parenting

Braggage: Warning, Sap Ahead

No Whining (Photo credit: bepositivelyfit)

I do quite a bit of whining here, if you hadn’t noticed. I happily tell you I’ve got plenty to whine about. It’s a life, like anyone else’s, and I’ve got a few bright spots too. The beauty of a novel that makes me cry because I’ll never write anything as masterful, getting to know a new friend, writing a story, a scene, a sentence I’m proud of, the mango I cut open this morning that was absolutely perfect.

But most braggage centers around my children. I’m broke, overcrowded, overtired and frustrated, but in so many ways I hit the lottery when it comes to my kids. They’re good people, all three of them.

Man Child isn’t coming home for the summer. I miss him like crazy, but he has a wonderful job opportunity–one that came from his hard work. the good impression he makes on others, and the fact that he has proven himself to be trustworthy and a hard worker.

Nerd Child comes home next week. I’m a lot more excited about this than he is. The fancy shmancy school he attends has turned out to be a perfect fit for him. Yesterday he called and told me he won an award for character and leadership.

Earth (Photo credit: tonynetone)

Flower Child couldn’t be sweeter than she is. She cares about the world and all of the people in it, honestly confused as to why people ever do harmful things to each other and the earth.

I woke up thinking about this stuff, feeling okay. Summer has arrived here in NY, ooh, bliss of a comfy old summer dress and flip flops. I even decided to spend a few hours pretending if I spent long enough Googling, I’d figure out how we’d be able to move to a beach town where we could afford a house, find employment, and have good health care for Flower Child.

Lily Tomlin (Photo credit: Larry He’s So Fine)

Instead of knock knock, my reality announces itself with a ring. First, my pharmacist called. Yes indeed, we have a close enough relationship that he called to say hey Mrs F, it’s Pharmacist, I’ve got a Led Zeppelin CD here for you that you and Husband are going to love. Ring ring, hi Mrs Fringe, it’s pediatrician’s office, the second round of paperwork for Nerd Child’s summer program is here for you to pick up. Yah, great, thank you so much, I’ll be there. First I’m going to try to finish the edits I’ve been trying to get through. Ring ring, Mrs Fringe? This is super special futuristic lab doing the next round of genetic testing the puzzle doctor ordered, we need your credit card information before we start running any of the tests. Fringelings, I can’t tell you how I love hearing other writers smugly announce that if writing is truly important to you, you can and do make time every day. Ring ring, Mrs Fringe, this is Puzzle Doctor’s office to confirm Flower Child’s appointment for next week. That appointment was canceled. No, you’re still on the schedule. It was supposed to be canceled. Well, we’ll have to speak with Puzzle Dr assistant and find out, I’ll call you back, ok, Mrs F? Sure.

Flower Child wasn’t feeling well this afternoon/evening. Not feeling well in a way that makes me nervous, but not a crisis. I was supposed to meet Fatigue, Husband was home, I was only going across the street for an hour…so I did. The day started out so promising, damn it–I wanted that feeling back! If you were wondering, the nectar of the gods is a cold glass of gin and lemonade. Until the stranger sitting next to you begins eating your french fries. Then it’s just time to give up. It’s a life, and tomorrow is another day.

Happy Mother’s Day–to all the Fringelings

Flowers for all the Mommies

If you hadn’t noticed by now, I’m not generally a fan of the “Hallmark” holidays. But I have to admit, Mother’s Day can be kind of nice. Today is extra nice on several levels. One, after a spectacularly crappy week, it’s a better day. Friday showed a glimmer of light, yesterday showed promise, and today is a good day. I hope all of you are feeling the same.

Husband read the note I left on the chalkboard, and gave me a couple of much needed and much appreciated gifts. Both boys were in touch with me yesterday, to be sure they didn’t forget to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day.

Flower Child had a rough week, and so did I. There’s the obvious–if she isn’t doing well I’m nervous and holding my breath, my brain hurts with all the coulda-woulda-shouldas and general foot stomping unfairness of life. But she’s smiling and perky now, working on her art and a vision of love.

And then of course, there’s revision hell, which grew to include query writing hell. You know that little voice in your head that whispers, who the fuck are you kidding? You can’t pull off a traditional romance, that’s for woman who are sweetness and light and roses; not women who hope for sleep, a new alarm clock, and money to get their legs waxed. Not for women who were told their last romance was well written, good characters, but just a little too far off the beaten path.

