friends

And the Winner Is…

Bingo! (Photo credit: jadensmommy)

Hey Artist, Got a Dollar?

Submitted to the Reader’s Choice blog 5 minutes ago. Thanks to all who played along and cast a vote! I have wonderful friends, both online and off.

It’s 7PM on Friday of a three day weekend, woo hoo! I’m getting ready to meet Fatigue for Friday Night Madness in a little while, and I am more than ready. Ready to go be a grown up for an hour, and ready to happydance. Don’t worry, kids! I’ll limit my dance to a squirm in my seat, it’s so upsetting to the 20 somethings when they see a middle aged woman get excited. I’m lowering my cholesterol through exercise–and then I’ll raise it back up with an order of nachos. I know there’s a pint of beer waiting for me, I hope it doesn’t go flat before I get there. I’m certain it won’t be warm, because it’s about 2 degrees here in New York tonight.

Why am I happy? Because today, for the first time in a long time, I felt my rhythm while I was writing. Not just tweaking, editing, revising, not just forcing my butt to stay still and write, but really felt it. This WIP is a romance, but the setting was one I originally conceived of a few years back for a magic(al) realism short story. I’m going to try to graft the two seeds, growing them into something new for me. Will it work? I’m really not sure, but I’m very, very excited, in that way that only a woman who likes to play with characters inside her head can be.

WTF? (Photo credit: mayhem)

Not So Shiny Anymore

broke in boots (Photo credit: patricia kranenberg)

Getting comfy, some scratches, some stretching, a few dings to make it homey. Yup, this is my 100th post. Happy Centennial to Mrs Fringe!

I was wondering what I would to to celebrate my 100th, and Diana, of Talk to Diana, completely came through in her Wednesday post. She wrote about this excellent neato-groovy-cool WordPress site, Reader’s Choice. Wordpress bloggers can nominate their favorite post (yes, favorite post from their own blog) and have it featured, reaching a larger audience. How cool is that? I like this idea. I enjoy blogging, and I love obsessing over my stats, watching my audience grow and having new people join the regulars in the comments section.

So, that’s what I’m going to do to celebrate my ~~pigheaded~~ sticktoitiveness. Also, my poetic license with the English language.

Does Reader’s Choice really have a wide reaching audience? I have no clue, but that’s okay.

After all, these boots were made for walking. But I’m asking for my Fringelings’ help. It’s only fair, because this post is as much a celebration of my Fringie followers as it is Mrs Fringe. Thank you!! I’m going to list a handful of what I think are my favorites, and I’m asking you to help me decide by casting a vote. Or nominate one you think I overlooked. You can do that here in the comments section, by commenting on Mrs Fringe’s Facebook page, or Tweet @MrsFringe–I’m not sure how to link to Twitter, you can go through the little Twitter symbol on the left side of the page here. If you haven’t already signed to follow me on Twitter, or liked me on Facebook, it’s a perfect opportunity. I reserve the right to change my mind, go with the post that gets the most votes, or the reader who presents the most convincing argument. I had a harder time than expected, choosing which ones to post. Obviously I’m too in love with the sound of my own voice.

In no particular order, all posts were chosen for one of three reasons; a) I liked how it came out, b) I had fun writing it, or c) I remembered the title:

Once Upon A Time

Is It Trash Day

Hey Artist, Got A Dollar

And, Have An Orgasm

Maiden, Mother, Crone

Is It Appropriate to Mourn A Glass Box

Blogging With A Scarlet B

Moments: On Christmas, Mourning, and Family

Hark! My angel 🙂

Yesterday I went Christmas shopping and had Man Child, Nerd Child, and Flower Child decorate the tree. It all had to be done, and I just didn’t feel like it. I am rarely “on top of” the Christmas shopping. I always swear I will budget for it throughout the year, shop early, but usually, I’m scrambling, same as I’m doing now. I wondered why I do this at all, do Christmas presents even make any sense? This is the first year where I only have one child in school this week before Christmas, both boys are on break already. Great! Except it feels like the school knows this, and therefore ramped up the extras so I can still spend my week running on empty from obligation to obligation.

