new york

Friday Whimper

Remember my last post, focusing on what’s been good? Fuck that. Somehow the three days since then have been 83 days in real time. Just tell me when I can go meet Fatigue for Friday Night Madness. In fact, I think I might splurge. Skip the food and just spend all my dollars on a Kwak. Because it’s delicious and makes me feel special, that’s why.

pauwel kwak (Photo credit: [puamelia])

It is Friday, that’s the good news. Tonight, Fatigue will tell me about his acting class and his singing practice. He will ask me about writing, and I will tell him about fixing-to-get-ready to query. Then we will both contemplate, strategize, and ramble about how much is subjective, and analyze the week to find the bright and hopeful spots. And of course, dog poop. My beasts, his beasts, and any other beasts we walk.

I will remember that Loehmann’s is going out of business. This is a big deal to me. When I shop, I shop the discount stores. Filene’s is gone, Daffy’s is gone, what’s left? There’s Century 21, but their stuff is all higher end, so for me I can buy a splurge piece there, not replace my blown-out-in-the-knee jeans. TJ Maxx, but I rarely find anything in there, and most of what I do isn’t stuff that’s made to last. Yeah, yeah, I’m cranky today but I feel like this is another nail in the coffin of the working class. “You’re a peasant, it’s time you dress like one. How dare you want to wear something that isn’t lycra and polyester?”

And it’s just after the holidays, so it isn’t like I have any money to run in and see what they’ve got before they’re gone.

Goodbye, Loehmann’s

I’ll miss you

Together we will moan and groan about the state of the union, the dearth of common sense in politics, and–depending on how far into my beer I am at that point–I will likely rage about this case, which thankfully is over now, but has been weighing heavily on my heart and my mind. It shouldn’t have been a case at all. I’ve been wanting to write a post centering on it, but I have to wait until I can think calmly and clearly. I’ll still be angry (wtf, politicians? Get your head out of my skirt!) but I want to make sense, whether or not readers agree.

It is warmer today, though I’d prefer that didn’t mean the pigeons were out and bold and noisy. They are, you know. They make this obnoxious whirring trilling noise that is the auditory equivalent of their splatter.

So yeah, just hanging in to get to the end of this hideously long week, hoping nothing goes wrong in my house or Fatigue’s to prevent our meeting up tonight.

No shame whatsoever

Pick-Up

You know those friendships. We all have them. Pick-up friendships. The people you don’t see, or don’t speak to, or don’t see an email/post from for months and months, and then when you do it’s like you saw them last week and it feels so…good. They are the sweetness in life that leave us smiling, seemingly small but full blessings within the frustrations and drudgery of day to day life.

I saw one of those friends this evening, Honor, and in fact I think it was from him that I first heard the expression, of friendships being like a game of pick-up basketball you find on the public playgrounds of the city. Just walk onto the court and start playing. He was a teacher of Man Child’s years ago, and over the years became a friend to Man Child, a friend to all of us. I call him Honor because he is one of those rare people who lives his principles, always kind, always thoughtful. He was raised by a mother who believes you never show up at someone’s house empty handed. Old fashioned? Yup. Unnecessary? Absolutely. And completely lovely.

A frigid, snowy night. Could there be a more perfect gift?

After a little catching up, Honor, Man Child, and Miss Music left to go out for dinner. They went to a local restaurant that’s about to close. Priced out of the neighborhood after more than thirty years. Oh New York. I’m sorry I won’t get the opportunity to go in before they’re gone, but I didn’t realize they were closing in time to plan. Ah well.

I didn’t get to have my favorite sandwich one last time, but Flower Child and I were treated to our favorite live music.

Thank you, Nerd Child!

Now all is quiet. I’m just watching the snow coming down, waiting to hear if the public schools will be closed tomorrow. Thinking about the WIP, turning a few ideas over in my mind. Tomorrow I write. And continue avoiding the mirrors, I got my hair cut today. Blech.

It’s coming down hard and fast, a snow day is feeling possible.