The way I see it, I enjoy writing. Even with an eye towards success and publication, it’s important for me to enjoy it. Not every last aspect, but overall, it should be pleasurable, like Mama-ing. You should be able to weather the difficult or boring parts and stay strong throughout, knowing there will be release, relief, and an ability to hold onto the good days and moments of pure love, so you don’t actually run away or give up when the next hard part comes along. At the moment, no one is paying me for writing any more than I’m being paid for the Mom gig, so the motivation and reward has to come from the act of doing, and hope for eventual external validation. As a Mom, that external validation will (hopefully) include a positive, healthy relationship with adult kiddos. As a writer, the external validation will (hopefully) include a dollar and a contract.

Between internal angst, hammering out query thoughts at the writer’s forum, and pushing through, I’ve come to realize I need to shift the focus of my manuscript, a little. Basically, still the same story, but ultimately not a romance. I’ll keep the strong romantic elements, but focus on my heroine and her challenges and obstacles outside of the relationship. I still want it to be a fun read, this isn’t meant to be a navel gazing allegory on the ills of society (I’ve got my lit fic short stories for that, along with an unfinished manuscript that may or may not ever be completed), but this feels better.

I hope everyone is having a day of peace, or beauty, or whatever it is that lets you feel tomorrow might be okay.

Photos from time in Central Park last weekend with Flower Child.

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And one more, a super bonus surprise sent to me from Nerd Child, delivered yesterday afternoon.

I’m all gooshy inside, wouldn’t you be?

The Walls are Closing In

Near the wall (Photo credit: Niamor83)

I thought I would feel better after my rant about fear and changes in my last post. Wrong! I posted, and then checked out this week’s posts from blogging friends, and ended up in an interesting conversation with Caitlin Kelly from Broadside Blog, prompted by this post.

Sometimes I question my perception. Everyone is struggling in this country right now. Everyone I talk to, anyway. Jobs that offer a true living wage are scarce, gas is high, health care costs are obscene, and on down the line of what’s needed to survive. I know the cost of living here in Manhattan is crazy, but I’m certain I’m romanticizing life in the country, too. Everywhere presents a unique set of challenges. And then something reminds me I’m not completely insane, after all.

Check out this article from the NY Times.

Now, we don’t pay an insane rent. We’re lucky. If we didn’t have a rent controlled place, we’d be homeless in Manhattan. Literally. Sounds good, right? Except that means we can’t move within NYC, stuck in a too small apartment with a doll’s kitchen and a nightmare of a bathroom. One bathroom. Makes virus season lots of fun. And let’s not forget the rest of what goes into the cost of living. I’d love to put Flower Child in an art class, or even better, private art lessons, so we could work around her health and limited energy. Can’t afford it. One once per week after school class, run by the school is $600. And that is reasonable compared to the cost of lessons and classes not run by the public schools and those lessons are often fabulous, in just about anything you can think of. Makes for awkward moments on the blacktop when the other moms are talking about what their kids are enrolled in.

Schools here? Crazy. If you can’t afford private schools, which are >$30,000 a year here, you have to be very, very lucky. Too many kids competing for too few decent spots in the too few decent public schools. The stress involved is horrendous. This is for entry into nursery school, Kindergarten, and again 6th grade (middle school), and 9th grade (high school). Have more than one kid? This is for each child, not each family. Don’t forget the testing and the interviews. And testing for K, 6th, and 9th grade is much like the SATs have become. Test prep. Costly, private test prep. Private test prep for public middle school, high schools. Excuse me while I tap into my Brooklyn roots. Get the fuck outta here. Have a child with special needs? Well, you know those too few spots? Forget it, you’ll find yourself wishing for those days of 1 in 4 odds.

From this recent HuffPost article, NY has the curious distinction of holding 3 of the 10 most expensive cities (they’ve separated the boroughs into cities for this) to live in. A hellofa town, for sure.

But it’s New York! Theater! Tickets for a Broadway show, let’s say Wicked. On a Saturday afternoon, seats in the mezzanine. $160 per ticket. Are you surprised that we haven’t gone to see it?

