new york

Celebrate with Mrs Fringe

Here, have a café con leche on the terrace with me.

Yesterday was my 3 year blogoversary.

3 years isn’t that long and my number of subscribers isn’t very large in the context of the “big” blogs, but I can say, without reservation, it all feels pretty damned fine to me.

When I began, I didn’t have a clear idea of what I wanted Mrs Fringe to look like, or exactly what it would encompass. I said from the beginning (and have continued to say) I wanted a space to be honest, to feel like a whole person, and a spot to prompt myself to write with just enough pressure but no actual, strict obligations. Maybe I thought it would scratch my writing itch. It hasn’t, in terms of fiction; instead, it’s an addition. I didn’t know how much I needed it, or how important this blog would become to me, my sense of self, or the growing number of fabulous people I’d meet through blogging. I didn’t know I’d grow bold enough to post fiction, organized enough to create multiple pages with permanent links under the header in hopes of making navigation easier for readers. I didn’t know if it would attract any readers, let alone regular followers and commenters, but it has, and I thank every one of you for taking the time, making the effort. A huge thank you to WordPress, for offering a platform that even a luddite like myself could navigate.

It’s funny how blogging has become such a part of my world. As I go about my days in real time/space, each experience becomes a possible post, every oddity that catches my eye something that has me reaching for the camera.

The other day I took Art Child downtown, for a free workshop for teen artists, sponsored/presented by Sprite and Complex, hosted by Pen & Pixel.

While we were on line waiting to meet Art Child’s friend and her mom, I thought this is what life on the economic fringe in New York means, this is what Mrs Fringe is about.

Sprite Corner: Obey Your Thirst, yes

Life on the fringe has its own set of stresses and stressors. There are so many, many opportunities here in New York, often closed to those of us on strict budgets. But sometimes you fall into something that’s cool, and free, and you actually get your shit together and register early enough to get your kiddo into this cool, free opportunity, and haul yourself on the 2 train to the N train to the J train, to a neighborhood that can’t quite decide if it’s going to gentrify or remain industrial, and it’s worth it. They’re running several events out of this pop-up storefront this summer, this one was a Photoshop/Design workshop, but they’re sponsoring others in music, comedy, cooking, and film. It’s about supporting and enabling creativity in young people.

Tattoo while I wait?

Free (good!) pizza offered for the kids before entering.

I thought there would be a spot where I could sit out of the way, or go in for coffee, while the girl was in the workshop. Hmm, my choice seemed to be browsing industrial-sized cooking appliances or blowing a week’s budget in a chi-chi juice bar. But then one of the execs came over to my friend and I as we were saying goodbye to the girls (I get it, parents hovering over the kids at the computers isn’t exactly the photo ops they’re looking for, plus he wanted to confirm Art Child was within the age group they’re insured for, she looks younger) and offered to buy us coffee. Nice.

By the time we were seated and our orders were taken, coffee became wine and a lovely food plate, and I had put in a plug for Mrs Fringe–I really need to get better at this, if I’m ever going to truly grow this blog–and we spent an hour talking about parenting, cyberbullying, encouraging teens and young adults, raising girls, and S&M.

Sometimes life in Fringeland leads me to some pretty interesting moments and people; thank you for sharing them with me.

Taking it to the Streets

Art in the Village

Yesterday I took my cane and my girl, and went to one of my favorite New York events, the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibit. It’s a biannual outdoor art show that’s been running as long as I can remember, Memorial Day weekend and Labor Day weekend, with a lot of amazing art and artists. This is not a street fair, no sausages, zeppoles, blow up rides or knock-off handbags. I’ve heard the original idea came from Jackson Pollack when he was broke, and took some of his paintings and sold them on the street. Something about being in the midst of creative people who are living their art, and others coming to see, appreciate, and purchase the work is inspiring. Plus, it’s fun and free, leaves me near all the places I used to frequent when I was young–can’t beat it. I’ll share a few of the highlights here, but if you’re in or around New York this weekend, or Labor Day weekend, go!