Your Call Cannot be Completed as Dialed

Phones are dead. (Photo credit: nicadlr)

Between Husband and I, we have spent oh, I don’t know…4000 hours on the phone and in the store over the past few days, trying to clear up our cell phone account. I think I mentioned in my last post, but maybe not, someone somehow used our account to purchase 4 new iPhones and add 6 lines to our account. Oh, the joys of technology, it makes life so much easier, doesn’t it?

We thought we cleared it up the day before Christmas. Then we thought we cleared it up the day after Christmas. Then we were certain we cleared it up yesterday. Our contract is up, Man Child and I are due for upgrades. Perfect timing, because the week between Christmas and New Year’s is when the cell phone stores push the sales. Yay! This was the first time in years that my cell phone didn’t completely die before Christmas in the time frame when our contract was up. Because no, I will not replace my phone until and unless I’m due for an upgrade. The full retail prices on these things are ridiculous, I don’t care if I spend 8 months with the phone held together by duct tape.

Man Child and I went into the store yesterday, ready to get new phones and downgrade our plan. We’ve been paying a ludicrous monthly bill for what we use. Woo hoo, I’m psyched, I’m finally going to get the phone I’ve been wanting for years, at the price I’m willing to pay. Which, for the record, is free. (Once I get my rebate.) It isn’t the most current model, but groovy enough for me. Only we couldn’t, because the cell phone carrier is now on the case, making sure no fraud occurs. Isn’t there an expression about that, something about a barn door, free milk, escaped horse, something?

An open door (Photo credit: Juha Riissanen)

Even though the extra lines and charges had been removed from our account, as far as the carrier was concerned, we already re-upped our plan and got new phones. I couldn’t take care of it in the store, because the account is under Husband’s name. Grrrrr. Fine. We leave, Husband calls and spends another 3 hours on the phone with the carrier this morning to clear it all up and make sure I’m an authorized something or other to make decisions and handle problems. For the record, Husband doesn’t even use this carrier anymore, because of their exorbitant prices and previous bullshit over the years. Man Child and I still use them/the plan, along with Mother-in-Law. M-i-L because it’s easier for her, Man Child because they have the best signal at and near his school, and me because they have the best overall coverage in the country, and there have been several times already when we’re out of town and Husband’s phone doesn’t work but mine does. One of us has to have a working phone all the time. Two kiddos away at school, another one with medical needs, someone has to be reachable, no?

So, Man Child and I went back to the store this morning. Picked out our phones–again–go through a thing with the salesman. He was pleasant, but of course, trying to make the best sale he could. I get it, this is how he pays his bills. But no, I’m sure we can and are going to downgrade our plan, and no, $350 worth of protection plans aren’t worth two free cases. Really. I’m sure. M-i-L doesn’t need or want a smart phone. I need a lower phone bill each month. OK, we establish what info we need transferred from our old phones to the new ones, and the salesman begins to process the order. But wait!

A stopped press (Photo credit: slambo_42)

First, I get a phone call on my cell from the fraud department requesting permission to process the order because our account is now flagged. Thumbs up. Surprise! Order still can’t go through. There’s a mysterious something pending on our account. A mysterious something we didn’t authorize or pay for. Ummm, get rid of it? The salesman, who started out so smooth and friendly when I first met him on Saturday afternoon, is now growling into the phone with whatever department is supposed to take care of this, stabbing the digit keys with his index finger as he dials. Again. and Again. Apparently, they’re just as quick to disconnect calls from store employees as they are customers. Seems to me if you’re a phone company you should be able to transfer a call without disconnecting it, but perhaps I set the bar too high.

While he’s on hold, I try to convince him he should give us free phone cases for our troubles, while he looks me straight in the eye and explains it doesn’t work that way, how it isn’t really our loss or trouble, it’s the phone company who took this huge hit, so there’s no reason to expect any courtesy/compensation. Really? This is my fault that someone, somewhere, didn’t make an effort to confirm it was truly Husband making these HUGE purchases and changes to our account; an account we’ve had with them for ten years now–for phones they charge hundreds of dollars for, that cost them about 10 cents to make? No reason for a major phone carrier to extend courtesies despite the fact we’ve now wasted many, many hours on this? Heh.