March 1860 Godey’s Lady’s Book Fashion Plate (Photo credit: clotho98)

How about going to the Met for an opera? Hah! Maybe, if we want to buy a year in advance and stand up for the show.

I would miss the easy availability of any type of food I’m in the mood for. I can see it now, “Mrs Fringe learns to use a crockpot.”

Why don’t we forget being fancy. How about bowling? $9.25 per person, per game at Chelsea Piers (on weekends/holidays, yanno, when you’d take your kids bowling), $6 per person shoe rental. Don’t forget the Metro card fare for us to get there and back, and the long, long ass walk from the train. So, for our family of five to go and bowl 2 games, no frills, no snacks, no lunch, it would cost $147.50.

We don’t go to the theater, infrequently go to the museums (and only the ones where it’s a suggested donation, not a mandatory admission fee), we don’t even go to the damned movies because of the cost. The nice part of living here is that when we do go to a museum, we don’t feel compelled to pack everything into one day, and we don’t have to be pillaged buying lunch at or near it, we can wait until we’re back home for sandwiches.

A few years back, I was determined to take the kids to see a performance at Shakespeare In The Park. These shows are great, and they’re free. You just have to go the morning of the performance and stand on line for tickets. Limit, 2 tickets per person. OK. I got the kids up, we went to the park and stood on line. Heh, three hours before the ticket booth opened wasn’t early enough. Bonus seizure from Flower Child while we waited to be told they were sold out way before we got to the front of the line. Tried again an hour earlier the following week. Still no go. Really? So many NYers, infamous for brunch at 3PM are getting on line for tickets at 6AM? Turns out a good number of people pay someone to stand on line for these free-so-everyone-can-enjoy-theater-in-NY tickets.

Please, someone tell me why I’m here. Yes, Central Park is free. And beautiful. I hear some people have backyards where they see trees and birds.

Gutter Ball Graphic (Photo credit: cote)

Knock Knock

Knock the Door ! (Photo credit: Elias Pirasteh)

Busy writing, busy reading, busy mamaing, busy stressing.

And a bit blue. Probably from all the busying of daily life nonsense, and the need for warmer weather to stay for more than three days. I’m not even going to mention continued problems maintaining a signal to stay online, and the fact that it took 3 hours to post this.

Last week, Man Child confirmed he’ll be staying in the area of his school this summer, he’s got a great job offer. Fabulous on so many levels. Not least of which because that’s my goal as a parent; independent, happy, thriving kiddos. Then he called needing some information because he was on his way to the ER, a kitchen accident.

Evidence – Screaming Woman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He was treated, all is well, he even had a long weekend to recuperate. I asked if he wanted to come home for a few days, rest, visit, etc. No, he had plans. No problem, take care of yourself, have fun, rest. This is what I want for him, right? Right?

I love being a mama. I love my kids. I even like my kids. I’m a human being, I have made mistakes as both a person and a parent, but mostly, I feel like I do a decent job. In our house, we don’t run with the assumption that parents and teens/young adults are natural adversaries with different goals. Objectively, I think it’s worked out pretty well so far.

But add over-busy to writing angst, stress, Flower Child missing her brothers, blueness, thinking of how many months before I see Man Child…well, mama brain goes into overdrive. Maybe no matter what decisions Husband and I made, no matter how we tried to parent, we can’t do anything to avert the stereotypical outcome of our kids never wanting to visit, cataloguing our mistakes and couldn’t-dos…. Maybe he’s never coming to visit again!

Okay, okay. Stop being a drama mama, suck it up, be happy that he calls. Plant some new seeds with Flower Child, think about what kind of cake she’d like for her birthday later this week. Flower Child and I were doing our Sunday stuff. I’m sweeping the floor, and the front door opens. Husband hasn’t been feeling great, oh crap, he must really be sick if he left work.

I look up from my pile of dog hair and

Surprise!

It’s Man Child and his friend, Miss Lovely Music. Just for the afternoon, Flower Child and I showed off our microscopic seedlings, they sat for a bit and then they went downtown to run a couple of errands. Came back, chatted a little while more, and then left to surprise Husband for a few minutes at work before heading back to school.

That’s a long drive and a lot of gas money for two broke college students who had to be back at school last night, with no way of knowing if I would have cash to reimburse them (I did and I did).