As much as I’ve always loved this show, there’s an extra dimension to it for me now, attending with Art Child. She chats with the artists and asks questions I wouldn’t think of. She responds to this type of venue and it shows. No less than five artists commented on her style, a couple asked to take her photo for portraits. I could see her wheels turning, wondering when she can set up a booth and sell her own work.

Like Art Child, many artists use trees as subjects for their work, and we saw quite a few styles and interpretations. We even found an artist with both paintings and sculptures of what Art Child calls “treeple,” trees with human features, and something she draws frequently in her charcoal sketches. The artist, Anthony Santella, was lovely and patient, with work ranging from realism to surrealism to fantasy.

If I had the money and the room I would have purchased this piece.

One artist, Lisette P, was showcasing jewelry that was all made from New York photographs she has taken, resized and set behind glass. How can you not love jewelry you can Windex to keep clean?

We spent quite a while at her table, and I was happy to see many other people were doing the same. There’s just something about New York street photography when it doesn’t look like a cleaned up postcard.

One of the first booths we stopped at was marvelous, a mix of paintings and jewelry that we both loved, and it turned out the two artists are mother and daughter. Olga and Daniella Bacskay. Perfect, no? I’ll admit to being a bit envious. I appreciate art, and thrill in Art Child’s joy and accomplishments, but can’t share the experience in quite the same way.

Art Child purchased a small print of this powerful mixed media painting. The original has volcanic ash in the tree limbs.

Moving on, we spent time chatting with another artist, this one with the kindest smile. I loved the work, another person displaying both paintings/prints and jewelry. Handblown, painted vases that blew me away. Dudley Vaccianna, the scenes he paints just seemed to radiate female power. The earrings were all hand painted on brass, beads from Nigeria.

I think I could grow ten stories from his pose.

I think I could grow ten stories from his vibe.

Sadly, the show is much smaller than it used to be, but even still, my back and hip gave out before we were able to see everything. So we walked back around the park to the west side.

So clean nowadays!

And of course, because by then we were hungry, and so close, getting a late lunch was mandatory.

The peanut butter restaurant, simple and brilliant.

By the time we got home, I was unable to stand up straight, but completely inspired. There’s a story I’ve been playing with, building in my head for months. I now have the opening completely in focus.

Strange Days

Wake up!

I should have known it was going to be an odd weekend, since it appeared I woke up on Mars Friday morning.

Art Child presented her too familiar puddle on the couch interpretation–bonus of a low grade fever– so I kept her home from school and we spent the day engaged in a marathon viewing of the tv series, Once Upon a Time.

Saturday was her second to last art class for the year and the fever was gone, so she went. I took Little Incredibly Dumb Dog for a walk, and ran into a friend I haven’t seen all winter. She asked me if I would like to go with her on a yoga retreat, she knows somewhere reasonably priced. After posting about never doing anything remotely like that just last week, I was intrigued. Then she mentioned staying in dorms, something like six women to a room. I promptly remembered why I don’t do things like that.

I decided to hit the Goodwill up the street from the art class. It’s the nicest one in Manhattan, and the last time I went in I scored two great dresses. Woot, covered for Man Child’s graduation! Yes, it’s a two day event, I needed two outfits. When I showed them to Fatigue, he told me I was channeling Alice Kramden. Works for me. Except for shoes, because mine are all either snow boots, flip-flops or high heels. Flip-flops don’t seem appropriate for the occasion, and I’m not stable enough for high heels yet, so I thought I’d check for shoes. Saw what could have been a great pair, but then I realized one of them had a thick streak of what looked like black permanent marker down the side of one. Red shoes + black marker = no.

