thoughts

Excess

Moonflowers, finally!

I get one every three days or so, but they open in the afternoon, not at night.

What’s worse than 5am yoga? 5am yoga after eating yourself into a carb coma the night before, of course.

The other morning I woke with an urge for corn chowder. First day of a heat wave, why wouldn’t I want soup? I went to the grocery store, and bought the ingredients. Not as easy as it sounds, because I wasn’t thinking about the fact that it was Saturday. In the grocery store. By the time I got home, I needed to rest my back for a while before getting started. Just as well, because lifehappened and I never got to start the soup.

Yesterday, day 2 of the heat wave. I love summer, nothing makes me happier than not needing more than flip flops and shades to walk outside, but nothing holds the heat like the city. The thought of soup was now as appealing as diving into the Hudson River. But…I already dropped $50 in the grocery store the day before, and had told Art Child she could help me. Just in case making soup when it’s 93° with 69% humidity outside wasn’t enough, in between chopping and sautéing, I was back and forth at the laptop, had a thought provoking email conversation with a writing friend about writing and not. This, naturally, is a conversation I feel compelled to keep having, but it’s upsetting too, leaving me to feel generally useless. What to do when I’m stressing myself out? I added biscuits, chicken (for the flesh eaters), and tofu (for the non flesh-eaters) to the menu.

cheddar scallion biscuits

Gin & Lemonade

Maybe an extra jalapeño next time.

Marinated chicken

Tofu in the same marinade.

I’m a pretty good cook, and sometimes everything works out just the way I want it to, and last night’s dinner was one of those meals. Husband went into work early yesterday, so he was actually home at dinnertime, and the four of us sat together. At my table, everyone sitting together means political discussions. Last night’s topic segued from the need for campaign contribution reforms, to general American consumerism and excess. Did it occur to me that in that moment, sucking down my organic, non-GMO corn, jalapeño, and yukon gold potato soup that I was the very picture of American excess? Yes, yes it did. But I enjoyed it anyway. Did the conversation stop me from thinking I had absolutely nailed those biscuits? (If, like me, you’re too heavy handed with a rolling pin, drop biscuits are the way to go.) Nope. When I was already full from the soup and biscuit, did it prevent me from taking a big slice of tofu? Well, you see, I made the whole brick, and it’s only Art Child and I who eat the tofu, so it would be wasteful to not even eat one slice….

What a surprise that I woke up before the sun, feeling like an overstuffed sausage. These political conversations are deadly, I tellya.

O Happy Day

Bluejay, a regular visitor to the terrace while I do my yoga.

My Nook is working again. If I don’t try to use it outside, in sunlight.

I’ve been in a strange mood. Not bad, not good, just feeling the urge to lie low. For me, this means reading. Unfortunately, the Nook wasn’t working for about two weeks, which sent me into a panic. What will I do? How will I avoid all the thoughts I don’t want to think if I can’t get lost in fiction? Will I start collecting paper books again, until the apartment looks like a home for wayward book mites? No, whether the e-reader remains functional or not, that last is not an option.

I dumped/gave away a lot of stuff when we moved into this apartment. Clothes, books, toys, junk. It’s making me edgy now, to pay attention and see how easily clutter can begin accumulating again. I’m trying. It should be easy, every other article on Facebook or HuffPo is about the beauty and advantages of minimalist living. If only the alternating posts weren’t about how to repurpose that old box/shoe/onion skin/takeout container. I’m saying no. I will not save magazines for a potential project, empty cans for funky shaped quick breads. I will not save things just in case. I will not fill Pinterest boards with pictures of unique and inspiring objet d’art made from useless and likely moldy shit. We’ve been in this apartment for 8? months now. I haven’t missed one thing that I got rid of. Not even the once-great thermal bag with the mystery stains and torn lining I used to use for beach lunches.