Thank you.

sunrise (Photo credit: Sean MacEntee)

It’s a Beautiful Day–Join Mrs Fringe for a Guiltshake!

English: One of the “shakes with a punch” at Hot Chocolate at Docklands. Whiskey, Baileys, Very Vanilla & Bee Keeper ice cream, dark chocolate. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been having problems getting online for weeks. Initially I thought it was my laptop, it’s old and freezes up on a semi-regular basis. Then Husband, Nerd Child, and Flower Child were all having problems with their devices. At first it was sporadic, but over the past couple of weeks it’s been a daily hassle to stay connected for more than 2-3 minutes at a time. I thought it was connected to the jackhammering they’ve been doing on the corner. We reset the little box thing. We called the cable company. Lather, rinse, repeat. Then I started asking neighbors, but no one else is having a problem. Hmmm. It occurred to me it had to be something in our hardware. We’ve had our router for a long time. Really long. Purchased when there were fewer and less powerful computers using it. So I asked my fish freak buddies (yes, they know everything) and they told me it likely is my router. By yesterday, we couldn’t stay on for more than a minute without getting cut off. Ugh.

Why is this such a big deal? Because a couple of weeks ago, I bought myself a present. I had done several extra dog walks and was feeling beaten by winter, so I splurged. I bought an e-reader. I love it, it’s made me happy, and I’ve been skipping along, pleased with myself. Except now we need a new router. We don’t have any extra money right now (like this would be different a month ago, or a month from now, ha!). I didn’t buy a fancy e-reader, you can’t surf the web with it, but still, I could have bought a router with that money if I had realized then what our internet problems were. I would have still had the money if I had put it to the side for Flower Child’s upcoming birthday pedicure, the way I should have.

A macro photo of a Maraschino cherry, taken with my Fuji S7000 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

That’s the double ugh glazed with extra guilt cherry on top.

What a selfish bitch. A good mommy would have waited another three years for the e-reader, making sure no one needs anything before spending money on something so frivolous. Am I the only one who hears that voice?

Husband went to go buy a new router. We have stuff for the kids’ schools that needs to be done where we must have a somewhat reliable internet connection, and Husband needs it for work. Ok. I’ll swallow the cherry, figure out where I can tighten the budget this week. He asked if I wanted to go to the store with him. No, I didn’t. I was writing, and only had a couple of hours before I had to dogwalk.

Husband came home with the SuperDuperMegaRouter. I would have gone to the next store, in search of the EconoRouter. And this is me, choking on the stem. Funny how that guilt never completely gets digested, but it sure is absorbed.

But it is still a beautiful day, so I’ll share a spring in Central Park photo, just in case you’re one of the blessed ones who can decline a guiltshake on an early summer day. I was going to upload a bunch, but apparently the SuperDuperMegaRouter doesn’t care to do too much fraternizing with Ricketyoldlaptop.

From a distance, the trees are still saying winter, but when you get close…

Farmer Fringe

Clematis, New York Botanical Garden (Photo credit: Kristine Paulus)

Flower Child likes the idea of growing things. I like the idea of growing things. We don’t know what we’re doing, but little by little, we’re trying to figure it out, in pots on the terrace. We aren’t successful enough yet to call it container gardening.

Last year we did pretty well, using little plants from the local plant shop. We had a couple of pots with flowers, one with mint, one with basil, a couple of window box type things hanging off of the terrace railing filled with herbs. We learned that dill will attract the birds with the red chests. Never had one of those come to my terrace before, apparently they think dill is comfy for nesting. We learned pigeons enjoy basil, not to keep it in the boxes on the ledge. We learned tomatoes need to be pollinated, and bees don’t come up as high as we live. I’d like to try that one again, after reading some more about how to self pollinate.

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day, so this morning, FC and I decided today was the day to work on our terrace. Yanno it’s still sunny but freezing today. We went back to the plant store and bought seeds this time. Much less expensive, we can try more things.

to be planted next week

We were going to plant these tomorrow, but neither one of us remember which of the two identical planters is the one we already put seeds into. So we’ll wait a week, and see which one sprouts something.

to be planted tomorrow. I hope.

Turns out, some seeds have to be soaked for twenty four hours before planting.

veggie seeds planted

tea?

Flower Child digging

Window boxes on terrace railing

See? We’re ready for rural life.