Then I saw a very cool skirt. High waisted, cream linen with black appliqués. I couldn’t decide if it was a score-cool or just weird-cool, and it was $20, so I left it on the rack. Waited for Art Child to get out of class, I chatted with a couple of the moms who are seriously skilled thrift shoppers, and they offered to go back to the store with me to give an opinion. Me and my big mouth. It was still there, they liked it and encouraged me to try it on. It wasn’t a skirt. It was a strapless dress. I don’t do strapless. A very short strapless dress. I also don’t do very short unless paired with leggings or thick tights.

No worries, the truth is I’m bored with shopping inside of fifteen minutes, and the girl needed to rest. Art Child and I went home. I went to put my mug in the sink and I don’t know what the fuck happened, but a glass that had been sitting in there exploded. Really exploded. Not only was the sink filled with broken glass, but shards flew across the kitchen floor into the hallway to the left, the dining area to the right, and one embedded itself in my wrist. I had to throw away my sponges, it took me forever to clean up, and the girl was convinced my arm was going to fall off if she didn’t apply a bandaid on it immediately. Bloooooood!!! Sigh. Seriously, it was maybe two drops, no big deal.

Last week three of the four turbo snails in my reef dropped dead. In my experience, these snails never live long, but I haven’t had three die at once. The blenny, however, is thrilled, since he’s made a new home inside the empty shell of one.

Yup, that’s the blenny’s little head sticking out.

Thank you, oh mighty snail, for leaving me this beautiful new house, and thank you, evil bristle worms, for eating his remains so it would be nice and clean.

I think these are all signs that this year should be over. It should be beach time, don’t you think?

Mother’s Day Thoughts–Late Again

Flower District

This past weekend was beautiful, whether you celebrated Mother’s Day or not. I talk a lot about the not so nice parts of living in New York, but a nice part is there are always surprises, no matter how long I’ve lived here.

Art Child’s Saturday art class was invited to a small, private gallery in the afternoon. The gallery is in an old, nondescript building on a street I’ve walked down many times, never knew it was there. Surprise! 5 flights of stairs to climb. Bigger, better surprise, there was an elevator. The space itself was interesting to look at, bright, lots of windows, and enough bars and police locks to make me nostalgic for my first couple of apartments.

The show included recent sculptures by Tyrone Mitchell and a variety of traditional African art and artifacts. I forgot to ask if it was ok for me to post photos of Mr. Mitchell’s work, so I won’t, but I will recommend going to see an exhibition if you have the opportunity. Very thought provoking, using found, everyday objects for social commentary. I’m not an artist, don’t know the right words, but there was a piece I didn’t want to leave. On a wooden scaffolding, a pot set into the top, a woven, painted basket decorated with painted money cowrie shells (I have three money cowrie snails eating algae in my tank as I type) coming out of the top of the pot, and coming out of the top of the basket, a mask, a woman’s face. I can’t say why, but something about the whole moved me, and I had a highly inappropriate urge to climb the scaffolding and pick up that basket. No worries, I didn’t touch.

Then I saw a link on Twitter to an article in the New Yorker about the monetization of mommy blogs. For some reason I can’t link it now, sorry. Anyway, my first thought was, really? I haven’t made a dime. Then I remembered, I don’t do anything to try and make money from Mrs Fringe. Second, and more importantly, this isn’t a mommy blog. Sure, I’m the mama, most of that role is fantastic, and I sometimes talk about mama-ing, but that isn’t what Mrs Fringe is about.

I wondered if I should regret this fact. Would it have been smarter, more practical? Maybe, but I don’t regret it. Most of my life is about mama-ing, has been for a long time. I like having this one area for myself as a whole and empty pocketed-person. And I’m guessing the odds of actually making money from a mommy blog are almost as astronomical as any other form of profit from creative writing.

If this were a mommy blog, I would talk about the exhibition in terms of Art Child, the beautiful heartbreak of watching and listening to her experience this show; the opportunity for her to see and touch the artifacts, to speak to the curator, and the joy of seeing her get it in ways that I can’t. She has challenges navigating the everyday world, and by the artist came to speak she was wilting and we needed to leave, but in front of these sculptures she understood their power.