The boys’ room…well. When Nerd Child came home for the summer, he came with all his stuff. Clothes for all seasons, bedding, towels, amps, guitars, cords and wires. I don’t think he’s fully unpacked once since leaving for school three years ago. Yah yah, a good mommy would go through it all for him. I’m not that good. For as much as I got rid of, there are things I thought I had disposed of that have mysteriously reappeared. Little things, like the full sized electronic keyboard and stand. My bell rang a couple of weeks ago, and it was my mother in law, keyboard and stand in her shopping cart. I had no idea it had ended up in her apartment. Silly me assumed this item that hadn’t been used in ten years didn’t have a freaking LoJack in it. If I so much as open the door to that bedroom, the damned keyboard flips me the bird and blows a raspberry from beneath its Hefty bag comforter. In its old spot, blocking what should be a path between the door and bed, propped across two suitcases and a wheeled duffel bag.

Happy Friday, Fringelings. If anyone needs me, I’ll be reading, before the screen goes unresponsive again.

Lousy Poem Wednesday

For whatever anyone (including myself) may/may not think of my writing, I am not a poet. I love poetry, but don’t know anything about the various forms, never studied it or felt compelled to do so. Of course, when I was a teenager and young adult, I wrote plenty of angsty poems. All free verse, because, of course, I didn’t know what I was doing. Attempts at rhymes resulted in the love children of elementary roses-are-red and the man-from-Nantucket, and I abandoned poetry for short stories by the time I was in my twenties.

Once in a while, though, like once every ten years, I have an urge. I went to the beach with Art Child the other day. Took the train out to Brooklyn to “my” beach, just beyond the shadow of the elevated train tracks. Brighton Beach isn’t what anyone would call paradise, or even clean–truly, you have to shower off the layer of dirt and grime before determining whether or not you got any color– but I love it. It feels like home, what can I say. When we were walking to the water, I noticed chicken bones scattered in the sand, probably rejected by seagulls. Those bones, complete with bits of batter and gristle, stayed in my mind.

Past the end

down and down the steps

up the ramp

splinters of before

push through

Sun soothes, empties the cells

Look Ma! No cancer, Vitamin D–

except skin

Pleats and furrows pulled taut by kelp flies

pores opened by the heat

for sweat to drown the fleas

Open

wider to swallow

shell fragments

broken beer bottles

chicken bones

And the salt

taste it

on the breeze

in the water

against the scummy layer of coconut oil

Grains of could-be

meld into

Squishy mud of

should-have-been

and I dive.

And Away We Go?

Lilies, a new love

We all have those little things we do and/or buy to make life more pleasant, reduce the drudgery. For me it’s my reef tank, and now my terrace container garden. I’m enjoying watching the flowers and veggies grow, figure out what I’ve done wrong and what I’ll change next time. Do these things work? It’s the small moments that add up to life.

I always say my tank is my beach house in a glass box. And it is, sort of. I can accept it as a replacement for my dream, but those LEDs don’t take the place of feeling the sun on my skin, doing water changes and suctioning cyanobacteria off the sandbed doesn’t replace feeling waves roll over my head.

LPS frag growing nicely

Husband and I have been discussing the possibility of taking a vacation this summer. We shouldn’t. Financially, it isn’t a smart choice. But from a psychological standpoint, oh, we all need it. It’s been seven years since we last took a vacation. Seven years.

Putting to the side the people and years when there is 0 money, 0 choice; everyone has their threshold. Some people need to go away twice a year, others every year, every other year, every few years, or never. When Husband and I got married, we didn’t expect there to ever be such long stretches with no vacation. I didn’t expect us to go away every year, but maybe every 2 or 3. Fatigue and I have been friends for 13 years, and I’ve never seen him take a vacation, he’s never talked about feeling a need to get away. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t taken a vacation in his adult life. I’d like to be him, but I’m not. By the fourth year of no real break/change in scenery, I’m feeling it. Did I mention it’s been seven years?

I feel guilty because we never got the kids back to Disney World in that window of time where Man Child was still young and available enough to come with us, Nerd Child would relax and enjoy it, and Art Child was old enough to remember it. We thought we’d be able to, but we couldn’t. Disney is expensive. Luckily, Husband and I both enjoy beach vacations best of all. Lucky because we enjoy the same relax and do nothing, and if you discount camping (no, just no), it’s the most budget-friendly way to go.

Husband is ready to say yes, let’s go, figure out the dates. I’m angsting about the money. Thinking about the small day trips and overnights that must happen this year for Nerd Child to visit colleges. Time and money. Thinking about the fact that Nerd Child does not enjoy the beach at all. It isn’t a fun and relaxing vacation if one of us is miserable.