Green Acres

Good Morning, Angels

Publicity photo of the cast of the television program Charlie’s Angels. From left: Jaclyn Smith, Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and Kate Jackson. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remember them? By today’s standards, it was a sweet show, despite being the beginning of “Jiggle Power” on tv, also known as “Jiggle TV.” Funny, the themes and outfits would probably be rated G now, and yet with all the toning, tanning, muscles, and enhancements on the female tv stars you see now, there’s nothing natural enough to jiggle.

Now we have different angels.

victoria’s secret fashion show 2010 (Photo credit: cattias.photos)

Not my definition of angelic, but that’s okay. I don’t have to shop there, and don’t. We’re all grown up women, and can decide for ourselves what type of underwear we’d like to wear. I find dental floss up my ass to be uncomfortable, and don’t see a woman picking her butt as an enticement, but whatever floats your boat, or lifts your boobs, or frames your artfully sculpted hoo ha. God Bless.

But wait. Victoria’s Secret has realized there’s an untapped market waiting for them. That’s right, jail bait. Future pedophile victims. Have I gone too far? Maybe. But certainly victims of a society that doesn’t know how to allow children to be children. Make no mistake, at 10, 11, 12, 13 years old, they’re still children, regardless of when their bodies begin to change.

I would like to hear from the adolescent and child psychology experts who sat on the panel in the Victoria’s Secret meetings, and said this is a good idea. That there’s nothing wrong with teaching little girls to start objectifying themselves early by wearing padded push up bras, panties that say “Call Me” (WTF happened to the ones that said Monday?), and of course, lacy thongs.

What mother who gives a shit about her daughter’s sense of self is buying her this type of underwear? Am I being judgmental, perhaps alienating readers who might buy my books down the road? Yup, and that’s okay. There are some things I feel strongly enough to take a stand on, and this is one of them. Am I uptight when it comes to my children? You betcha. Childhood is short, life is long. But the lessons learned in childhood last a lifetime. I’d like them to gain the tools they need during childhood for long, productive, happy, and healthy adulthoods.

Middle schoolers, tweens, are a mass of hormones and changes. This is the very beginning of independence. By the time a child is 14, you can see the adult they will become–though they aren’t that adult yet. What are they prioritizing, what have we taught them to prioritize? This is the time for young people to develop a sense of self, a sense of conscience, an understanding of their place in the world, and what roles they might step into. This is a time of self doubts and insecurities. If we parents buy them these types of garments we are prioritizing sexuality, and dating (or hooking up), over social justice, respect, community, intelligence, productivity, healthy body images, and healthy relationships. Yanno, to “get” the cute boy, strip down to your skivvies so he can see the message stamped on your butt. Because that’s what he should be paying attention to, right? Of course, with all these messages, stripping, and hoo ha infections caused by these special undies, I understand, there was no need or time to study for your biology test. And now that he/she has broken your heart because he/she has no clue or emotional tools to have a healthy relationship because he/she is also a child, no one wrote that Language Arts paper, either. Because they’re crushed, the very fragile beginnings of self esteem have been stepped on because Mary is cuter, or John is a better dancer.

This isn’t new, really. OK, marketing thongs to 10 year olds is new, but does anyone else remember this?

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Calvins (Photo credit: Evil Erin)

Brooke Shields was fourteen years old when this ad campaign for Calvin Klein jeans came out, implying there was no underwear between her and her super tight, super sexy jeans. That was in 1980. We should have known better. But certainly, we should know better by now. And none of this even begins to touch on the damage done to adult women, who are looking at ads that show models they can’t possibly look like, yet are told they should.

Dating and early acting out of sexuality, by its very nature, is emphasizing exclusivity. How does this make sense for young people who are searching desperately to be included? It might seem like nothing, innocence, “puppy love.” But it isn’t nothing, it sends a message about what is most important. Kids of this age need to find safe ways and places to be included. How about respect? How does that fit into this equation? Certainly, we aren’t teaching respect of self or others when we place value on prepubescent sexuality. How about self esteem? Doesn’t this bring us right back to encourage girls “not to be too smart,” and boys to value their sexuality over other, tangible, long term and contributory accomplishments. How about caring about other human beings, not just cataloguing them? Yes, let’s all cry about America slipping further down in academic standing when compared to other countries. Bottom line, with this type of message, we’re teaching our kids that commitment to self and others doesn’t matter. Because 12 year olds can’t commit to a long term, healthy relationship. Why? Because they haven’t yet learned how to commit to themselves, their future. For the love of all that’s holy, their brains aren’t finished yet, even if their boobs/butts/dangly bits are almost there.