But this is my this-and-that, unfocused eclectic whole person blog. So I talk about the surprise of the gallery itself, hidden in the midst of stores selling rhinestones and questionable perfumes.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day

Smells Like

Street Fair Season!

Sunday was a beautiful day, one of those days where you feel the promise of summer. Art Child and I went for a little walk. Or in my case, hobble. We even took Little Incredibly Dumb Dog with us so she could be appropriately traumatized. Got to the corner and the familiar, peculiar mix of zeppoles, barbecue smoke, and exhaust was unmistakeable. Spring is peak street fair season in the city. Some of the fairs are fabulous, with interesting crafts, unique art, live music, and an opportunity to sample great food. Small children and tourists are certain they’re scoring goods that would otherwise be here:

But really, the booths contain a lot of what you might otherwise find here:

Most seem like a collection of the various street vendors scattered throughout the city gathered in one 7-10 block radius for the day, selling the usual crap–some useful crap, most not–and added a couple dozen deep fryers and barbecues. I have on occasion bought some great earrings, once bought a pair of gladiator sandals for $5 that lasted 4 years, and used to buy all my socks from these tables.

These are great days to be in the city, the first days of flip-flops and running into friends you haven’t seen since the first snow fell, warm enough to feel glorious but before it’s so hot all you smell is old dog piss rising from the grates as you walk down the street.

This was a pretty average fair, but the first one is always fun. Walk with me, Fringelings.

Beautiful, aren’t they?

Come join the crowd, who needs fresh air?

More beads, please!

If I didn’t love the sketch from Art Child so much, this would be my new profile pic.

The neighborhood rats will eat well tonight.

Need I say more?

I wanted to photograph the beautiful pillows and throws, but the man running the booth was concerned I would try to copy them. Never fear, I can’t sew a button.

Need any makeup?

Yes, yes, yes.

No really, disgusted but delicious. Sweet corn griddle cakes with a mass of steaming mozzarella in the middle.

Try it, you’ll like it.

Logic Need Not Apply

Don’t judge, I haven’t been able to wash the floors.

This morning, after I took Art Child to school I walked over to the grocery store. It’s a nice day, not too far from the school, and I am healing, so I figured I should be productive. The plan was to do this yesterday, but I was shot after physical therapy. Total win–it wasn’t crowded, I got my shopping done without falling, most people are courteous and give the lady with a cane room to maneuver. Sure, a couple knocked into me, but I think that’s the general invisibility of middle aged with no make-up. I stuck to budget and kept in mind things that would be quick and easy to prepare.

If only I had paid attention to the weight of things I was purchasing. Or the broken elevator (it’s Manhattan, square footage tends to be vertical instead of horizontal, larger grocery stores are broken into two floors). I intended to take a cab home. Well worth it under any circumstances, this store is considerably less expensive than those within a few blocks of my apartment. At this point, my pelvis/hip still can’t handle the subway stairs or the jostling of the train, so taxi it is. Pricey but convenient.

This particular block is always difficult for hailing a cab. There are three bus stops, an express subway stop is in the middle of the street, it’s only a block away from the exit/entrance to the highway, and two major avenues cross each other and switch places. In other words, it’s crowded, be patient. I waited. And waited. Not one empty cab went by. Well, maybe one did one of the six times I was blocked off by buses pulling in and out. Ten minutes. I should have asked for help while I was in the store, I still could have gone back inside and asked. Except I was embarrassed, because an acquaintance of mine works in there, and I had just told her how well I was doing, there was no need for me to cut the line to reach the cashier ahead of others. Hence the title of this post, no logic. Finally, a cab at the far corner. And a woman carrying bags sprinted ahead of me while I was trying to figure out how to pick my bags back up and got to it before the light changed. She turned towards me when she opened the door, and I saw she had a baby strapped to her chest. Fair enough, babies first.

