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.
Above, its own page labeled Fiction III will take you there. One of these days I need to reorganize the pages, figure out a better way to lay out the shorts I’ve got here.
I suppose I should have dusted before taking this photo, heh.
Happy Friday, Fringelings. It’s Halloween, and I’m feeling nostalgic this morning. Maybe not nostalgic because no, I would not want to set the calendar back thirty years, just looking/thinking back. That means the iPod is cranked– sorry neighbors, hope you enjoy some morning Doobie Bros.
Art Child has been working hard to get me into the Halloween spirit, and I’m just not feeling it, no matter how many fun sized candy bars I’ve eaten. I always loved this day with my kiddos, so much fun planning and choosing the right costumes, the perfect accessories, the appropriate offerings for every age/dietary restrictions of trick or treaters who showed up at the door. And let’s not forget 8000 viewings of the Nightmare Before Christmas. “Oh yes! I am the Pumpkin King!” I’ve found Halloween to be a whole lot more fun as a parent than as a kid. I don’t know if it’s a neighborhood thing or times have changed, but we definitely didn’t dress up and go trick-or-treating for as many years as the kids around me (including my own) do now. Plus the costumes are better. I remember two choices as a child, raid mom’s (or dad’s) closet, or wear one of those godawful masks from the drugstore that left you walking blind and bleeding from little nicks the plastic gave. Halloween makeup meant your mother let you put her lipstick on, if you were lucky the powder, too.
I’m looking at the bags of candy I’ve got ready to dump into the bowl.
You didn’t really think I was going to give the Snickers away, did you?
Charleston Chews were my brother’s favorite. Maybe this is what has me looking back. They used to come in these long, long bars. He would sit down after school with a Charleston Chew, a bag of Wise butter-flavor popcorn, and a glass of water. Daily. One year, I think the last I went trick-or-treating, he took me. Naturally, we went down the block we weren’t supposed to go down first thing. As I remember it, I had gotten to ring one bell before a group of older, bigger boys spotted us and began heading our way. My brother pushed me into someone’s yard and closed their gate to keep me out of harm’s way, saying something warm and loving like, “don’t you fucking move,” and was then egged and shaving creamed head to toe by those boys. I was untouched, half terrified and half thrilled by the drama. My he-ro. Every little girl should have one. After self defense lessons, of course.
My mother was one of the keep-the-blinds-closed-and-pretend-you-aren’t-home moms. I’m definitely not one of those, and hope I never will be. It’s all very civilized here in the city, anyway. There’s a sign up sheet left at the guard’s desk for several days before Halloween, and after school today copies of the list showing which apartments are willing to receive trick-or-treaters and when will be distributed. Older people can be funny about the Halloween costumes, even the ones who open the door and give candy. They seem to stop looking at what the kids are wearing, just throw out guesses. Overheard from one senior this morning, “Oh, how beautiful! Are you a princess?” The child was wearing furry ears and a tail.
So in my oh-my-God-it’s-been-how-many-years? mood, I started surfing Facebook. I saw the page of someone I went to high school with, and did the thing I said I was never interested in using Facebook for. I sent a friend request and a message. I’m guessing the request will be ignored (different last name than I used to have) and the message unseen, as FB told me the request will go to his “other” folder, since we aren’t friended. I didn’t even know the “other” folder existed until recently. Shocking as this might be, I was kind of a fuck-up in high school. He wasn’t, and is now successful in his field, while I scarf the Halloween candy hours to ensure I have to go back to the store and buy a bag of whatever is left that the kids will make faces at. Remember, that one old lady who always gave those Bit’o’ Honey bars?
Well ok, maybe I’ll share the Reese’s. But that beer tucked away in the back of the fridge? Mine, after the bell stops ringing.
True, my eyes are bloodshot as usual, but when I woke up and went out on the terrace, I had a moment. A really good moment. I could see stars. Several–the sky was that clear. And dark.
I was able to do my abbreviated yoga routine without hurting myself, another plus.
I know the summer is really over, because I’m sitting here with hot tea instead of iced. Still took Art Child to school wearing my shorts and flip-flops, though.
In between yoga and waking the girl, I found this on the table. He did it. Husband found the absolute perfect card for my annual 29th birthday celebration.
The new new math. Or, if you prefer, the new middle aged math.