I’m feeling umm, off balance since the shooting in Newtown CT on Friday. I stand by my statement from my last post, it didn’t make any sense and it still doesn’t. If anything, I’m more confused than I was 4 days ago. What does this level of grief mean for our nation? How much is personal, for the families and immediate community, and how much is ours, as a society, to take on? Where’s the line between sharing the burden of grief and glamorizing a heinous act? People are talking, and I hope they continue to do so. Much of the talk is bluster and rhetoric, I can toe that crap to the side without a problem. But I’ve also seen the beginnings of thoughtful discourse, with points and possibilities that should be explored. I am not a historian, and don’t know what was intended by the 2nd Amendment, or the correct way to apply it, if at all, in today’s society.

We are a nation of freedoms. With freedom comes responsibility. Or in the plain English of Fringeland, the freedom to fuck up. This is what, in my opinion, we should be talking about. Personal responsibilities and how they apply to our families, our communities, our society. I think, long ago, this used to be called ethics. But no, I don’t have a romanticized vision of the way things “used to be.” The reality is there are other atrocities that no longer occur here, are no longer legal or acceptable, that once were.

I ran around yesterday, my very best chicken without a head routine. At the end of the day, I went to walk a dog. This dog’s owners have become friends, and are two people I respect and admire tremendously. Man Child came with me, and though I’ve known them a few years now, this was the first time they were meeting. A moment. In the midst of these days heavy with both bullshit and mourning, a moment of beauty. I like these friends very much, they live their lives with integrity, and embody lives well lived. Another, newer friend recently met Nerd Child. Another beautiful moment. I like my children, they are thoughtful human beings and define possibilities. One has a strong sense of duty, immediate responsibilities. One has a keen instinctive eye for looking at the greater good, seems to have been born with the scales of justice connecting the chambers of his heart. One has an exquisite sense of social justice, crying at the thought of anyone being hungry. They have their own thoughts and opinions, separate from mine, Husband’s, and each other.

I don’t think I’ve hit on the purpose or meaning of life, as a parent or otherwise. I hold no answers, and as I get older, find more questions. As a parent, I want my children to believe in themselves and strive for their dreams, achieving some. I want them to be responsible, contributing members of society. I want their dreams to include being responsible, contributing members of society. I want them to have their moments, hopefully more than I do, but still, moments when they can take a breath and say, “this is ok. I am ok.”

Personal moments aren’t enough to put aside the greater questions we need to examine and try to answer. They do not, can not, and should not negate loss, personal or public. Personal loss does not negate community or societal obligations. But if we value these moments, and recognize them because of their potential impact on others, they can matter.

lint (Photo credit: freebeets)

Once Upon A Time

fairy tale pic (Photo credit: Kjirstin)

In a land in which no one ever expects to reside, there were two little girls, born just days apart. One called The Empress, and one called La Princesa. The two girls didn’t live close to each other, and each was busy with the business of their kingdoms, learning to talk, and eat, pester their respective older brothers, and throw royal panties out the tower window.

One day, the beat in The Empress’s brain began to count out a new and unusual rhythm. Not long after, La Princesa’s brain also began keeping a new rhythm. Suddenly, each kingdom was regularly experiencing strange and terrible lightning storms. Healers were called and many potions were tried, but still, the storms persisted. La Princesa’s mother and The Empress’s mother each sent carrier pigeons with messages for the new world, called The Internet, hoping to find others who had battled these storms and defeated them; or at least knew how to protect their families while the storms raged.

Many Queens formed a Great Alliance, loaning each other shields of understanding and swords of knowledge. Many only stayed for a time, but the most weather beaten grew powerful and remained, through storms and strange beats, through potions that offered relief and those that were poison, helping each other to laugh and dance, when they were rooted, shin deep in muck.

Image of a letter sent by carrier pigeon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Empress’s Queen and La Princesa’s Queen began noticing they were sending out very similar messages. Soon, they began sending messages directly to each other, in addition to the ones they were sending and reading from the other Queens of The Great Internet. La Princesa and The Empress had both begun their lives small but mighty. Years passed, they remained small, but each began having periods of weakness, succumbing to the vapors as if the castle mice were stealing their feasts. Queen Empress and Queen Princesa realized not all of the other Queens with stormy kingdoms had such enchanted mice. They compared tales of storms and threats and events and spells, and the crumbling walls and general disrepair of their castles, moats leaking sewage into their grand halls. Potions and Healers and Seers were exhausting their riches. They whispered prayers carried by the wind. Still, their golden girls’ spirits were powerful.