I kept waiting. Now I was getting irritated, thinking about how much I just want to be home, and I didn’t even get everything I needed at the damned store. And watching cabs with lit numbers (means they’re empty) go past on the opposite side of the avenue–the direction I actually needed to be headed. Between the general weight of the bags, and the fact that I didn’t pay attention to how they were packed, there was no freaking way I’d make it all the way across the street. I know, sounds crazy, but I’m broken and this is a really, really wide street. I considered calling Fatigue and asking him to come help me, but I figured even if he didn’t have a dogwalk scheduled, there was no way he’d reach me before a cab came. I should have called.

By the time another fifteen minutes passed, I had gone well beyond my physical limits for the day, and was ready to start sniveling. Then, could it be? Yes! Stopped at the light across the street but on the side of the avenue I was on, was an empty cab. My spine crackled with the thought of a seat, not to mention needing to lift the bags again. And then he changed lanes, to turn away from me. Fringelings, I seriously imagined throwing my kale at that cab.

Pretty dumb, huh? But that’s what went through my overactive imagination. No, I didn’t throw my vegetables, and don’t believe I would. Then I thought about how many people with brown skin have empty taxis pass them by on a regular basis. One small thing, but it’s a symptom, and that one small thing might not feel so small if it happened all the time. And I thought about the many comments I’m seeing on my Facebook feed, declaring a complete lack of understanding for why so many in poor Black communities are so frustrated during protests that some will riot. Anyone can have the type of accident I had, it happens all the time, no matter what socioeconomic status. I’m not able to walk any dogs right now, and I cringe thinking of the bill from the orthopedist, but I was able to say I’ll skip the salt and vinegar chips, buy the store brand yogurt, and thereby pay for a cab to get groceries home. I became irate from being inconvenienced. Once. This moment, this nuisance of waiting an unusually long time for a taxi? This is privilege.

For the record, I gave it one more shot and waved my cane–the cab driver who had changed lanes? He changed back and picked me up.

Pocket Full of

Heads up!

Not enough days have felt like it, but it is spring. Not the prettiest one I’ve seen here in the city. With so many cold days, and then several stormy ones, quit a few trees and flowers lost their blossoms before they fully bloomed. Still, if you look, there they are.

I love flowers. Hokey, I know. Spring always tempts me with the flower arrays in front of bodegas everywhere. Tulips, hyacinths, daisies, or carnations, they all look beautiful and hopeful. Speaking of hope, it looks like at least a few of the things I planted will survive. I know I’m not ever going to be serious about gardening because I’ve reached the point where I have to remind myself to check and water the things–as opposed to checking four times a day. It’s exciting when the first bits of green poke through the dirt.

Now let me know when there’s something lovely to smell.

I’ve had cut flowers on my table the past several weeks. First, Fatigue bought me a bouquet. When those died I bought tulips and hyacinths. The other day, I dragged Husband to the grocery store, so he could drag me up and down the aisles (yup, still limping along, not always steady). He headed straight for the olive bar and I said, ooh, look at the flowers! Maybe they have something on sale–we were at Whole Paycheck, the cut flowers are more than pricey. “Why do you buy those things? They just die.”

I know, he isn’t the only one with that philosophy. And it is a line of thinking I usually agree with. Flowers on the table are silly, frivolous. In general, I’m a practical old broad. But, much like the tank, it makes me smile to look over and see a burst of living color–and yes, I’ll be frank, they smell better.

Yah, yah, I can walk a couple of blocks and see this:

In front of the hospital where I’m going for PT I see this:

But having them in the house, I feel this:

I didn’t buy any flowers in the grocery store, there were none in budget. My plan was to pick some up later on. It didn’t happen, but that’s ok, because Fatigue came over later that evening with a bottle of wine and

Spider mums!