At this point, I’m losing it. This is too much like shopping, and I’m starting to look and feel like a 9 year old with a serious case of ADHD who didn’t take her meds. I should be home. Sleeping. Playing with Flower Child. Writing. Reading. Listening to Nerd Child tell me about his most recent research on something serious and intense that I don’t understand but love hearing his passion. Anything but standing in the middle of this fucking store getting absolutely nowhere.

Man Child goes out and gets us coffee. While the salesman on the phone is dealing with the vortex of the fraud department, we chat with another salesman who had helped me the last time I got a phone, over two years ago. Seems like a genuinely friendly young man, we chat about New York and life while pretending the other salesman isn’t about to have a stroke on the phone with fraud and my head isn’t about to explode from this ridiculous level of bullshit. I take the opportunity to do some shameless self promotion and plug Mrs Fringe, Man Child goes out and brings back breakfast. Our salesman, still on the phone.

We’re now back home, with one very costly migraine, but no new cell phones. Why? Because now the fraud department is being extra cautious, and even though I was added as an authorized user/decision maker/bill payer this morning, they decided I can’t exercise my glorious power of handing over my debit card, with my name, and my identification, without Husband either there in person or on one of the cell phones from this plan. Husband is at work. With his cell phone, which is not one of the ones from this overpriced quagmire of a cell phone company.

Thirty minutes. I’m willing to give thirty more minutes to this tomorrow, before I tell this company and their fraud department to kiss my rapidly spreading middle aged butt (not the individual store or salesmen, because they were quite nice and did what they could from their end) and go buy a phone elsewhere, with a month to month contract. In case of emergency, send smoke signals.

Can You Hear Me Now? (Photo credit: jeffsmallwood)

Life, Blogging, and Nelson Mandela

The Pen and Sword (Photo credit: DavidR_

Mrs Fringe is not a blog about blogging. It is not a blog about writing. It is not a blog that tells readers how to save the world, raise perfect children, or make the perfect soufflé. Really, it isn’t, check out the “About” page, I claim no expertise and never have.

I touched on this in July, but I’m a little mushy today, so I’m going to write about it again. I began blogging to have a space to be honest and in the hopes of getting myself back into a regular writing schedule–without undue or unrealistic pressure. In navel gazing mode while I grocery shopped this morning, I realized I have achieved these goals, and hope to continue to do so for a long time. The blog isn’t huge, I don’t earn a dollar from it, no agents have sent me sekrit coded messages promising me contracts, but I feel pretty darned good about it.

I get upset by things. I probably shouldn’t because I’m a grown-up and a realist but I do, because I’m a human being with a vivid imagination. Like the complaints going around the building and the neighborhood again, about the local homeless shelters. It’s absolutely true, these buildings, programs, and the people who utilize them are far from ideal neighbors. They need more staffing, support, mental health and drug treatment services. Many of the residents of my building and immediate neighborhood are older people who marched for equal rights, civil rights, against war and nukes and in support of love and peace. Hell, half of them comprised the Occupy Wall Street gatherings. So how come they’re banding together now to close down the local halfway houses, block the homeless shelters? All these years, all this awareness, and still, too few are willing to acknowledge the homeless as more than a nuisance. Definitely not to acknowledge these are human beings, only wanting to hurry up and call them someoneelse’sproblem.

Those pesky homeless guys, the woman staggering down the street? This wasn’t their dream. But this is their neighborhood, and for many it has been since long before Rudy Giuliani cracked down on “quality of life” crimes, Disney took over Broadway and Times Square, and small business owners were squeezed out in favor of 8 gazillion chain drug stores. I’m not glossing over the-way-it-used-to-be; the dirt, the crack vials and shared needles, the squeegee guys hammering on car windows when the bridge and tunnel crowd was trying to get home, the Girls! Girls! Girls! you had to walk through to get to the library.