So I keep going onto the terrace, to find solace in the flowers and tomatoes. I planted the seeds and bulbs, and they’re growing.

Another couple of nights and I think the moonflowers will begin to open, I can’t wait.

The summer daffodils I planted are even blooming. We won’t talk about what happened to the zucchini.

The blooms are much smaller than regular daffodils.

I grew peas, successfully.

This morning I learned if you wait too long to pick it, the peas aren't as sweet.

This morning I learned if you wait too long to pick it, the peas lose their sweetness.

I can go on the terrace and smell lilies, come back into the apartment (an apartment we waited a long time for, that’s finally enough space, and cost a small fortune to make livable) and watch the jawfish as he makes funny faces at me from underneath the zoa covered rock.

zoanthids

It should be enough, shouldn’t it? No medical crisis this year for anyone. Art Child had pneumonia, but no hospital stay necessary. I broke my everything, a painful, protracted nuisance but not a crisis. A garden on the terrace, an underwater garden in the tank, the absolute luxuries of a dishwasher and an extra half bathroom. The oldest successfully graduated from college, the next one looking at colleges, and the youngest about to start high school. I’m not torturing myself trying to find meaning that isn’t there in rejection letters.

I even canceled plans to attend a large, local reefing convention, because I knew if I went I’d be unable to resist temptation, and buy new frags. But it isn’t just Husband eyeing the suitcase.

Haters Gonna Hate

So said Nerd Child to me when I was upset a few months back, about a (very minor in the scheme of things) racist comment directed towards him and a friend. I get his point. He’s a smart and awe-inspiringly rational person–because of this, he is, I’m sure, better poised to make changes in our world, changes in how people approach the world, than his hotheaded blabberfingers mother.

No question, there is value and wisdom in taking the long view of social ills. As I’ve said before, however, there is also risk. Risk of denial, risk of distorted views, plain old risk involved in sweeping these ills under the rug in favor of a false “no problem here!” presentation.

I am, of course, talking about the deaths last night of 9 innocent people in Charleston, South Carolina. A shooting that was a hate crime. At a prayer meeting in a church–the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, a church with a long, proud history. Proud unless you’re a white supremacist/separatist, in which case you’re likely having very different thoughts than I am right now. Supposedly, the suspect sat in the prayer meeting for an hour before making the statement that they were “taking over the country and raping our women.” Because those human beings who opened their prayer meeting to him were a real, direct threat to his date nights and our national security, yes? <<NO! I shouldn’t have to spell out that the previous sentence is sarcasm, but apparently I do, judging by the things I’ve seen and heard online today.

I don’t know how legitimate the above quote is. Maybe it’s a misquote, maybe it was spun out of thin air. But can I believe it’s real? Yes I can. Because just the other day, Donald Trump announced he’s running for President of the United States. Trump. Do I think he has a snowball’s chance? Nope. But. I saw comments referring to him as a good idea because he’s a businessman. True, he’s a businessman, and I think I read he’s worth something like 4 billion dollars. He’s also declared bankruptcy four times. Included in the gems of his announcement speech Trump said, “When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending the best. They’re not sending you, they’re sending people that have lots of problems and they’re bringing those problems. They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime. They’re rapists and some, I assume, are good people…” So…the shooter in South Carolina was singing the same song as Donald Trump? You might be thinking, of course not–Trump was referring to undocumented immigrants, and the shooter was referring to African Americans. What I hear is: They. Them. America is not a business. If it were, we might recognize our people–all of them–are our assets. In a country where someone like Donald Trump can be taken seriously by anyone as a candidate for President, we’ve got issues, and we need to air out this rug.

So I’m just going to try and clarify a few things here, from my muddled-by-sorrow point of view. This is OUR problem, America. OUR shame, not some shadowy boogeyman named, They. Despite what too many want to pretend, it isn’t a relic of the past that’s no longer in use, nor is it a secret. Not “just” one lone, hateful lunatic, either. If it was, this wouldn’t be a news story we see play out over and over again.