I was able to get a decent amount of crap sorting and tossing accomplished yesterday, only 3,493 more piles to go! Unreal. How does so much shit accumulate? I look around and swear I don’t want any of it, I’m going to throw it all away. Then I start sorting through, and can only convince myself to part with half. I can weed through the kids old schoolwork. I don’t really need every test, homework assignment, and nursery school painting. I can’t throw away Man Child’s 9/11 journal: his eight year old perspective on what happened from a child’s point of view here in New York, in the days and weeks following the attacks. I can’t throw away Nerd Child’s book from kindergarten, which he dedicated to himself, because he did the work. I can’t throw away Art Child’s early art, or the eleventy billion logs, notes, and receipts that comprise her medical history. I can’t throw away the Christmas card from Husband, assuring me the prior bad year would soon fade from memory. (lies, by the way–crystal clear) I can’t throw away my old, snail mail rejection letters. Can I? Maybe I can. Though they are safely tucked away in the file cabinet, it isn’t like they’re making a mess.
I went up to the new apartment, stared down the ancient monster of a range that comprises half the kitchen.
Chocolate pudding brown. When it was in style, it was called coppertone.
In case you’re wondering, I’m going to bring my beautifully plain white stove upstairs with me. The work is being done. I’m not sure how we’re going to eat for the rest of the year, but most of the major cracks and holes in the walls have already been repaired.
I haven’t worked on my short story in several days, and doubt I will today. I’d like to, but there’s more crap sorting to do. I’m still waiting on agent responses for Astonishing, and as I sort crap, I can imagine my little email bing is notifying me of an offer, and fantasy-stock my soon to be real (maybe, I hope) new tank. One of my friends is making plans to come and visit later this fall. Whee! We’ve never met in person, but after years and conversations, photos and laughs, she’s as real to me as Fatigue.
Yesterday, I did something I haven’t done in over 21 years. I went to the beach. By myself. Come to think of it, beach or not, I haven’t had a day by myself, no obligations, in over 21 years. I took my towel, my phone, my metrocard, my iPod, and a frozen bottle of water.
The beach was packed, the subway was nose to armpit jammed, and it was heavenly.
One of the best things about New York is the diversity. On the beach
I heard Russian, I heard French, I heard Chinese, I heard Spanish, I heard English, I heard Hebrew, I saw a family of Asian descent speaking Russian, I saw senior citizens swimming in their underwear, young studs in cut offs, young women in thong bikinis, old women in string bikinis, an orthodox man in his beard and black suit sitting on the sand so his little ones could have a day in the ocean.
I plugged my ear buds in and blasted all my old beach favorites–to the group three towels down, thanks for sharing your rap, but I was sticking to Cream. And Creedance and Kate Bush and Melissa Etheridge.
It’s true, the Brooklyn beaches aren’t the prettiest, that glint of green in the sand is as likely to be part of a beer bottle as seaweed, but yesterday it was bliss.
After about an hour, I realized I was free to enjoy another beach pleasure I haven’t indulged in years.
Why yes, I do think a beach towel is equivalent to a brown paper bag. I have to ask though, wtf is a nutcracker? Guys in heavy jeans and towels walk up and down the beach same as always, selling water, beer, and Newports out of black plastic bags. But now they offer nutcrackers too.
When I was young, there was nothing I wanted more than to get out of Brooklyn. But yesterday, I looked at the fancy newer condos along the boardwalk and thought, “not so bad.”
Hell, I looked at the ancient buildings on the side streets, the ones with wiring too old and fragile to support an air conditioner and lights at the same time–trust me, I used to live in one–and thought, “not so bad.”
If you called me yesterday, or texted or messaged or emailed and I didn’t answer, forgive me. I ran away. And Nerd Child, thank you.
That’s in the hallway outside my apartment. It’s been chirp-shrieking for three days now. Why, oh why, doesn’t someone with a ladder come and change the battery?
Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is afraid of the sound. She spent all of Saturday quaking. She barks and jumps like a wee mop lunatic for me to pick her up every time we’re in the hall waiting for the elevator to go down for a walk. By yesterday, she realized it can’t actually harm her through the door when she’s in the apartment, so she spent last night demonstrating her valor by growling and barking at the doorknob. All. Night. Long.
I considered (for about the 29th day in a row) working on the short story I’ve been building in my mind. Nope, not yet.