Each Queen traveled to new seers, seeking answers and resolution. The Empress met a powerful seer, who offered answers, though no resolution. La Princesa’s Queen continues the quest. As the two Queens formed a stronger bond, and their pigeons knew the way to each kingdom without thought, La Princesa and Empress began to recognize the birds from each other’s lands. With their Queens’ help, they began sending messages to each other.

Each girl learned she had much in common with the other. Neither girl was bothered by asking or answering the same questions several times. Neither girl used unkind words about the other. All the kingdoms around were struck by a terrible storm, and the carrier pigeons couldn’t fly. La Princesa worried about The Empress, and The Empress worried about La Princesa.

One day, a special dove brought a great gift for La Princesa. It was a colorful drawing– rendered by The Empress– of the two friends and told the tale of their friendship. This treasure was so special La Princesa couldn’t speak, but her smile…her smile brightened her sleepy eyes and the gloomy day, casting a glow over the Queen’s eyes, making them leak in that way she hated! but she couldn’t see the cracks of the castle walls or the dusty cornices. She saw the pink streaks behind the gray clouds, and the miracle of the bird’s wings against the sky as he soared back towards the land of The Empress.

Fairy Tale … (Photo credit: lapidim)

Mrs Fringe Is 50!

Present (Photo credit: ejorpin)

Yup, this is my fiftieth post. Is this a big deal in the world of blogging? Nope, but it means something to me.

There’s something about the number that feels like commitment. When I’m working on a full length manuscript, 50 pages is my magic spot. It means I’ve gone further than just trying an idea, seeing how it flows, can I sustain it? Nope, when I hit 50 pages I’m all in. The characters are fleshed out enough to feel real, I’m thinking about them in the shower, and wake up thinking about what they will do today. The conflicts are getting layered, serious. In the world of submissions, agents and editors will often ask for a partial; usually the first three chapters or 50 pages if they might be interested after seeing a query letter. So all of those 50 pages had better be fan-freakin-tastic. Not that you can stop writing and query at this point, don’t bother until you have a completed, edited, re-edited and re-re-edited manuscript.

Because 50 pages isn’t magical commitment for everyone.

turn page (Photo credit: andy.brandon50)

Much to my initial surprise, I’ve met quite a few writers over the years who have several 50 pages; all starts to manuscripts they never finished. I was a lot more understanding of the “rules” of publishing, warning writers (unless you are WELL established and WELL published) not to send a query if you don’t have a completed full, once I met a few of those writers.

At fifty posts here in Mrs Fringe land, I’m feeling pretty good. I’ve got fringie followers! Not quite 50, but close. I’ve got readers who come by regularly and check out what’s happening, whether they’re official followers or not. I’ve got people who stop by and take the time to comment and join in the conversation; some of whom I know in real life, and a growing number who I’m getting to know through blogging.

And that is what it’s all about. Blogging is writing, it’s a space to share my thoughts and views, and hear the thoughts and views of others. It has introduced me to other blogs and other bloggers. In other words, communicating. Connecting. Growing. The blog is growing–slowly, but steadily. And Mrs Fringe is growing.

My life outside of WordPress is fairly chaotic. Evidenced by weeks when there are only two posts, and other weeks when there are six. So I’m sending a big thank you to my Fringie readers, followers, and likers on Facebook, for hanging on to the fringe with me, finding out where it takes us.

More canoli (Photo credit: diongillard)

Have a canoli, it’s on me.

Where’s My Union Rep?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Peeple In Charge,

English: Quill pen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is the salutation on the letter Flower Child began working on last night.

During dinner, Husband, Flower Child and I had a lovely, meandering conversation. Her mind makes some interesting connections, and when I’ve got the luxury of time, I like to follow. In order to make a connection, she speaks aloud, touching on every detail of every thing she can remember hearing/seeing that somehow reminds her of what came before.

The maze of Longleat House (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Without this process, her mind stalls, and she can’t follow or remember. We began discussing Greek goddesses, which jumped to eating habits in history, Pa Ingalls curing meat, the gold accents on her Cleo de Nile doll, why organic fruits and vegetables taste better but cost more, why she had to eat some soup and not just the coconut chips garnishing it, and why everyone should help each other.