If it was, the flags wouldn’t be flying at half staff today at the capitol of South Carolina. Columbia, SC. One of those flags isn’t, by the way. Which one? The confederate flag, of course. The very fact that there are confederate flags flying openly anywhere in America is the problem. There is no pride in a confederate flag. That is our shame. Just today, the Supreme Court ruled that Texas is not violating the First Amendment by banning confederate flags on license plates. Why? Because it’s fucking wrong! It’s racism, it’s vile, if you can’t join the 21st century go ahead and keep it to yourself. If you want to honor those who died fighting in the Civil War and display the flag they fought for and under, I don’t get it, but go ahead and keep it in a museum with all the other interesting and long outdated relics. Study it, learn from it, but don’t wave it as a symbol of modern America.

If it wasn’t a problem, there wouldn’t have been any major media outlets jumping to say it wasn’t a racist crime, it was an attack on Christianity. I’d like to be sarcastic again here, or make a joke about Faux news, or even snicker at the field day the best political comedians will have with this, but I can’t–because there are too many voting citizens who take this lunacy seriously. So I’ll just make a direct statement. This wasn’t an attack on Christianity. Or the South, or the freedom to fly the confederate flag. This was a racist hate crime.

You know what it isn’t? It isn’t a result of not having “God” in schools. Yes, indeed, I saw that come across my Facebook feed. I strongly believe in, support, and defend freedom of religion; but I believe in the separation of church and state just as strongly.

It isn’t a result of the pastor not having a gun in the church. I am not and don’t pretend to be an expert on religion (of any faith), and I’d be hard pressed to quote directly from the Bible if that quote wasn’t indirect and the subject of an article I was reading in the moment, but I’m pretty sure this doesn’t fall under What-Would-Jesus-Do.

It’s the result of hate. Hate, fear, a public education system with more holes than the infinite number of test bubbles that face our children each year, an inability to discriminate between hard facts and opinions/editorials/entertainment, and a sadly lacking understanding of what it means to be a member of a greater community. A society.

This was a nauseating, racist hate crime that has left 9 Black Americans dead, while countless more Americans piss on each other across internet boards everywhere as they scramble to skew this to fit their political agendas; as the black community once again mourns unnecessary losses that should be unthinkable. Unspeakable. Unimaginable. But we don’t have to imagine it, because these losses, these attacks, are all too real and all too frequent. That’s why we have to speak about it.

To the families and members of the Emanuel AME Church, I am so very, very sorry for your loss.

We Are Looking For

A clue!

Normally, I use this neatogroovycool magnifying glass to examine the minuscule creepy crawlies in the tank. Today, I’m using it to examine context clues.

I have a Twitter account (@MrsFringe). I don’t use it much, but I hop on semi-regularly to see what’s trending, and sporadically I’ll spend quite a bit of time for a couple of days having fun with one-liners. Some of those I follow are friends, some are Fringelings, some are people I admire, others are agents/editors who are sharp, or funny, or interesting. Quite a few publishing professionals will tweet tips–what to do/what not to do, why they’re requesting or rejecting queries, and query trends.

Recently I logged on and happened to catch a tweet at the top of my news feed that’s stayed with me. While it probably isn’t politic, I’m going to address it. Since I’m 40,000 years old and not twitter savvy (read: a blabberfingers), I’ll respond here on the blog. Someone (agent? I think, maybe) tweeted something to the effect of: Two spaces after a period and I know you’re over 40, don’t do it.

Really?

Well I suppose it’s true, those of us who learned to type on typewriters did learn to put two spaces after a period. If you learned in typing class and/or did a lot of typing for any reason, it’s kind of ingrained–and if you do think about it, one space often looks “wrong” to us ancients. Despite my advanced age and inherent slowed mental faculties, I actually understand that things change. The world changes, advances are made, things that were once acceptable are now either extraneous or completely unacceptable. Language evolves.

A friend of Nerd Child’s is staying with us for a few days. He hasn’t been here before, and when he first walked in he said, “This apartment is sick.” Hard to believe, but I didn’t go running for the Lysol, nor did I tell him to get off my lawn. I thanked him. Context clues.

I promise you, Fringelings, I am not what anyone would consider a delicate flower.