Big Senile Dog is only bothered by the little one’s shenanigans. I think his hearing is going, in addition to his kidneys. Why yes, I did have to take him back to the vet for more testing, and spoke with her a while ago. Renal failure. We’re going to try to keep him as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. The thing is, when you live in this world of medical mayhem I’ve been party to in the last ten years or so, part of your brain starts sifting through and throwing up memories of every one of these moments when you hear test results. Fucked up as this sounds, I’ve dealt with much worse. Sorry. I love my beasts, but watching Husband turn blue? Worse. Art Child turn blue? No contest.
Big Senile Dog was a gift from my brother. What an awesome gift, right? None of us dreamed of the extent of it until he became an unofficial but invaluable service dog for my daughter. In the dog/people world, Big Senile Dog’s breed hasn’t been “just” a pet for very long. They’re working dogs. Bless his tired, scrawny body, he’s worked for us. Gift isn’t the word, I don’t think there is one.
I didn’t cry when the vet told me, just asked questions about how best to keep him comfortable, and stressed that I don’t want him to suffer. We should still have at least a couple of months with him. I’ve been on the receiving end of bad news for people and critters I hold near and dear many times, and many lessons learned. Among them, falling apart doesn’t mean you care more, not falling apart doesn’t mean you care less. I will say, though, falling apart while speaking with a doctor makes it much harder to take in the necessary information, understand what they’re saying, and then move forward with what needs to be done. This doesn’t mean I don’t feel, I’ve just become, I don’t know…judicious? in the when and where. Try to be, anyway.
I’d like to say I’ve learned all these marvelous spiritual lessons, but in all honesty I can’t. What I’ve learned is that all I don’t know, can’t control or predict, is vast– and there are no safe assumptions. Not assuming medical science can treat all or even identify all. Not assuming good writing trumps all. Not assuming what I believe is everyone’s truth–or even my truth a year from now.
Nerd Child was home a couple of weeks ago, and sounded like shit. His asthma and allergies were flaring, and I told him approximately 53,000 times how important it is for him to take care of himself. In completely age appropriate teenaged boy spirit he told me, “Don’t worry, Ma. I’m not dead yet.” Flippant, sure. But a good reminder to keep perspective, too.
So no, I’m not crying, but I need the musical equivalent of comfort food.
I try not to blog about the kiddos too much on Mrs Fringe for two reasons. One, this is my spot to be me–all of me, not just mamaing, but certainly being a mom is a big part of me. Two, their privacy. This week is my girl’s birthday, though. And it’s a big one. So we took a trip downtown and went to the art store. A new one for us, haven’t explored it before. Flower Child was given all the time she wanted to look at each pencil, eraser, and every other thing that I don’t know what they’re called or how they’re used, but she does. And she saw the manikins. I know they’re useful, but all these little things add up in price. She saw this hand, missing one finger, and asked me if I thought they’d give it to us for fewer dollars because it had fewer fingers. I told her to ask the manager. She did, and he did. Thank you!
Of course, she has a long list of things she would love for her birthday. But…budget. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t summon a unicorn. We do the best we can. One of the things on her list was a name change. She wants to be called Art Child here in Fringeland, instead of Flower Child. I can do this, and I think I should. Here’s a drawing she’s been working on for the past week.
I love this. Not quite finished, but I say this definitely = a name change, don’t you?
I continue to be blown away by her developing talent. She pours her dreams onto the sketch pad, uses her charcoals to smudge them into something visible, something tangible, something I can feel.
I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot these days. How, as someone who writes, a wannabe, I take bits and pieces of what I see, hear, and feel. I inhale them, taste them, smoosh them together, let them harden, and then tap them with the keys on my laptop until they crack and the cracks become stories. Written dreams that turn into personal dreams of connecting with readers, publication. At this point in my life, dreaming isn’t enough. A head in the clouds doesn’t protect you from the potholes under your feet. Work needs to be done, mamaing needs to happen, life has to be lived.
When we left the art supply store we walked down 23rd St. I looked at the old YMCA and wondered what happened to the dreams of the young men who stayed there years ago, before it became a trendy Crunch gym.
Yup, the one that inspired the song.
But for now, I want Art Child to dream. I will watch out for the cracks in the sidewalk.
Yesterday was a busy day. It was also the first day I was able to stand somewhat close to upright with pain that’s manageable, so that’s ok.
Took the girl to school, came back home and went with Nerd Child to the grocery store, to buy soft, no-chewing necessary foods. He was getting the first round of braces put on in the afternoon. Did what I needed to do around the house, checked my email 80,000 times in hopes of query/requested material responses (nothing, seems like all agents left for the Bologna Book Fair yesterday), he left for the dentist, and I went to pick up Flower Child, planning to meet him at the office.
