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What Do I Know?

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Anyone who reads Mrs Fringe or knows me in any other role knows I’m opinionated. If you know me well or agree with a lot of my thoughts, you might say I’m passionate. If you don’t, you might think ugh, that Mrs Fringe is such a bitch, I wish she would shut up already. But the quote I used for my high school yearbook said something like, “It often shows a fine command of the English language to say nothing.” I’m certain there were quite a few classmates surprised by that one, because I never shut up back then. I had to get kicked in the the teeth by life a few dozen more times before I really learned it. While I believe in the truth of that quote even more than I did back then, I still believe in the power of words. Of having an informed opinion and not being afraid to share it, while understanding opinion is not the same as fact.

Obvious, right? I mean, I’m a blogger ferchristssake. I think. Can I call myself a blogger if I don’t earn any money from it? Maybe it’s more like my fiction, where until and unless I’m published I prefer to say I write than I’m a writer. Fine. I blog.

Do I still opine too much? Probably. I’m not special, an expert in anything, or even formally educated. Who am I for anyone to take my opinions seriously? I’ve even been quiet on the writers’ forum. I’m not a grammar whiz (my unholy love of commas is well documented) and if I knew what made for publishable writing I’d be published.

In my little corner of Fringeland these days, most people I know are having opinions and sharing them; talking about racism, police, Eric Garner, Ferguson, protests and riots and what’s going on in our world right now. Yes, our world. Not just our city, our state, or even our country. This is our humanity. Some aren’t talking. Some are too genuinely busy with more personal crises, and some don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss these issues, some can’t because of their employers. Some are tired of talking about it and seeing it on the TV. I stand by what I said when I blogged about Ferguson–I think we need to talk about this. The grand jury’s decision in the Eric Garner case coming so closely on the heels of Ferguson is a clear illustration.

I’ll be the first one to say I don’t understand what happened with the Eric Garner case, don’t understand how anyone can see that video and say well, it’s a shame but that’s what happens when you resist arrest. Or he shouldn’t have been selling loosies. He wasn’t violent, not an immediate threat to anyone. I don’t understand how I’m seeing people argue that he didn’t die as a direct result of the chokehold placed on him. Every report I’ve seen says the medical examiner declared his death a homicide. Yes, his other medical issues were contributing factors, but not the cause. If any of my readers can cite a reputable source disputing this, please share a link.

Not all police are corrupt, or overzealous, or poorly trained. That doesn’t mean none are. Not all people are racist. That doesn’t mean none are. These things don’t balance each other out. Because police officers A and B came to the aid of persons of color C and D doesn’t mean police officer E didn’t harass person of color F. Or in too many cases, worse. And any number of these cases is too many. Police are human, yes. They deserve to be and keep themselves safe, absolutely. But something has gone wrong if they don’t feel confident they can peacefully defuse a situation and arrest someone who is unarmed and outnumbered.

I also don’t understand when I see people quote Martin Luther King while complaining about the protests occurring. Not talking about looters or violence, protestors. Just a little disconnect.

We have a problem, not “just” one rogue incident. The very fact that we have clear videotape of Eric Garner’s arrest and I’m still seeing such polarized responses shows our problem. But shelving the discussion? Being afraid to take a stand, have an opinion, because it might be uncomfortable? Because we’re tired of it? Because we don’t want to believe racism still exists in this country? That isn’t a fine command of the language.

I care, and I like knowing the other people in my world care, too. Our words do have power. And our opinions matter.

Peace

Between the grand jury’s decision not to indict in the Eric Garner case, Art Child being sick, looking at a half written short story with no new words coming to me, and debating whether or not to participate in #pitmad on Twitter today, I’m having a hard time gathering coherent thoughts. While I try to do so, I’m staring into the tank, and figured I’d share some photos. Invertebrates–not the prettiest, but some of the most fascinating creatures that live on reefs.

Blood red fire shrimp

Nassarius snail. These guys live in the sand, popping up when they smell food.

Conch buried in the sand, proboscis and eye stalks making sure he isn’t missing anything.