Will there be a separate fashion show for the prepubescent line? Will it be photographed, filmed, televised? What’s that? You think that might be icky, uncomfortably close to child pornography? You should be thinking that, because it is. These garments are designed to be looked at, encourage fantasies so they will be purchased. There is no reason for these sweet whispers of lace and cotton to exist outside of sexual ones. I’m saying no thanks, I’m saying fuck you Victoria’s Secret.

Hey, you, adult woman! You don’t get to complain about men objectifying you, not taking you seriously, not giving you equal pay for equal work, and not holding up their end of child rearing if you’re feeding into this crap, and teaching another generation that these priorities are okay.

Perhaps we should bring corsets back. You know, the ones that literally warped the rib cage and cut off oxygen. Obviously our girls don’t need those brain cells anyway, since we’re teaching them to put their sexuality above other aspects of their development, or sense of self.

English: Corsets (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: FIG. 15.—The effect of bending forward, when seated, with and without corsets. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Lorraine Carpenter in typing class at Aldergrove Highschool, British Columbia / Lorraine Carpenter participant à un cours de dactylographie à l’école secondaire Aldergrove, Colombie-Britannique (Photo credit: BiblioArchives / LibraryArchives)

Does this title ring any bells for any of my readers? I don’t remember my typing teacher’s name, but I certainly remember her voice, which managed to screech with every letter she called out. You’d think her beehive would have softened the sound. “Accuracy, girls! And boys too, I suppose.” Ah, she was a charmer.

It used to matter, how fast you typed, how accurate you were. In the days of carbon paper and white out. Oh, the excitement of electric typewriters, and the white out ribbon! I love to look at the old typewriters, have an excellent, artsy photo of one, and one of these days I’m going to find the perfect old manual in an antique store, at a perfect price, waiting for me to bring it home and display it. But I don’t miss typing on one. It was slow and often painful, needing to hit each key with the same amount of force, keys getting stuck and invariably getting my finger hammered trying to unstick them.

You can imagine my pleasure when someone refers to writing as typing.

Misprints (Photo credit: eldeeem)

Flower Child, “Mommy, are you finished typing yet?” Husband, “I thought you were still typing.” Especially since I do associate Husband with literal typing. He went to college with my brother. I typed several of their papers. After one particularly long and hideous paper, I had a PTSD type reaction for years after whenever I had need to tap out the word acetaminophen.

The past few days have thrown my writing schedule way, way off. I think my last post here on Mrs Fringe was the last semi-coherent thing I wrote. First I had the mother of all migraines, laid me out for a full day, left me dizzy for a second day. Yesterday I had a meeting during my usual writing time. I’m most productive in the mornings. It took too many years for me to figure that out, opposed my image of myself as writ-ah, tap tap, tapping away during the night. Turns out I’m in fine company, plenty of respected, lauded writers and writ-ahs work in the morning. Not least of which was Hemingway. Ah, the lore and lure of Papa.

I thought I would get back to work today, but no such luck. Flower Child was sick. Can’t get lost in fantasy land when you’re watching the clock to call the doctor’s office for an appointment. OK, done. I thought I would have time to get a few pages done, but the more days I’m away from the manuscript, the longer it takes for me to get back into my characters’ heads, and be productive. One page. One page and then it was time to take her to the doctor. In the pouring rain that didn’t stop. All day, drip, drip, squish. Luckily, once we were there, I got to find out in addition to an infection, FC has lost two pounds. Aargh!!! Two pounds is way too much for a kiddo who literally has nothing to spare.

Right now, I’d be ok with a few uninterrupted hours to practice my typing.

A monkey typing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Itsnot Me, I Tell Ya

Must have been someone who looked like me.

IMG_0010 (Photo credit: RosieTulips)

Here we are, the evening of February 28th, and I’m so damned tired I don’t even feel human. I want to be positive, and happy tomorrow is Friday, but all I can think is whaddya mean it isn’t already Friday?