Description unavailable (Photo credit: Runs With Scissors)

Yeah, it was dirty, sometimes it was scary. Rents were always crazy here, I remember hearing about 8 girls sharing a 5th floor walk up when I was a kid 40,000 years ago. Now the rents have shot from crazy to obscene. The real estate bubble didn’t actually burst here, just sagged a bit. Firm as ever now.

How can it be that I read posts the other day from more than one privileged young American toting the value of sweat shops as opportunities for poor kids?

So where is the compassion? How does someone reconcile “not in my backyard” liberalism with the wailing and gnashing of teeth over the death of Nelson Mandela? I’ve read many, many lovely quotes from Mandela over the last 18 hours. Read many heart warming tributes about what incredible contributions he made to our world. 95% of those tributes include qualifiers, “he wasn’t perfect.” No shit. He was a human being. An incredibly strong, impassioned, brave, fallible human being. But it seems we shouldn’t be human. Not if we’re living on the streets, not if we’re fighting for social justice, not if we’re regular old gals.

I’m the first to admit, I’m not that brave. Or that motivated. Or that strong or that smart. I am not a revolutionary, don’t feel John Lennon’s “Imagine” is my personal anthem.

Mrs Fringe is, however, my little ragged thread of the world. A thread for patching, a thread for connecting. I received a beautiful message this morning from someone who recently found Fringeland. One of my stories made her happy, she connected with it. Over the time I’ve been blogging, I’ve been fortunate enough to receive quite a few notes along those lines. Recently a friend who is also somewhat of a mentor even said that she believes Mrs Fringe has allowed me to hone my voice in my fiction. Nail it. Well, she didn’t say nail it, because she’s way more elegant and eloquent than I will ever be, but that was the gist. I think she’s right, and I wanted to take today’s post to say thank you to everyone who reads, comments, follows, and encourages.

I haven’t written a bestselling novel that opens my nation’s consciousness. I haven’t ended apartheid or led a nation, I haven’t built a homeless shelter or washed the feet of those who walk the streets without shoes. I haven’t even occupied Wall Street. I’m not likely to do any of those things. I do try to be thought-full, to share a smile with others who are living on the Fringe, offer a voice, and more than anything else, remember that I’m a human being, and so is everyone else around me. Thank you for giving me a space to do this, and responses that let me know we do all affect each other.

English: Crystal structure of human DNA polymerase lambda (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Winter is Coming

PARKA SQUIRREL TRACKS ALONG THE WEST BANK OF THE SAG. THE ESKIMOS MAKE THEIR WARMEST WINTER PARKAS FROM THE PELTS OF… – NARA – 550466 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This year, I’m trying something new. I’m going to do/wear whatever I need to in order to stay warm. That’s right Fringelings, I am going to blow the dust off my change purse and go with the warmest, not the least expensive. I say this every time I need to get new winter gear, but this time I mean it.

There’s a pair of boots I’ve been eyeing for three years, super waterproof and warm but silly overpriced. I finally found them online in a size sort of close to mine (in August) for a greatly reduced price and bought them. They’re a silly color. Have I mentioned the ugly factor? And they are *gasp* flats. But they are warm.

“Improvised winter boots”. Improvised Winter boots. Battle of Stalingrad. Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945. Русский: «Эрзац-валенки». Эрзац-валенки. Сталинградская битва. Великая Отечественная война 1941-1945 годов. Россия, Волгоград (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I researched the warmest winter coats. Yes. Research. I’m an obsessive lunatic, remember? Found the perfect coat two years ago. It’s been discontinued and isn’t for sale anywhere. Ok, found the second best one. More expensive. After two years of watching, I accept that this brand never goes on sale, doesn’t matter where you buy it. Never seen it at any of my usual discount haunts. Two weeks ago I dragged Husband to a fancy department store I haven’t been in since my pre-children days. Found the coat, tried it on. Very, very warm. And ugly. And expensive. Now picture Husband’s face when I said, “okay, let’s go home.”

Lucy watches Little Ricky’s birthday party from the window ledge. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Aren’t you going to buy it?”