I checked. Nope, this is not a self portrait, but I may add it to my salad tonight.

I also understand publishing professionals are inundated with queries, and there are many reasons to reject manuscripts. What I don’t understand is why someone would think it’s ok, on a public venue like Twitter, to make this type of blanket, ageist statement. True, I (and others like me) should probably try to break this wasteful habit of two spaces after each period. All that white space left to rot by the end of a manuscript, shameful. Also true, there are practicalities and logistics, reasons someone might not want to take on a debut author who’s 90 years old. You wouldn’t have to dig too deep through my archives to find I’m quite open about not loving some of the facets of aging–oh, those saggy bits! But these are query letters for manuscripts, not applications for centerfold models.

I had dinner with my journalist friend the other night. She is (gasp) older than I am. Not only still writing, but people still pay to read what she has to say, because she’s good at what she does. If I checked the list of current best selling novelists, I’m certain a significant percentage would include authors over forty. If I checked tweets of those I follow on Twitter, I’m certain all would include tweets (from men and women) about being feminists, supporting feminism. You cannot separate feminism from ageism. I’d like to see that placard carried at a women’s rights march, “Equal Pay for the Perky Now!” It doesn’t bother me to be told to break an outdated habit, but the implication that my words hold no value because I’m a woman of a certain age? That bothers the hell out of me.

I think I’ve posted this video before, but you can just go ahead and blame senility for the repeat. Or, yanno, trust I felt it was appropriate for this piece.

*And yes, I made sure to add two spaces after each period for this post, ’cause that’s how I roll.

Can’t Always Be Pancakes

Kale smoothie. Don’t knock it ’til you try it.

Seriously, it’s delicious. I doubt it makes up for the mac-n-cheese with jalapeños and broccoli I had while out with Fatigue last night, but maybe it balances the beer.

I was awake ridiculously early today, spent an hour and a half on the terrace watching the clouds before starting yoga. I kept thinking I should grab the camera, but I didn’t. Sorrynotsorry. Sometimes it’s good to not think about framing a shot, or cursing myself for being too slow getting that perfect wisp in focus. Enjoy the moment and all that jazz.

While I was having my breakfast, I looked over at my poor tank.

I love indulging my inner nature gal. In a controlled environment, of course. Sadly, I’m not always good at controlling it all. Ok, not all sad. It’s interesting to see what happens, even when it’s things you don’t want to happen.

A recent mystery disaster wiped out all my SPS corals, and has left me a growing patch of cyanobacteria.

Cyano, aka red slime

A real nuisance, but it happens. Time for a couple of extra water changes, and to change out the ferric oxide in the back chambers of the tank. I’m not sure where these high phosphates are coming from this time, but they’re there.

At the same time, I was able to catch this moment.

Pair of skunk cleaner shrimp enjoying their breakfast. I couldn’t quite tell, but I think escargot was on the menu for them.

Back on the terrace, I checked on the progress of my little container garden. A definite zucchini is growing!

I know, I know, those little bug things. 😦

I first saw those little black dots (now recognizable as bugs) on my lily plants a few weeks ago. I immediately purchased a ridiculously expensive fertility spray that was labeled as an organic fungicide/insecticide. Needless to say, they’ve now spread to most of the plants/containers and are having the time of their fruitfully multiplying lives. Who knew my terrace was the aphid (or whatever they are) version of a cheap Vegas buffet?

But look what else is growing,

Tom Hanks may have made fire, but I’ve got tomatoes!

And peas, real fresh, soon to be delicious, peas.

Yes, please.

All in all, I’m calling it a good morning.

It’s Okay To Suck

Sometimes.

I first began to get into photography when I got into reefing. Any coral reef hobbyist will tell you the two go hand in hand. Reefs are beautiful, always changing, photography documents those. More than anything, photos are necessary when you need help. Regardless of how broad your vocabulary might be, when you’re on a forum and trying to get an ID of a specific coral, coral disease, or algae, you need the visuals. I was a lousy photographer, but kind of liked it. Every so often I’d get it right, such a good feeling.