Did someone mention food? Emerald crab.

Spiny star astraea, working hard to clean the glass.

Conch cruising along, eating diatom algae off the sandbed

Red legged hermit, lived through the cycle

Emerald again, searching for bubble algae to eat

Conch and another nassarius, working to clean the same patch of sand.

Yup, this is about all I’ve got in me today.

Social Injustice

Sunrise

You know those moments when you have so much to say you don’t know what to say? Yeah. But I believe we need to keep saying it, keep talking about it. My Facebook feed has been a steady stream of memes, quotes, and misquotes revolving around race, the Ferguson verdict, police and guns. It’s exhausting, often disheartening, sometimes nauseating, but I’m not closing the tab and I’m not choosing to unfriend the people who are clearly on the opposite end of the political spectrum from me. I have friends who are, and I understand their choice.

I’m going to branch off from the verdict itself, it’s been covered and continues to be covered by people who understand the intricacies of the law much better than I ever will.

One evening a couple of weeks ago, Husband and I were watching a prerecorded concert with a variety of performers. I’ll tell you the truth, I found the majority of the performances to be lackluster, and I was just marking time until a show I wanted to watch came on. Something quality, probably one of the Real Housewives. Mid-yawn, someone with some passion came onstage. My first thought, oh look, it’s Eminem. Immediately followed by my chastising myself for being racist, just because it’s a white rapper doesn’t mean it’s Eminem. It was, but that isn’t the point. The point is the assumption.

I’m sure some people are out there who are so evolved they don’t make assumptions at first glance, but most of us do. That’s why those memes are so popular–one picture, brief caption, all our assumptions fill in the blanks. What those assumptions are grow from our ideology, affiliations, backgrounds, socio-economic class, and race. I know there are memes I’ve liked posted by people who attribute a completely different meaning to them.

“It isn’t about race.” Yes, it is. When white kids are taught to be respectful of the police while kids of color are taught not to speak, not to question, not to move, it is. When the people harmed by laws, policies, and assumptions are disproportionately people of color, it is. The same way laws and policies that affect women’s bodies are indeed about women, limiting their options and freedoms. Do these laws, policies, and assumptions affect all? They certainly do. Especially the poor and working class, people for whom choices are already limited, which is why I never understand when people I know are struggling financially support policies that ultimately make life harder for themselves and their own families. Why, when posting quotes and discussing police brutality, would anyone focus on those few looters? a) it just gives them airtime, b) they truly are few in number, a fraction of those who are protesting peacefully, c) I don’t know anyone who supports looting. Peaceful is not the same as quiet, and it shouldn’t need to be. Sometimes noise has to be made in order for the issues to be heard.

Here in Manhattan everyone lives shoulder to shoulder, but that isn’t to be confused with racial and/or socio-economic harmony. This morning Husband and I were talking about an apartment building in the area that’s been under renovations for quite some time. The building used to be all affordable housing, but they opted out of the program that kept it that way. This has happened with quite a few buildings here in the city. Some tenants have been able to stay, others have been booted out. This building is creating a new entrance. I guess they weren’t able to boot everyone out, Husband and I are assuming the old entrance will now be a “poor door.”

If you aren’t a New Yorker, that expression may be unfamiliar to you. Building developers like tax breaks. To get the big tax breaks, luxury buildings offer 20% of their apartments to less privileged families, “affordable housing.” Pretty cool. We used to live in one of those apartments. Not exactly the same as the other apartments, our countertops weren’t granite, the bathroom fixtures weren’t marble, but still lovely. I want to be clear, those affordable apartments aren’t free. Much lower than market rent, but if you live more than 40 miles from New York, Boston, San Francisco or LA, odds are your mortgage is equivalent or less than our rent was. There was a private gym and community office available for an annual fee. We didn’t use those, no big deal. But some of these buildings have added “poor doors.” Yanno, for the peasants like us to use. No big deal? Yes, it’s a big deal. Legal segregation. Wasn’t separate but equal determined to be against the constitution a long time ago?