Somehow it made sense to tell Husband and Flower Child about a scene I passed when I was on my way to the hospital the other morning. There was a man standing outside a coffee shop where I got off the bus, panhandling. A familiar scene to me, there didn’t seem to be anything remarkable. No aggression, no singing, no yelling, no horrendous odors, no aggression. An older, elegantly dressed and coiffed woman about ten steps ahead of me. Her nose turned up so high if I had been standing next to her I could have checked for polyps. She turned to another man walking by her, “No one ever gives money to those people, do they? I hope not.” Obviously not a New Yorker.

Not much of a story, more of a moment. But I turned to Flower Child, and saw her eyes watering and lip quivering, “What’s wrong? Come here.” She pressed into my hug.

“That’s terrible.”

Yes, yes it is. I told her no one person can help everyone, or fix these things, but if everyone does what they can; even it’s limited to contributing one can of food to a food drive, it can make a difference.

She isn’t all that clear on the distinction between city and state, state and country, country and continent, principal and president–but she’s writing a letter to the people in charge, because it’s wrong to ignore people who are hungry.

Man Child and Nerd Child also care about others, volunteer time and give what they can. Community service means more than a line on a college resume.

The other day I was telling friends a story from my childhood. My mother would send me with a lunch every day. I wasn’t much on eating three meals a day, and I rarely got “good” sandwiches. These were the days when you heard a lot about the starving children in Biafra. On the way to school, I passed a mailbox. Each day, I would drop my brown bag into it. Unless the sandwich was olive loaf, in which case I kept it. That poor mailman, his bag must have smelled permanently like bologna. My friends’ immediate thoughts were what a caring child I was. Not so much. More like practical. “They” were hungry, I wasn’t, and would have gotten into trouble if I brought the sandwich back home. If anyone used the term win/win back then it would have applied.

I’m a lucky mama. My children have compassion, good souls.

Campbell’s Soup Cans by Andy Warhol, 1962. Displayed in Museum of Modern Art in New York. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Prosopon

Comedy and tragedy masks (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

According to Wikipedia, prosopon is the ancient Greek word for mask, and ancient Greece is where you’ll find the origins of this ubiquitous symbol of theater. A lead-in for a rambling post about how we all wear masks. Except that isn’t where I’m headed. A friend sent me this quote yesterday morning–perfect.

“For those who feel, life is a tragedy
For those who think, life is a comedy”
(Horace Walpole, 1717)

I spend a lot of time feeling, but I prefer to think. So much is out of our control, from minor annoyances to full scale tragedies, but how we respond is our choice. What we take away from these experiences is who we are.

Sometimes when you’re in the muck laughter is out of the equation, as its been the last few days, but I’m not wailing and crying out to the heavens, either. Besides, crying is so unpleasant. I never identify when people say they feel better after a “good” cry. Really? I guess I’ve only had bad cries, because all I feel afterwards is a snotty nose, swollen eyes, a headache, and usually a heaping dose of embarrassment. Very attractive in a middle aged broad, oh yes, I see the appeal.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I can be moved to tears, for lack of a better cliche, by a beautiful piece of music, poetry, lyrics, stellar prose, or an especially spiritual church. That’s different. Actually, I’m tempted to cry right now–I got up to pour a cup of coffee, and suddenly my font keeps changing, for no reason I can identify.

Laughter is better. No magical thinking, it doesn’t spray fairy dust along with spittle. It feels good, clears my mind and gives me perspective–even with my bad teeth, I look better with a residual smile than a residual sniffle. Tears feel isolating, but a joke, a smile, a chuckle; they connect me with others. The people in my life who become friends, who are there long enough and deep enough to become part of the weave of my fringe, are those who I can laugh with. People with their own dramas and traumas who recognize the need to find the humor, black though it sometimes is; at the same time recognizing the need to grieve what is, what was, what could have been.

I want to laugh. I like to have people in my life who make me laugh, who appreciate my oddball sense of humor–would ya believe not everyone does?

Life is a tragicomedy. It takes unexpected and sometimes unwanted turns. Now which way do we go?

Funny Signs (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Portable Neighborhood

Macbook keys (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Friends have heard me talk about this before, but I like this subject, so I’ll talk about it again.

New Yorkers are kind of, um New Yorkcentric. Not only does the world revolve around us, but we tend to believe we are the most well rounded, evolved folks in the world. No provincial thinking here. Hah!

