snow, laughing and examining dog poop. Sure it’s a shitty job, but someone’s got to do it. *rimshot*

But we were laughing last night, assuming the posters were young enough to not intend any harm or insult. It’s innocence, to see these types of jobs as throwaway. We ate, and then chatted for a bit with one of the waitresses. The one who serves us beer on Friday nights so she can continue working on her doctorate during the day. Bar maid, ditch digger, lawyer, nit-picker and poop picker upper, we all do what we can and what we have to. Everyone has a story, whether we’re living life on the fringe, or just appear to be.

Cheers, Fringelings!

English: Paulaner Dunkel (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Admitting Defeat

Checkmate (The Prisoner) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, much as I hate to admit it, I’m never going to be King. Not Virginia Woolf, not Laura Ingalls Wilder. Not even a princess. And really, that’s just fine. A quiet life is appealing. But a silent one?

When I first began thinking of putting a blog together, my original idea was to have a collaborative blog, women of somewhat varying ages and perspectives, focusing on the differences between what we thought our adult lives would be, and what they are. That idea never got beyond early planning stages, and eventually I started Mrs Fringe.

But due to some recent happenings in the lives of friends, and the never ending brain crunching non-happenings in my own life, I’m thinking about those early ideas again. Specifically, the life I’m living and the Grand Canyon that separates it from the life I thought I would have. While I won’t deny I have a vivid imagination, not all of my scenarios involved a crown and scepter. I never actually thought I would become rich, never thought I would live in a palace, never thought I would lie on a bed of thornless roses. Of course, I’m allergic to roses, so that one might not be fair.

Rose & Crown (Photo credit: Sam Howzit)

But I also never imagined having to worry quite this much about finances, when I’m not living a life of extravagance. I never imagined not having a little area for myself for writing (I think I weaned on A Room of One’s Own). I never imagined I’d be living a life at 40,000 years old where I would never, ever, ever have a day off. I never imagined I would be trapped in New York, between finances and familial obligations.

I never imagined a family of five where each of the five would have such totally, completely separate needs. I know, we’re all individuals. I value that fact, Husband and I were never the type of couple that were on the phone 58 times a day when we weren’t together, I’ve tried to raise my children to value their individuality. But I didn’t think, in the twenty first century, with all the societal and personal awareness, that I would lose my own self in the process. Sheesh, I feel like a damned ’70’s cliche just re-reading that sentence. Should I go find myself? In a consciousness raising group sitting on someone’s shag carpet, drinking dandelion wine.

So now what? I write, and that’s good for me. It feels good, and part of me still believes–or at least wants to believe– there’s hope of publication at some point. But I can’t live inside my head all the time. It isn’t productive for any of my roles, and frankly, it isn’t all that fun. I’ve thought about drinking more regularly, but I’m not very good at it. One drink and I’m buzzed, in between one and two and I’m looped, useless; a full two and it’s get-out-of-my-way-I-need-my-bed!

I’m a grown up. I have a family, I have obligations, I have a budget. There is no magic answer, magic solution. But there has to be a way to make something better, at least try.

Virginia Woolf said, “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” Is it still true? I don’t think silent lives are truly silent, they’re sirens and songs no one hears.