Then I began blogging. I like blogs that include photos or artwork. Makes it easier to read than a wall of text, and often adds a little something. At first, I mostly used stock photos, embarrassed when I posted my own lousy pics. But then I began bringing the camera with me more frequently, making sure it was always charged, shooting photos of what was interesting to me, and/or what I thought would work well with specific posts. Still lousy photos, but it was fun, and I got less embarrassed about posting them. Yet another aspect to blogging that I’m grateful for.

I like to try different things (as long as they don’t involve heights!) but alas, I’m not one of those people who are magically gifted at everything they try. I’ve always had a few things I was good at, and would quickly drop–certainly not publicize–what I wasn’t. But yanno, there are advantages to getting older. Sure I’m more self conscious about my body, but I’m going to the beach anyway. And not everything I do has to have the potential to be something I’m great at. I learned to crochet. Sort of. I’m a truly horrendous crocheter, but sometimes I find it just the right type of mental masturbation, and I don’t care if I’m never going to crochet a fabulous whatever.

First zucchini flower of the season.

This year I’m trying container gardening on the terrace again. I accept that some things will grow, and hopefully flower/bear fruit, and some won’t work out, because I don’t actually know what I’m doing. That’s ok, I’m enjoying watching what happens. Not so fond of the little bug thingies on my lilies, but I got an organic spray that is (slowly) killing them off.

In many ways gardening is similar to reefing, except I don’t feel the same pressure, the same sinking in my gut when I see something go wrong. And things do go wrong in the reef, regardless of how long I’ve been reefing, how much I pay attention. Just the past couple of weeks, something went awry and all but one of my SPS (small polyp stony corals) died. RTN, rapid tissue necrosis. I want to cry thinking of those bare, white boney skeletons, but that’s another post unto itself.

I don’t have to be “gifted” at everything I do or share with others. Hell, I think I’m a kick-ass writer, and I’ve got a good number of people who agree, but still none who are in a position to offer me a dollar for my words. Yeah, that hurts, and it’s always going to hurt. I want to be recognized as a writer, acknowledged as someone who can offer words of value, even if it’s a weirdo story about a smoking rat. I don’t want to be a chef, but I want guests who come over for dinner to enjoy my food, and leave feeling the dinner was part of a great evening. I want them to look at my tank and ooh and ahh about the beauty and vibrancy of the reef. If they see a stray crooked square of crochet work next to the couch? It’s ok.

I keep taking pictures of everything. Digital photography offers an opportunity film didn’t, if only because of cost. I can snap a hundred pics to get 8 decent ones, and not stress about the money wasted on film and development. Much to my surprise, taking pictures has become more enjoyable as time goes on, and I’ve gotten better at it. Try to take pictures of moving critters underwater, through glass, under led lights, you have to learn. Not great, and I’m still lousy when it comes to people, but better. I can and do recognize the difference between the pictures I take, and the ones from people who are actual photography artists. I’m proud of many of my photos now, anyway. And if some of the photos still suck, but I wanted to post them anyway because of the subject? That’s ok, too.

Tomatoes! I’ve never been successful with them, maybe this will be the year.

First tomato flowers.

Sweet peppers

Carrots and beets

Love the leaves of the beets, so pretty.

Lilies, will I ever get a flower?

This was supposed to be a box of ranunculi, but I had a few extra blazing star bulbs so I put them in and they’re choking out the ones I wanted. No clue what the shorter grass looking stuff to the front is.

Peas. I should have used a larger container. Live and learn.

Peas. I should have used a larger container, it’s choking itself. Live and learn.

Blazing stars. These things must be freaking weeds! But apparently there were morning glory spores (?) still in the container from a couple of years ago, because I’m seeing a couple of definite morning glory vines push through.

Special Occasion: Yanno, Thursday

Canned biscuits

The other morning I stuck these in the oven for Art Child’s breakfast. When she woke up and came in the kitchen she asked, “Is today a special day?”

Ooof. I was never the picture of the Happy Housewife, never cooked breakfast daily, but I used to actually make breakfast regularly enough that no one thought anything of it to wake up to eggs or muffins on a weekday. The above wasn’t making breakfast, this was popping open a tube and sticking overly sweet pre-made discs of dough in the oven. I’ve been pleased with how I’ve forced myself to relax over the past several years; not everything has to be from scratch, the world doesn’t end and I’m less stressed if I’m busy or my back is hurting so I buy leaves already trimmed and washed in a bag for salad. (Still make my own dressings, that bottled stuff should be banned.)