Pfft. He must have me confused with someone else. I have to think about these things first. It’s only been two years since I started watching it online. Come on, a lot of money for an ugly coat? Much angst is required. Plus, then I stopped at another section of the store and tried on another coat. $10,000. For a coat! Still, fun to put it on, and it gives me a giggle every time I think of the lewd joke Husband made after we left the store. He’s the king of deadpan.

Ok, it’s getting cold. I’m ready. Still, no way I’m paying absolute full price for anything. If I opened a credit card account in fancy shmancy store, I could get ten percent off. Better than nothing. Back to the store we went, in between dog walks yesterday. Guess what I forgot? These fancy stores only buy a few pieces of each item. None left in my size or the color I wanted. Pretty sure Husband’s head was going to explode if I didn’t Buy. The. Damned. Coat. The saleswoman found one for me in another store across the country, and is going to have it shipped.

Now I didn’t dress up to go shopping, or put on makeup. This was a quick run in between picking up dog poop, come on. It isn’t a fun day out for me, it is a necessary ~~torture~~ ~~evil~~ errand. Plenty of time for the sweet saleswoman to chat while I filled out the credit card thingie and then she arranged for shipping. Idle chit chat about how quickly those coats sold out, especially the smaller sizes (not as small as I used to be). Why the smaller sizes? Well, because we small Puerto Rican women love this particular coat. Hmm. For the record, the saleswoman’s accent was decidedly East European. Have I ever mentioned that Husband is in sales? Has been since forever. He is an excellent sales person, always calm and friendly-but-not-too-friendly, never let’m see you sweat. Did she just say? Why yes, yes she did. After 8000 years of being friends and then being together, this could be the first time I’ve seen Husband look shocked in public, in front of a stranger. Shocked to the soles of his Dominican feet.

Before we could fully process this, the saleswoman helpfully, generously let me know I could get ten percent off of anything else I’d like to purchase that day. Pause for a deep and meaningful look, complete with raised eyebrows. “Anything. Even cosmetics, you must need some.”

I don’t know why shopping isn’t more fun.

shop or hang , that is the question (Photo credit: gandhiji40)

Wanna Get a Belly Fulla Beer

Ok I’m not talking about Saturday night, I’m talking about Friday Night Madness.

Generally, Husband is off on Fridays, and he orders pizza with Flower Child while I go out with Fatigue. For this month, Husband is working on Fridays. Oh NO!! I need my hour and a half of Friday Night Madness. It’s like a get out of jail free card, only it’s bitch and moan to my heart’s content, or just sit peacefully with my beer while Fatigue moans. Plus all my favorite waitresses work on Friday evening. Blargh.

The other day, on Facebook, I was in a discussion with a group of friends about soups. Try not to be jealous of my glamorous New York lifestyle. One friend mentioned onion soup made with a dark beer base, and it’s been on my mind ever since.

So, I called Fatigue and asked him if he’d like to come here instead of meeting at the bar. Flower Child was very happy. So happy she was *gasp* willing to not have pizza for dinner. On a Friday. This may not sound like much to you, Fringelings, but in our world that is huge. She adores Fatigue and hasn’t seen him in quite a while. Thumbs up. Bought beer, bought onions, Comte, baguette, all good to go.

The weather cooperated when the day started out. Windy, sideways rain, perfect soup for dinner day! I worked on Astonishing, added about a thousand words. This took three times as long as it should have because of the damned noise. They’re STILL working on that building across the street. It’s been over a year. To redo the front and the first floor, where the retail spaces are. I could have built an entire apartment building, complete with plumbing, out of Legos by now. By the time I finished writing for the day and had Flower Child back home from school, the rain was gone, the wind was gone, the sky was perfectly clear, and it was 70 degrees outside. Of course. Well forget it, I had the makings for soup, soup is what I was making.