How do I get from race and Ferguson to poor doors? The majority of those living under affordable housing regulations are people of color. I live in a neighborhood that’s pretty active politically, including quite a few senior citizens who remember and marched for civil rights. But somehow, though those poor doors have been challenged, they’re still here, still being included in plans for new buildings. New buildings, of course, that are built on properties that used to be rented by people living on limited incomes. I’ve yet to see any multimillion dollar brownstones owned by the affluent being razed to make way for luxury buildings.

Injustice is injustice, a young black man is more likely to be shot by police than a young white man, and when an us/them mentality is allowed to spread, it’s only a matter of time before them includes you. So yes, I’m exhausted, disheartened, nauseated, and so so sad we’ve yet to truly move forward.

Stuff This, Corporate Retail America

Paper bag from a thrift store.

I like things, it’s no secret. I even like stuff. But what. the. fuck. America? The insanity known as Black Friday wasn’t enough. Ok, I’m not a Black Friday shopper, but lots of people are, I’ve known several who find it fun, and a few who see it as a type of sport. Now more and more stores are opening on Thanksgiving. Shop, shop, shop for more shit you don’t need and no one wants while you’re in your growth-hormone-laced-turkey stupor, so there won’t be any pesky common sense to get in the way. A couple of days ago I saw a clip on the news about a mall in Western New York that will be opening at 6PM on Thanksgiving Day (and I’m willing to bet if there’s one mall doing this there are more doing the same)–and any retail stores that choose not to open will be fined somewhere in the neighborhood of $200 an hour for every hour the mall is open that the store isn’t. Apparently these fines are somewhat common, written into lease agreements at many malls across the country. Opening on Thanksgiving Day, though, that’s new(er).

What is wrong with us? These big box retailers are the pimps driving BMWs with flashy rims, and we the consumers are the black-eyed, split-lipped prostitutes shivering in the cold and dirty slush waiting for the bus at 5AM. I don’t know that I think Thanksgiving with its false myths of blissful Pilgrims and Native Americans singing Kumbaya together over pumpkin pie is so sacred. But it is supposed to symbolize something, a day to reflect on who and what we have, enjoy our friends, families and communities, what our society is and what it stands for. If you’re a cynic like myself, your immediate thought is of the big money involved in those Thanksgiving Day football games and the gluttony encouraged on TV screens across the nation.

This is New York, city of convenience. Public transportation, grocery stores, drug stores and restaurants being open 24/7, 365 days a year is nothing new. I used to work in social services so yes, I have worked every holiday. I’ll even admit I didn’t hate it. In fact, it was lovely, and those holidays affirmed the work I did mattered, because these were human beings I worked with, not diagnoses, and workers and clients had a good time cooking and eating together. Sure there was always someone who would decompensate and need to go to the ER right before I was about to go off shift–but that’s why I was there, why the work was meaningful if not lucrative–and good God, draining doesn’t begin to cover it.

That said is why I’m very aware not everyone can or should have the holiday off. Social services, medical services, residential treatment services, police, firefighters, public transportation, emergency crews available for public works, these can’t all lock the doors and turn the cell phones off. Sometimes the service provided is more necessary than dinner with Cindy Lou Who. But buying the latest video game console? The perfect sweater for an ugly sweater contest? Really, that can’t wait until the morning? People who work retail are among those who can least afford to take a stand and say “I’m not coming in to work on the holiday,” yet they already see their loved ones least, since they work evenings, nights, and weekends.

I posted last week about my city adventures in the Met and St John the Divine. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, these great enduring works of art–hundreds, some thousands of years old, still revered, still relevant, artists and works still remembered. This being the case, why are artists (visual, actors, musicians or writers) still treated with contempt, as if what they offer society has no value, unless, of course, they’re hugely financially successful? Or dead. Maybe I’m just a flaky mush but I went back to St John yesterday, to bring my godson and Art Child and spend time again with “AMEN: A Prayer for the World.” And I was moved, on the verge of tears again from the works of these modern artists from disparate cultures, an exhibition about respect and understanding, our shared humanity.