It’s easy as morning coffee to be provincial here. Spend an evening in a local bar and hear 8 languages being spoken at any given time, have a drink with straight people, gay people, every ethnicity, young people, old people, rich or poor. I can go months without leaving my immediate neighborhood, and still eat at any ethnicity restaurant, shop for any type of clothing, roam the parks and enjoy a variety of live music, see a play, attend a poetry reading, attend services at a church/temple/meeting house for every religion you can think of, or even never leave my apartment and still have any and everything delivered to my door.

It wasn’t until I had reason to join an online forum that I realized how very narrow my world and my focus was. At first it was plain old weird. I prefaced every sentence to Husband with, “this woman I know online,” etc. It felt squishy to define someone I’d never met face to face as a friend. I’ve gotten over it, and have made many online friends over the years. There’s an intimacy created in these forums, safety in getting to know someone through a computer screen. At this point I’ve been lucky enough to meet several face to face–the good part of living in NY, lots of people have reason to come or just a desire to visit. I meet them after they do their touristy thing. Really, it’s ok, you can climb the Statue of Liberty without me.

Statue Of Liberty (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ll meet you in the park later, by the chick who’s dressed as her, green sheet, face paint, silent, with a bucket for donations at her feet.

Now, I’m a left leaning gal, most of my face to face (trying to think of a better term than “In Real Life”, my online friends are quite real, thank you) friends are also left leaning. Even the ones who vote right lean left to some degree or another. I’ve had plenty of friends who attended church/temple/fill in your house of worship here, but for most, there’s a wide distance btw church and state, friends, and politics.

In the past seven years or so, I’ve moved into a new neighborhood, a whole new world, and truly been exposed to different frames of reference. Some of my online friends are people I “know” I’d become friends with no matter how I met them. But that isn’t true for everyone. The interesting thing about forums is how they are a window, and the curtains that drape them one subject or area of interest, one commonality. A sneaky thing happens when you’re surrounded by those window treatments, you get to know people as individuals before learning their politics, socio-economic status, religious beliefs, or ethnicity.

I got to know their beverage of choice, their marital status, marital problems, their musical preferences, their medical bills, their children, their humor, their snark, their warmth, their intelligence, their knowledge, their support. Only after all of this, did I learn who went to church 3 times a week, read their devotionals twice daily, doesn’t believe at all, is a lapsed Mormon, pro-life/pro-choice, support gun restriction/own 10 guns, etc. I. love. this. Every day, I love it. We don’t always agree, and sometimes discussions can get pretty heated, but there is a respect for each other as human beings, individuals with complete lives, brains and hearts, opinions formed from our individual and varied life experiences. I get upset when my online friends cross from questioning and debating into arguments and blind rhetoric.

Through my online community, built from friends drawn from several different forums with vastly different focal areas, I don’t feel so provincial anymore. I feel better informed and better equipped to form opinions. I “live” in a new neighborhood, all of my neighbors chosen for commonalities but not sameness, mutual love, support, respect, and compassion. Yanno, all that squishy stuff.

Flickr friends (Photo credit: Meer)

Life Happens, and Death, Too

When I began this blog last week, I had every intention of posting every day for at least the first month. I didn’t even make it a week.

You know how you look forward to summer, and have grand ideas for seeing and catching up with all your friends, even if you can’t have a fabulous vacation? I make these plans in my head every year, and then usually, about a week before Labor Day, realize I haven’t seen a quarter of the people I wanted to, and the precious last days of summer must sadly be filled with obligations and getting the kids ready to go back to school.

This summer has been different, and I’ve already seen more than half of the friends I’d hoped to. Stellar planning? No. Funerals. In the past month, the mothers of two of my closest friends have passed away, as did the child of another long time, childhood friend (the very fact of which is a pain more exquisite than any other imaginable). Not exactly the way we’d all hoped to get together.

And, three days ago, my mother died. Tomorrow is her funeral.

Deutsch: Trauerkranz an einem Grab in Baden-Württemberg, Deutschland; bestehend unter anderem aus roten und gelben Rosen sowie Lilien (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am grateful to have friends to offer comfort and support to me, Husband, Man Child, and Nerd Child, and Flower Child. The understanding offered, born of many years of long standing relationships, of how complex mourning is. Even now (especially now?), forty thousand years old and finding we need to have funeral attire at the ready in our closets for all seasons.

So, for anyone who might have been becoming interested in my ramblings, I haven’t disappeared, and will continue to post, but the beginning is and will be a bit more sporadic than I had hoped.

Thanks for reading.