Except I was looking at that beer and decided I’d rather drink it than put it in the soup. White wine base it is! Shoot, then I should put in a dollop of brandy for depth. (Mrs Fringe, Flower Child, and Fatigue are all vegetarians, so I use vegetable stock, not beef. Poor, poor flesh eating Husband.) I didn’t have any brandy. Or cognac. What the hell, I added a splash of Cabernet.

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A good time was had by all, Flower Child showed Fatigue all of her more recent sketches. A lovely Friday Night Madness indeed.

Happy Saturday, Fringelings!

Things That Go Bump in the Day

Jack-o-lantern (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We love Halloween. Well, I’m not sure if Husband really loves it, but the rest of us here in Fringeland do, so he smiles along. Man Child has been Jack Skellington twice, all three of my kiddos knew all the lyrics to the soundtrack of the Nightmare Before Christmas before they knew their ABCs. This afternoon there’s going to be a party in my building for the kiddos. A nice idea, and so I went out early this morning to hit the grocery store. I saw a meme thingie on Facebook for mummy-hot dogs, what a great idea! Easy, not too pricey, something in addition to candy to eat. OK, I’m using tofu dogs, but still. My sweetie is really looking forward to this. I’m not sure why, but the Halloween oogie boogies, ghosts, vampires, and banshees don’t bother her at all. (no gore though, please)

You don’t get the house to house trooping through dusk here in the city, we do vertical trick or treating, for the most part. This has its advantages, no worries about your little superhero freezing in a costume.

I didn’t leave early enough. The train reeked of young adults on their way home (subway of shame?) with last night’s booze steaming from their pores. Cold outside, hot in the tunnels, lots of vodka sweat.

20101009 1818 – NYC – subway – tunnels – IMG_2309 (Photo credit: Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL))

Then the store was packed. I was on line longer than it took me to finish my shopping–on both floors!

Fine. I get back to my neighborhood and decide to stop in to the temporary Halloween store before going home. Meant I was lugging groceries, but didn’t have Flower Child with me. Sounds mean, doesn’t it? I mean, here I am, going into the store to get make-up for her costume, but preferred to do so without her. Bad, bad mama. Practical mama, too. Flower Child cannot make decisions. I don’t know why or what misfiring synapses cause this, but she can’t decide. Ever. On anything. So something like standing in front of a wall of makeup to decide which tubes of face paint could take two hours–and result in both of us needing to go home and crash–screw the mummies, let those other kids eat candy corn. But I’m being a good mama today, damn it! Supporting creative costumes! Buying ghoulish makeup! Supplying tofu mummies! So I went without her.

Great! Except now I’m looking at a wall of theatrical makeup, trying to decide what looks easiest to apply, wash off, most versatile, trying to fit into the budget. Halloween costumes have come a LONG way since I was a kid. I know, it’s hard to believe, but I was once a kid. Wore my mother’s gold hoop earrings, red lipstick from my grandma, and a black nylon blouse from my mother’s closet–voila! A gypsy! I’m sorry, it was long before the idea of gypsies being politically incorrect for a Halloween costume hit Brooklyn. Anyway, here I was and somehow, I ended up one too-rapid breath from a full blown panic attack in the store. What. The. Fuck.

I’ve had panic attacks before, but not in years. Years and years. Multiple children and lifetimes ago. A tube of gray face paint had caught my eye. The exact shade of gray I’ve seen on Flower Child too many times during seizures. I don’t know what happened, I really don’t. I mean, I know, it’s scary shit watching your kiddo turn colors human beings were never meant to be, hearing a shriek like no other as the air is pushed out of their lungs, watching them stop breathing, feeling completely powerless, wondering if this will end quickly or be one of the ones that goes on and on until you’re in the ER reporting the sequence of events to the 18th doctor. But it’s Halloween! Fun scary, not mama’s flipping her lid for absolutely no reason whatsoever scary.

Flower Child was fine when I left, fine when I got home. She’s happily playing with the makeup I grabbed. I didn’t buy the gray.

Pigs, Drunks, and Amy

English: Pigs and Daffodils Pig farm and Daffodil fields (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My goodness, October 1st! I didn’t realize how long it’s been since I’ve posted. blahblahblahlifeexcusessadnessmuckfringeblahblahblah.