The other day, I was wondering if I’m blogged out. I’ve done a lot of rambling here in Fringeland, ruminating and ranting. Is it time for a hiatus? Nope. Good or bad, the silly short-sweet life of flowers or angst about the world we live in, I still have quite a bit to say.

City Angles, a birthday pilgrimage

Every year around Art Child’s birthday, we head downtown to the big art supply store so she can get some new supplies. This year I brought the camera. Note the green metal panels over the windows in the alley shots. I was told those were to protect the residents in case someone dropped an atom bomb on the city. Along the lines of being told to get under your desk in case during the old air raid drills. Not that I would remember such a thing, of course.

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Since Husband drove us, and we were already downtown, heading over to the village for a slice was a given. Later shots are along the West Side Highway, headed back uptown.

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And a few more random photos taken on my way to PT.

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Happy Friday, Fringelings, have a great weekend!

Spring From the Terrace

Ubiquitous NY bloom

Sure things get caught in the trees year round, but in the spring, there’s a ragged plastic bag for every other tree.

Between my current limited mobility and my perpetually limited budget, I decided it was time to unpack the flower pots and containers, and revive my role as (urban) Farmer Fringe. Ok, so maybe half the pots were just sitting out on the terrace, and hadn’t actually been emptied since I last used them two years ago. I confirmed with friends who know how to garden and my special friend Mr Google that I could reuse the old dirt, mixing in new and some food. Fertilizer. Whatever those little pellets are called. I used my little gardening tools (no, I don’t know their names either) and attacked the old dirt to loosen and aerate the old soil, and remove the long dead plants that I certainly should have removed long ago. I always mix up perennials and annuals, so honestly I’ve never bothered to pay attention to which category I’ve planted. The interesting part is that in one of the pots, I could tell what had been in there (nope, don’t remember what) was the type that could grow back, because the dirt was different. Once I got below the first few inches, the soil was darker, moist, and seemed live. Is live the right word? I’m thinking in reefing terms, like live sand.

A couple of months ago I had purchased some flower bulbs that I found on sale. Husband drove Art Child and I to the big box store in the Bronx so I could get fresh soil without going broke,

I may need this to be a miracle.

and some seeds.

Appropriate for this zone? I dunno.

I also found this neatogroovycool seed starting kit.

On sale, it seemed worthwhile.

I know myself well enough to know I’d never remember which seed I planted it which little pod, and I surely wouldn’t recognize the sprouts, so Art Child labeled Post-It flags for each square.

Unfortunately I didn’t account for the havoc the moisture would play on the ink and the glue. Going to be sprout surprise!

Nor did I account for the energy and physical effort required to get the seeds and bulbs planted–even though I did all from a chair, and spread it out over three days. One of the bulbs planted needed to soak for a few hours before being planted. By the time they were ready, I couldn’t bend at all anymore, so I waited til the next day. Wow, do those things absorb water! The next morning, they were unrecognizable. It’s possible I planted them upside down.

But look what’s happening now, a week and a half later!

Urban gardening at its finest

One last photo, just because the other morning sunrise felt especially promising.

I will hold this moment in my head as I do battle with the PT exercises.

Ain’t All That

Happy 2015! My immune system seems to be taking the year off. A very snuffly and low key couple of weeks. I did leave the neighborhood a couple of times with Art Child and Nerd Child, found a few bits of my old remembered New York through the new glass and steel skyscrapers that continue to pop up everywhere.

What have I been doing in between blowing my nose and thinking about blogging? Catching up on reading. The other day I finished a novel that stunned me with its beauty.

In contrast, I also found myself at *gasp* a shopping mall a couple of weeks ago. I hate having to go to malls, I swear the air is a toxic mix of plastic and tranquilizer dust. But I suppose it was worth it, because I now have two pairs of jeans that fit and don’t have holes, and when we walked through the parking lot I saw this.