*Nothing to do with this post, but there was just a crash and thud outside. I’m wondering if someone lost a flowerpot from a terrace, or if I’m soon to hear sirens. Life in the big city, always an adventure*

So, tonight I’ve got boogers on the brain. Flower Child is still sick. Not bad, and able to go to school, but still sick. Lots of sniffling and snuffling and blowing. This makes me nervous. March is generally an iffy health month for her, and I was hoping she’d be back to baseline before it started. On the positive end, Parent Teacher conferences went very well. The adaptive technology she’s using has been incredibly helpful. The math teacher’s a little confused as to why she answers every question and interaction with him, “live long and prosper,” but hey.

Star Trek TOS Cutting Room Floor Clippings (Photo credit: The Rocketeer)

I’d like to explain it to him, but can’t. Her thinking can be…circuitous. For some reason she associates the math teacher with Nerd Child, which in turn connects her to the phrase. I’m guessing the teacher regrets his surprised laugh the first time he heard it from my girly girl. Poor man. Still, an excellent, creative teacher and I’m grateful for the fabulous team working with her this year.

Seeing as it’s the 28th, I feel I should report on how the writing went this month, since I announced I would be making an all out push, producing as much as possible. Turns out that between Flower Child’s illness, the passing of my father in law, and life, this might not have been the best month to choose. Between the morning of February 1st and this evening, I got about 12,500 words added to the WIP. I also wrote that short, about 3800 words. Not a wasted month, just not quite the momentum I had started with and hoped to continue.

Speaking of the short, I’ve got a reference in there to snot, connected to the main character, a woman in her late sixties. The reason I mention this; super interesting to me to find that a few people strongly and specifically associated snot with children, and not older adults. Is it the word or the mucus itself? I’m no gerontologist, but I am and have been around a good number of older people. Boogers don’t disappear when the AARP card arrives. And someone who would use the word snot at thirty is likely to still be using it at sixty or seventy. One of my mother’s favorite insults was to call someone snot-nosed. She had other, more colorful insults, but that one was always used to great effect, with much power behind it.

A man mid-sneeze. Original CDC caption: “This 2009 photograph captured a sneeze in progress, revealing the plume of salivary droplets as they are expelled in a large cone-shaped array from this man’s open mouth, thereby dramatically illustrating the reason one needs to cover his/her mouth when coughing, or sneezing, in order to protect others from germ exposure.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Gesundheit, and happy almost Friday, fringelings!

Off With Her Head!

Queen of Hearts (Photo credit: Ana Kelston)

Please and thank you. If you aren’t in the US, or in the northeast of it, we’re gearing up for a blizzard. As of this moment, it’s a snow/sleet/rain mix here in the city, the blizzard conditions will start later this evening. Gross, but the bonus is that the jackhammers are quiet for today.

I had a meeting at Flower Child’s school this morning. It went very well, assistive technology has come through, thanks to her fabulous team this year. We needed this to go well on several levels, it’s been a rough week for her; her good streak ended. Good news though, right? I come home and think I still have plenty of time to write before it’s pickup time. In peace and quiet. Ahhh. For about a minute.

English: Hammer drill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s this, you ask? Well, it’s the hammer drill being used right above my freakin head in the apartment above mine. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear my sobs providing the rhythm for the bass of the drill. The walls in my building are concrete. No, I’m not confused, I am referring to interior walls, so any holes need to be made with a serious, loud, powerful tool.

This week has been, well, life, I guess. My father in law passed away, which was expected, and I’m glad his pain is over, but still very sad. He was an absolutely lovely man who was well known and liked in the community and loved by his family. For the past few days I’ve been hearing his distinctive whistle in my head. When Nerd Child was a little guy, and my f-i-l was passing our building, he would stop and whistle up, “Coquito!” Nerd Child would stop whatever he was doing and run to the window, throwing whatever he had been holding down to the street. Those child safety bars only prevent an actual child from passing through them, not the paraphernalia that accompanies children. Good thing the man always wore a hat, or his head would surely have been dented by a lego more than once. He had a distinctive smile, the kind that let you know where the phrase “ear to ear grin” comes from. It’s a warm fuzzy to say Flower Child inherited his smile.

I did write this week, though nowhere near the word count I intended. It is what it is, maybe the coming week will be a bit more steady.

How was your week?