Because I was going to be out of the neighborhood, I figured I’d bring the camera. I remembered to charge the battery, remembered to bring the camera. Being me, I didn’t remember to put the freshly charged battery back into the camera. Sigh. Still everything seemed to have gone well for NC, and I signed all my dollars, present and future, over to the promise of straighter teeth.
Last night I had a beautiful first. A different type of Friday Night Madness. Man Child came in for the weekend with Miss Music, and we went out. For a beer. A legal, ordered in my favorite bar beer, with my 21 year old. Should it feel like a big deal? I don’t know, but it did. There was something so…sweet…about being able to have this nice, normal, adult moment with my oldest. Miss Music also recently turned 21, Husband was home and came with us, truly a moment. When we left the bar, Miss Music told me she had read Astonishing (I had emailed the file to Man Child) and loved it. YAY! I want to hear specifics–feedback from the perspective of a young person– but they are, after all, 21, so they continued on for more of a night out than a beer with the parental units, and Husband and I went home.
It’s a funny thing, this writing. There was a thread on the writer’s forum the other day about “stage fright,” not wanting to share work with others. I don’t feel that way. I want to be read, share, get feedback. Sure there’s a serrated edge flutter in my gut when I hand over a manuscript–will they like it? hate it? yawn their way through because it’s boring? think I’m the weirdest motherfucker ever and never want to speak to me again? not respond at all (the worst, to me)? But it doesn’t stop me from handing it over. I wrote, now you read. In my mind, that’s the contract.
Yesterday at this time Nerd Child was sprawled on the couch, relaxed and watching videos on his laptop, laughing. This morning he’s sprawled on the couch, relaxed and watching videos on his laptop, laughing. Guess he’s ok.
Seriously, it hurts. But I couldn’t stop myself from laughing a few times this morning. This is what I woke up to.
Feel like baking this morning?
The other night I made banana pancakes for dinner. Well actually, I made the batter and got them started, and then had Nerd Child make the majority, because I couldn’t stand upright to flip them. I also couldn’t reach to put the ingredients away, and haven’t paid enough attention to notice said ingredients were still on the counter.
Dumb freakin dogs. Why? I swear I feed those bozos every day, twice a day, and then they get treats multiple times per day in addition. 5:15 in the morning, I could barely walk, there was no way I could bend to sweep and wash the floors. And by no way, I mean physically no way. Over the years I’ve noticed the severity of many illnesses and injuries are contextual. In other words, if I had options, I’d have said I physically couldn’t get Flower Child to/from school the last couple of days. But there’s no choice, so in fact, I could and have done it, albeit slowly and painfully. But this? Even the thought of attracting roaches couldn’t get me to bend and stretch in the ways necessary to clean this up. Luckily Husband woke up when he heard me cursing, and got most of it.
Big Senile Dog went to his bed and kept his eyes away from mine, pretending he had nothing to do with it. Mmm hmm.
Who me? This isn’t flour, it’s umm, coke, yeah, it’s coke. The pugs down the hall threw this party and…
Ok. Now I’m on the couch, feet up and coffee in hand. Open my email and find a rejection for a query. Not just any rejection, but one that was so nice, personal, and friendly, I thought it was a request. Took me two times reading it through to realize it was, in fact, a rejection. I don’t think I’ve ever met this agent, it isn’t likely I wouldn’t remember, but maybe I have, the note seemed that friendly. Or maybe he follows Mrs Fringe.
I don’t know why it struck me as funny, but it did. Maybe it’s part of always being braced for “the worst,” as I go through the query process. Silly, because I have never experienced “the worst.” No one has ever responded to a query of mine in a way that was rude, disparaging, or questioned my abilities. And while I haven’t received any offers (yet!), I’m doing pretty well in terms of requests for more material.
This was turning out to be a banner day, and it wasn’t even 6am. Sometimes you really do have to laugh.
An hour later, Flower Child is awake and getting ready. And continuing a running conversation. The one where she tells me bits and pieces of her interactions at school. I’m continuing to pretend it’s possible to get socks on without bending.
“And you know what else he asked me.”
“Hmm, what did he ask you?”
“Is it true that white people don’t get cold? Why did he ask me that, what should I tell him?”
See what I mean about the universe conspiring, and having to laugh?
mrsfringe 