Husband works retail. His store is closed on Thanksgiving, but if they decided to open, he would grumble, I would bitch, and then he would go to work. Because rent. Maybe the saleswoman helping you find the laptop you want this Thanksgiving is a mom who is paying a babysitter more than she’s making for the day because the regular sitter is with her own family, or the daycare is closed. Maybe the cashier is an artist who thought he was going to be able to spend the day sculpting. Maybe the floor manager is just fucking tired and had hoped for a day off before the insanity of Black Friday began–because yes, she does have to be back at the store at 4am the next day. The executives who decided the stores should be open? They’re home. Or on vacation. Maybe they’ll stop in and benignly thank the peasant workers for their service. They’re most certainly not trying to figure out how to cook, clean up, offer a holiday experience for their children, beg for child care, calculate how they will pay rent/mortgage/utilities and then go stand on their feet and smile politely for 14 straight hours.

I received this solicitation in the mail the other day. I don’t have much, but I think I’ll write a check.

and drop it in the mailbox on Thanksgiving.

We each have a voice in this country, as individuals and as a greater community. Our voices are heard when we vote, and at this point in our consumer-based society, I believe our voices ring out most clearly through our wallets. People can tsk tsk all they want. The only message being conveyed if you shop on a holiday is that it’s a good, profitable idea for the stores to open, and the people working don’t matter. I’m asking the Fringelings here in America (who don’t have to work on the holiday) to speak out by staying out of the stores on Thanksgiving. Read a classic novel, listen to music, plan a trip to a museum, watch It’s A Wonderful Life. Use the day to make a statement about what you believe matters. Unless you have to work.

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.

Hasta Luego, Summer

It never gets any fucking easier.

And so it goes.

Hello Fringelings! Lots of life since I last posted. Still adjusting to life without Big Senile Dog, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is continuing to have a hard time, searching for her buddy.

I just said goodbye to Nerd Child. You’d think with the years all this would get easier, wrapping up summer, saying goodbye to the boys, school starting up again…but it doesn’t. For me, anyway. Some people say the first year is the hardest, but I disagree because after the first year, you know just how much you’re going to miss them. Supporting each boy’s desire and decision to go to boarding school wasn’t easy, but the school Man Child attended was great for him, and the school Nerd Child is attending has him happier than I ever knew was possible to be in high school. This is a big year in Fringeland. Man Child is in his senior year of college, Nerd Child is a junior in high school (though they don’t call it junior year in his school, all the boarding schools have strange and individual terms for the grades), and Art Child…Art Child begins eighth grade tomorrow.

Eighth grade means insanity here in New York. High school admissions. For those unfamiliar with the pomp and circumstance of city schools, entering high school isn’t limited to the “usual” adolescent stress of worrying about getting lost in new hallways and remembering where your locker is. It’s a process. There is no zoned high school for us, so even limiting the choices to public schools, there are tours and applications and interviews, portfolios and auditions. Because being a young teen and parenting in the city isn’t stressful enough. So yesterday, in preparation, I approached the crate. Then I spent an hour and a half sorting through and tossing out all the junk we no longer need. I thought I did this after Nerd Child’s high school admission rounds were finished, but apparently not. From what I found, I hadn’t tossed anything since I cleared out after Man Child’s college admissions.

The Crate

This is my super system for school admissions. Sure, the savvy moms use Excel spreadsheets and apps, but I’ve got a crate. The above pic is what’s left after clearing out. The latest high school books from the Department of Education, a notebook I’ve used for notes and tracking since I began this fun eight years ago, a notebook from Nerd Child’s high school process (excellent tips that are still applicable from the admissions counselor of his middle school), and acceptance letters and packages (those I could find, anyway. I know several are missing). Because mama pride. All this experience, I’m more relaxed, right? Nope. This will be the first time everything is riding on the public school admissions, and Art Child would like an arts-focused school, so much will be new again. Three different kids, interests, and abilities means different school choices. Crap!!!!