For Art Child to look at those biscuits and think we were either celebrating or there was a state test she forgot about…let’s just say it made me take a closer look at myself, in a broader sense than in the kitchen. Have I relaxed and adapted or have my standards dropped?

Both. Yes, it’s good to relax, not put so much pressure on myself. Some of this “relaxing” is due to enforced lessons of hurry-up-and-wait, both in the world of writing and in the world of medical needs parenting. Wait for responses, call-backs, appointments with specialologists scheduled six months out, test results, watch and see how things develop. As a parent in the specialized medical world, generally bad news comes fast and good news comes slow. As a wanna-be writer, it’s the opposite. Again, these are generalizations, there are exceptions both ways. In either world that bad news feels like a sucker punch, even if you’re sure it’s coming. And in both worlds, sometimes the ball gets dropped, and you don’t hear news until months after you could/should have. Either way, you learn that most things are not the emergency they feel like in your own mind.

And yes, my standards have dropped. I think it’s been necessary for my sanity. When I first began writing and sending queries, it was done through snail mail with SASEs. It often took a long time to get a response, but 99% of the time, you got one. I took long breaks, lots of gaps in my efforts to write and submit queries. The next time I was querying, most were done through email, and more agents were straightforward that if they weren’t interested, they wouldn’t respond. Ugh! For a little while. Then I got used to it. I had to. It’s like sending in a job application, right? If they’re interested, they’ll contact you, if not they won’t. Put into that perspective, it makes sense–though it’s still absolutely appreciated to get a response, positive or negative. Lowered standards or preserving sanity, call it what you will. If they requested a full, you were pretty much guaranteed a personalized response.

Now? Even on a request, people are now seeing bare bones form rejections, the same as on a query. This latest go-round I saw agents who don’t respond at all even to requested material. I have a hard time with this one. Requested means you sent a query and opening pages, they (or their intern) liked it enough to send you a note and ask for the full manuscript. I checked with other wanna-bees to try and read the coffee grounds between the non-existent lines, and it isn’t just me. A request for a full doesn’t mean anymore than what it is, so don’t start practicing your acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize in literature, you crazy-overactive-imagination-writer, you. And yes, I know I shouldn’t be saying this out loud, let alone posting it on my blog, the internet is forever, some magical publisher or agent in the future could come across this and say hey! I was going to make Mrs Fringe an offer, but now I won’t. Obviously she’s whiny and difficult, a gnat of a wanna-be. How dare she try to hold on to any standards, think she deserves a little courtesy of a response?

I don’t mean to be difficult, though I’m fully aware that I’m whining. In many ways I’ve been lucky, received a fair share of requests, and gotten many lovely responses, personalized and complimentary. No one has ever told me my writing sucks and I should go submerge my head in my tank, stick to writing grocery lists. Thank God, because I am the worst shopping list writer on the Upper West side–three chicken scratches on the back of an old appointment card, and walk out of the store with $200 transformed into three environmentally friendly reusable bags.

I decided it’s time to slow my slipping standards, so I went to the Farmer’s Market the other day.

Saw mushrooms that looked like they belonged in the art fair.

Passed on these.

Made a wish on a particularly resilient dandelion

These things really do spring up everywhere.

Said a little prayer

And set about making a fresh baked breakfast of rhubarb muffins.

I can still chop, if uneven.

Oops, no sour cream. Ok, not dropping standards, adapting with greek yogurt.

Works out the same

Ready?

Fold the rhubarb in gently, Mrs Fringe!

And then I couldn’t find one normal muffin pan. I found my teeny mini muffin pan, too small for those rhubarb pieces, and too annoying with such a thick batter. I found my muffin top pan, too shallow for the rhubarb. I found tart pans, springform pans, pie plates, and cookie sheets. No muffin pans.

Give up those expectations, and adapt.

Can I interest you in a slice of rhubarb bread?

Can I interest you in a slice of standard dropping rhubarb bread?

Mother’s Day Thoughts–Late Again

Flower District

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

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

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

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

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

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

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