I’ve come to a very important (though I’m not sure why) realization. Little Incredibly Dumb Dog isn’t all that dumb, she’s just a pig. The other evening I was getting ready to walk the beasts, and the little one was being a nuisance. I dropped my sweatshirt on top of her to keep her busy while I got the leashes.

You know, that’s supposed to be the test of doggie intelligence, how long it takes them to get out from under a towel, or some equivalent. Imagine my surprise when it took her about 1 second. Maybe I didn’t have it completely over her. So I dropped it again, making sure the thing was centered. Same result.

This is the same dog that I still have to keep a pee pad in the apartment for, even though she’s over two years old now. She’ll do great, not use the pad at all for 10 days, and then do nothing when we’re out on a walk, come in and race to her pad to pee/poop. And still, not always remembering that it doesn’t count if only her front half is on the pad. Very special. Even more special is how she’ll take a treat and run to the pad to eat it. Thus, my conclusion–she isn’t dumb, she’s just a pig. Eleven dingy white pounds of gross.

Yes, I’m still writing. Slowly. Painfully. I hit 35,000 words earlier today, which I figure puts me about halfway through the first draft. My protagonist, Christina, is now permanently pickled. Half time, that moment when I close the file and have a wardrobe malfunction through blogging.

The Pin-Up by Charles Dana Gibson. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Do I still think Astonishing is any good? No clue. I’m too deep in it. Slogging through the middle muck, trying to figure out how in the world I’m going to write her way to an ending.

So the other morning I was walking the beasts, thinking once again how much easier life would be right now if I was better at drinking. Sadly, Mrs Fringe pretty much has a one drink a week limit. More might sound appealing in my head, but my body doesn’t want it. But it would be easier to put myself in Christina’s head and ride along with her downward spiral, and easier not to care when Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is rolling in another mystery puddle in the curb. I was contemplating all of this, and then I heard a familiar voice, “Hi Amy!”

It’s a parent I used to see during drop off and pick up when Flower Child was in elementary school. Never got to know him other than 2-5 minute chats waiting for the kids to come out or bring them in. Nice enough guy. Except for one thing. My name isn’t Amy.

I don’t have any clue why he thinks it is, but he does. For all the years I’ve been doing the parent thing, there are more parents of my kiddos’ classmates whose names I don’t know, and who don’t know my name, than who do. I probably didn’t notice the first few times he said it. Hey, it’s a group of parents, I’m waiting for my kid, didn’t pay that much attention. Then I noticed, and corrected him once or twice. Nope. I don’t know if he didn’t hear me or has a mental block, but I decided it didn’t really matter.

I live in a fantasy fringey world of pigs and drunks, I suppose being an Amy is pretty good. Maybe I should use Amy as a pseudonym for Astonishing.

{| style=”width:100%; border:1px solid black; background:#ffe0e0; padding:0; text-align:center;” |- | This photo is of Wikis Take Manhattan goal code R13, Curb cut. |} (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Toll Road Ahead

Well, I haven’t gotten any further on Astonishing, and no beach days, but we’ve done a little exploring of the Northeast. And by exploring, I mean dropping off Nerd Child at his summer program and visiting Man Child and Miss Lovely Music. We went to eat at the restaurant where Man Child is working, and this picky picky Mama says without hesitation the food was delicious.

Much as I drool over the fantasy of a beach vacation, it’s been glorious to take a couple of opportunities to leave the city, and just breathe. The air really does smell different–and we weren’t on any farms, so no manure, just sweet. Bonus points for allowing myself to have time away from screens without guilt.

As a bonus while traveling, the dealership we bought the car through screwed up. We paid extra to have a navigation system and iPod thingie put in. The navigation system stopped working after two days. Then we discover the DVD player isn’t working anymore either. Turns out they disabled the DVD player in order to place the new GPS–but didn’t tell us. Nice business practice. So glad we went there, so we could feel confident we’d be treated decently by Husband’s relatives.