New Yorkers, of course, believe this is the best and only valid way to have their kids in the best schools, and have the best college options later. Oh bullshit. Colleges around the world–even those “top,” Ivy League colleges–are filled with kids who didn’t go to the “top” NYC schools. And I’m having an ongoing panic attack thinking of many of those not top NY public schools that kiddos are assigned to when they don’t make their choice schools. Can’t I just go back to the beach and stay there, eyes closed and iPod in my ears? I may not have done anything fabulous or gone on vacation, but I will miss this summer.

I did have a couple of pieces of good news last week. *drumroll please* The larger apartment came through. Oh. my. God. I have no idea how we’re going to get it habitable and still have enough money to eat this year, no idea how we’re going to get packed and moved without the boys here to help without my back literally breaking, but it’s going to happen. Even if I have a stroke from the price quotes I’m hearing for painting and floor installation, it will happen. Even if they don’t fix the toilet that’s currently doubling as a fountain, it will happen. And luxury of luxuries, a second toilet, a little half bathroom. Two! I’m so thrilled by this the ~~first~~ ~~second~~ third thing I did was go up and scrub that toilet. The first was sweeping, the second was bathe Little Incredibly Dumb Dog, who was gray and sneezing after spending a few hours up there with me. The thought of moving into an apartment that won’t immediately be covered in a layer of dog fur is…strange. Maybe not bad, but strange. (the little one doesn’t shed)

Another bit of good news. I had applied to be a mentee through the WoMentoring Project, and received an email from the agent I applied to for mentoring, and yes! I/Astonishing was chosen. What, specifically, will this mean for me and Astonishing? No fucking clue, but it won’t be bad, and could potentially be fantastic. Actually, being chosen is already fantastic. Funny, because when I wrote the essay for the application, I was thinking about all my application essay experience–writing parent essays for kiddos’ school admissions. And I’ve written many, many of those, each school has their own special set of essay questions. Hmmm, if I never earn a dollar for my fiction, maybe someone will pay me a dollar for admission essays. (Kidding of course, that would be unethical.)

Last week Mrs Smitholini and I celebrated thirty years of friendship. I suggested matching tattoos, but for some reason Mr S didn’t care for that idea. So we went to see Wicked. Just Mrs S and I, like two grownups, a perfect show to celebrate friendship.

So as the season gets ready to change, changes in Fringeland. Good stuff, nerve-wracking stuff, life.

Second Hand Life: unsolicited advice

Coat/Wardrobe rack

Yes, messy apartment, try to ignore the clutter–I do. Everyone knows I’m waiting to hear about the larger apartment. In the meantime, I know it will need some work before we can move in, and that means paying on two apartments. Obviously, I want to minimize the hemorrhage of funds. I’m not buying anything (what if it doesn’t come through?), but my current place is hung with paint swatches and little floor samples scattered in different lighting. My kitchen table won’t fit in the new space, and Art Child needs new furniture, so we’re cyber-window-shopping. We like to look at the web sites for the out of budget stores, and get ideas from those. One thing we saw that we both thought was a great idea was a wardrobe rack for her bedroom. The site we saw this on is charging $300. For a coat rack! It’s ok, we aren’t buying anything, just looking.

Yesterday afternoon we splurged and went for tea at our favorite place, lots of fun. Afterwards, we made our way to the thrift store. I rarely find anything in there, I think you have to be more of a shopper to do well. But then, there it was. A perfectly good coat rack. $30. How could I not? It’s on wheels, so we walked it home. Of course, those wheels aren’t meant for city streets, so we lost two screws by the tenth block, and the bottom rack was now perpendicular to the top. Five more blocks, found a hardware store, where the manager got us two new screws and fixed it. $1.19

Between the find and a conversation with a writing friend, I’m thinking about this second hand life. For the record, I’m a big supporter of recycling and reusing. In its way, Astonishing is recycled. Do you know it’s my fourth completed manuscript? I want to kick myself, each and every day, feeling like I wasted so much time. First I felt like I had plenty of time ahead of me to sit down and write that Great American Novel. Then I started, but practicality (also known as fear and insecurity) had me write romances first. Romance isn’t easy, or an easy market, but it is a larger market, a bit more open to newcomers.

When I wrote Wanna Bees (third manuscript) it was an attempt to blend my two loves, reefing and writing. It was also my first experience writing something close to magical realism. I loved it. Sent a small number of queries, a couple of requests–rejected–and realized I didn’t care enough. So I recycled. Both Wanna Bees and Astonishing begin with the death of a mother (within one year, I lost my mother and learned of the death of my birth mother. Writing may not be as effective as traditional therapy, but it’s easier on the budget.) both open in New York, both main characters have sisters they’re close with, both have magical realism. But very, very different books. I had fun writing Wanna Bees. I love Astonishing.

Will it get published? I have no idea. Is is good enough? Good enough is the underlying theme in all of my manuscripts. I think so, but I have researched enough, listened to and had enough conversations with the pubbed and unpubbed, agents and editors, to know good enough isn’t always enough. There are other considerations. Some of the mistakes I’ve made are part of the process, the only way to learn (unless, maybe, you go the MFA route, have real life mentors and such, but even then I suspect those craft mistakes need to happen). But waiting so long to take myself seriously? Avoidable. Waiting even longer to write a manuscript I really wanted to write? Avoidable. This is where I can and you should say, “that Mrs Fringe is a hard-headed woman.” It’s okay, Husband says it all the time.

Everyone who writes has their own process, what works for them. Personally, I don’t believe in writing only for yourself if you’re interested in publication. I write with an eye/ear towards what I think would be interesting to others, intrigue them enough to keep reading. But if you want to do this writing thing, if you want to be published–be just hard-headed enough to do it. Don’t wait for the right time, don’t write what you think is the more practical choice–just because it’s more practical. Writing fiction isn’t exactly practical. I saw plenty of items in the thrift store that were still impractical and out of budget, second hand or not. But when it’s in budget, right in front of you? Grab it and fix the wheels when you get it home.

Look At Me, I’m A Person!

Party of one

This is my morning. Every morning. I begin each day on the terrace with my coffee and my phone for a morning email check in with a friend–“ready?”– who lives many states away. Whichever of us is awake first sends the first email and cybercup.

But there’s a new and important difference to this little tableau. Can you guess what it is? Until yesterday morning, I didn’t have a real grown up sized chair, or this cute table. That’s right, for the past seven years I have woken up anywhere between four and six AM, gone onto the terrace, and sat down with my coffee and phone, pretty much on the floor, no table.

What do I mean by pretty much on the floor? This.

See the difference?

Yes, I’d been using the low-slung reject beach chair–rejected for the beach because the back can’t be adjusted/reclined. Why, Mrs Fringe, wasn’t your butt cold sitting on that in the winter months? Yes, yes it was. Mrs Fringe, didn’t that aggravate your back over the past year, when you’ve been dealing with the back pain from Satan? Yes, yes it did. When I first moved into this apartment, a little patio set went on the list. But yanno, the list is long, and things like a real outside chair for myself fall way down to the bottom of the list of needs and wants that never stops growing. We’re still waiting for an official *go* on the larger apartment, but it seems like it is going to come through, and this would push a patio set that much further down the list. Because budget.

Initially, I didn’t really mind. First of all, how could I complain when I actually had an apartment with a terrace? And you all know how much I love the beach, so I would sit in my little chair, close my eyes, and pretend I was on a beautiful beach somewhere else.

When Mr Smitholini first saw this, years ago, he laughed and told me he was going to bring me the sandbox from when his kids were younger, so I could really live the dream. Not a bad thought, really. It became a running joke, every time I spoke with Mrs Smitholini on the phone, every time they came to visit. They don’t come very often. Let’s face it, driving and parking in the city sucks, we are 8000 people and creatures in a two bedroom apartment, and their family of seven squished around the dining room table in addition to my family of five creates an, ummm, cozy dinner. They have a spacious and beautiful home in the suburbs, so it’s more frequent that we go to visit at their house.