We’ve never had a DVD player in a car before, wasn’t on our list of necessities–hell, it wasn’t even on our wish list. But it came in the car we bought, and I assume the cost was built into the price of the vehicle. Now they have to replace the whole navigation/iPod/radio unit, because the one they put in really isn’t working, it wasn’t that we hit a wrong button. And they tell us we can’t have the DVD player working anymore–unless we want to pay more to have them install a different DVD unit. WTF?!

I, of course, want my money back. Take the damn car somewhere else to have a system installed. Nope, they can’t/won’t give us a refund. So glad I spent a gajillion dollars for a car with a bazillion miles on it, so I can have all the little perks that make traveling more pleasant. Fuck!

We arrived home much later than expected after visiting Man Child, caught behind a s-l-o-w moving vehicle on a twisty two lane highway. I walked into the apartment holding my breath, and was unsurprised to see puddles on the floor. Hmmm, that’s an awfully big puddle for Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Must have been Big Senile Dog. Wait, no, that isn’t his pee-in-the-house pattern. Cause, yanno, if he’s going to have an accident, he likes to dance around as he does so he can pretend it isn’t him–and leaving a trail everywhere. Both of them?!?! Nope, turned out my Swiffer mop sprang a leak, and it was all cleaning solution. I now have one very clean area of the living room floor, especially the undersides of the planks, where it all sank in. Lovely.

We plan to leave the city again for a couple of days next week, to do some further exploring and explore my Mrs Fringe wants to live in the country fantasies. Manhattan may be an island, but you can forget any thoughts of cool breezes. Asphalt and concrete traps every last bit of breathable air during a heat wave. Tar Beach, indeed. The heat wave is over now, though, and today is gray and cool. Really cool. No winning in the city this summer.

I used to be one of those moms who always meant to bring the camera, but would either forget to charge it or forget to bring it. Now, because of blogging, I bring the camera most times. Embarrassing to the boys, I get it, I look like a tourist. “But it’s for the blog!” has become my battle cry.

Photos…

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Which Way?

A depiction of Bugs Bunny’s evolution through the years. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s that old quote, and who said it? Something like, the only constant is change. Quite likely I’ve mangled it for my own meandering purposes.

I’ve been working on, trying to work on, the new WIP. The new WIP, the old WIP, the WIP being queried, I’m getting dizzy. Let me slap a title on there for convenience. Working title–Astonishing.

Pretty sure I’ve already mentioned this one is much slower going. Like glacial. Wrote a paragraph yesterday and when I closed the file I wasn’t sure if I should think, “woot!” or “wtf?” Afterwards, I was talking to a writing friend about it. Told her this one feels different, the process is different. Instead of feeling a fluid rush for each scene, it’s like the words have changed form, changed states. Instead of a flow, I’ve got nothing tangible and then whomp! I’ve been clipped upside the head with a hard-packed snowball. That’s my paragraph. On a good day, a page. On a few notable days I was able to produce a few pages.

LOST: Snowball (Photo credit: jaqian)

The strangest part is that while I’m not “flowing,” I don’t feel stuck, either. The frustration is more theoretical. It’s summer, my time is more flexible, I should be able to produce more. It’s been a thousand degrees outside for a week here in NY. There shouldn’t be anything frozen anywhere. Stooped with a friend the other morning, and I swear I was melting. When I stood up there was a clear outline of my butt on his stoop. In sweat. Stooping, for non-NYers, is an outdoor chat, held on the stoop of the front steps of a house or building. A time honored tradition in the outer boroughs, second only to stoop-ball, both less frequently indulged here in Manhattan.

But I like it. I like what I’ve got, and where I think I can go. I tell myself this is better.

And then I beat myself up for the fact that I’ve yet to introduce my second main character. He’s a hoarder, and after four weeks of obsessing and researching I’ve yet to decide on the primary focus for his hoard.

Then I wonder if this is just me tripping myself up again. A metaphor for the rest of my life, not sure what the next step is until I’ve fallen into a hole and the only option is to climb out.

I think I haven’t gotten enough beach days.