Until about two weeks ago, it had been a couple of years since they were here. Life, work, twelve people’s schedules…not so easy to coordinate. But then they were here, in dress clothes because they came over after a family function. Mr Smitholini wanted to sit on the terrace to have his cigar, and I, the hostess with the mostest, offered him the beach chair. He was a good sport about it, Mrs Smitholini and I sat on the ground, but, ummm, suit + beach chair + middle aged bodies + middle of Manhattan = not so fun. We went to visit them two days ago, and Mrs Smitholini had this present for me.

A real, grown-up patio set. Two (matching!) chairs and a table. One of her kiddos even put it together for me before we got there. Squee! It isn’t just the furniture that’s a gift, the past two mornings have been a gift to my back, as I settled with my coffee and phone, watching the sun rise.

I don’t consider myself an outdoorsy gal, but I need to start my days like this. Sun, rain, or snow, I have to be outside. My beach house will remain a fantasy, but I figure out what I can to get my imagination there with the pesky reality of my body being here in the city. Time on the terrace, forever friends, and soon I hope, another little slice of the ocean in a glass box.

So here I sit, on a grown-up chair, like a real person on the terrace. My laptop even fits comfortably on the table, coffee cup to the side. Are you ready for coffee?

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.

Happy Anniversary: Carpe Diem

Mrs Fringe is 2 years old. I could write a fun post, a retrospective of the highlights, discuss how very much this blog and all of my followers mean to me, but in true fractured Fringeland style, I’m not going to do any of those today. No silliness, no photos. Instead, I’m writing a PSA post, asking you all to please read and remember.

I’ve written epilepsy awareness posts before, I usually post one in November, but I’m writing another one today.

On the train this morning I got a phone call from Man Child telling me he was on his way to the ER, and when I arrived at the beach it was raining. Ok, life.

After the rain stopped and the clouds moved off, someone several towels down had a tonic clonic seizure. Tonic clinics are what used to be called grand mal seizures. I went over, as did several other people. Really nice to see so many willing to get involved and see if they could help, lifeguards were hailed, police were flagged down, 911 was called.

I was umm, happy? I don’t think happy is the right word, to see the person was on their side, and they were on a towel on the sand, away from the water, nothing to be injured on. This is probably the safest scenario for a seizure when someone is alone and outside.

But I was quickly upset, and I’m still upset now.

The problem. One woman pushed through, trying to turn the person onto their back, saying they needed to be held down. NO. There is no reason to restrain someone having a seizure, and doing so risks injuring them. No less than two people stepped forward ready to grab the jaw and force the mouth open, yelling that they were going to choke on their tongue. NO. NEVER, EVER PUT ANYTHING IN THE MOUTH OF SOMEONE HAVING A SEIZURE. It is physically impossible for someone to choke on their tongue. It is, however, possible for the tongue to block the airway, which is why lying on their side is the safest position for someone having a seizure. One woman tried to hold their head, saying she was going to put her finger in their mouth to swipe away the saliva. NO. Nothing in the mouth includes fingers, it’s a good way to a) have your finger injured, possibly bitten off, b) break the jaw of the person having the seizure, c) trying to force anything into the mouth when someone is seizing can result in chipping their teeth.

Yes, I spoke up.

But, why, oh why, is there not more seizure awareness? Seizures aren’t rare. 1 in 100 people can expect to have a seizure in their lifetime. Anyone can have a seizure. Epilepsy is generally defined as 2 or more unprovoked seizures. Epilepsy can develop in any person at any time. It is the fourth most common neurological disorder.

So how come, as the person was coming out of the seizure, the only question asked was if they had taken anything or been drinking? These are valid, important, sensible questions. But they weren’t asked if they had epilepsy.

Most seizures are self limiting, — end on their own. Without anything else going on (injury, illness) they are usually not considered medical emergencies. But they can be. People can and do die– from SUDEP (Sudden Unexplained Death in Epilepsy), status epilepticus (prolonged seizures), and injuries sustained during seizures (head injury, drowning, etc). These events are not common, but they can and do happen.

Please. Know what to do in case someone around you has a seizure (and tonic clinics are just one of many types).