Archives for September 2009

September 30, 2009 by: The Domestic Fringe

Mind Invasion

When did the make it yourself / create it from scratch philosophy of life permeate our minds and convince us that we could build empires with a glue gun? What are we thinking? That’s not the American way!

Martha Stewart is ruining our plastic, store-bought way of life one craft project at a time. I won’t stand for it! We are intelligent women. We know how to shop in Target. Polyethylene decorations should be perfectly acceptable for fall. Bunches of dried flowers filling your vases and wreaths of harvested wild berries hung on your doors are decorating trends invented to give obsessive compulsive overachievers something to do.

Even my mother’s mind has been twisted and she doesn’t even watch daytime TV. FringeKid called her up the other day to ask her to have a sleepover on Halloween. I thought this a fantastic idea! Grandma can roam the streets with my children and the neighboring stragglers and I will be free to take pictures and steal all the good chocolate out of my children’s bags before they’ve had time to realize that nobody handed out Reeces Peanut Butter Cups this year. My brain was still befuddled with milk-chocolatey goodies when I took the phone from my daughter. My mother’s voice questioned my child’s one desire for fall – to be an Egyptian.

“How are you going to make an Egyptian costume?” Grandma asked.

“Make? They’re selling perfectly good plastic ones in Wal-Mart for $14. I may even take FringeKid to get a chin length bob with bangs to make things extra realistic.”

Sadness filled my mother’s tone as she regaled me with tales of a pearl-essence blue jellyfish costume she saw dangling with ribbons and hand-crafted with all the love a sew & stitch mother could give.

“You should talk her into being that jellyfish?” My mother suggested.

The chocolate haze receded into the back of mind as I considered nights filled with sewing, pinning, and puffing. “Are you nuts?” I asked with great respect.

You see, FringeKid’s mind hasn’t yet been warped by ultra-creative moms. She’s pure. She still loves plastic. I need to take full advantage of this stage in her life. It’s my duty to make her dress-up time fun.

Besides, when did using a hot-glue gun become so difficult anyway?

I spent no less than hour last night gluing plastic, glow-in-the-dark spider webs to my front windows. Everytime I’d get one set up and move on to the next window, the first ones would fall. FringeMan made me quit decorating when I went in search of liquid nails.

I give up. The real spiders can have full reign of my house until November. They don’t require glue guns.

This holiday season, I’m boycotting anything that requires me to attend do-it-yourself craft classes at Micheal’s. I may even buy a plastic snowman to hang on the porch beside the glow-in-the-dark skeleton waving in the wind. I just feel like I’m losing touch with my inner Martha.

What about you?

September 29, 2009 by: The Domestic Fringe

Shaken Love

My birthday in mid-February marked the beginning of the roller-coaster of love. A short time after, FringeMan, in his casual and laid-back way, dragged me into a jewelry store to determine which shape diamond I would want if at any time in the near future he may be in the market for buying diamonds.

I stood at the jewelry case looking in at little rocks throwing prisms of light in every direction. While sparkles captivated my being, my hands began to sweat and my heart beat out the rhythm of a tribal chant. I felt as if I were about to be thrown in the pot of boiling water and eaten as soup. I panicked.

I didn’t question my love for FringeMan, but I did question acting on my love. I was just twenty-two and I hadn’t been looking for a man or marriage. I knew from our first date that FringeMan was too determined. He was a hunter from the beginning and I was his prey.

I bolted from the store and into the parking lot, filling my lungs with large gasps of cool winter air. Sensing my panic, FringeMan gave me some space. Space for my mind to wonder in a million directions. Every bad long-term scenario played through my head in those few parking lot minutes. I wanted my marriage to be the forever-after kind, the once in a life-time kind, the till death do us part kind and I didn’t want to wish for death sooner than necessary.

I didn’t want to make a mistake.

The only real reason I could think of not to consider a future with FringeMan was based on our different eating styles. You see, I was and am a carnivore. I eat meat with a side of potatoes. Everything else is negligible. FringeMan operated on the premise that vegetables were not only necessary for health, but were vital to life. A marriage between us could never work.

So I turned my tragically love torn gaze toward FringeMan and exclaimed with open arms for all the world to hear, “We can never get married. I don’t eat my vegetables!”

For more love stories, visit Musings of a Future Pastor’s Wife.

If you’re new to the domestic fringe and you want the entire up-t0-this-point story, I’ve created a new page for you. It can be found above the photo at the top of this blog – FringeLove.

September 27, 2009 by: The Domestic Fringe

Comedy of Errors

I happened to notice that one of the medications that the doctor prescribed me last week had a sun exposure warning listed on the bottle. Since it’s not July and I had no immediate plans to lie on the beach soaking up rays of vitamin D and drinking strawberry lemonade, I never gave the warning a second thought. It wasn’t until the evening after my 20,000 step day that FringeMan looked at me startled and said “You’re glowing!”

I am now sporting a fresh tan two months late.

Did I mention that I am on my third pedometer? Yes, I’m about to be blacklisted for purchasing pedometers and returning them. I realized that the first pedometer I bought (some things are on clearance for a reason) was giving me extra steps. The mechanism was just too sensitive to movement and since I’m working against the evil fat spirits, I need accuracy. I bought my second pedometer at a local sporting goods store after much deliberation. Ultimately I chose based on looks. Never wise! It only calculated distance and not steps. Who would have thunk it?

Although embarrassed to do so, I exchanged the distance pedometer for one that counts only steps. It appears to be much more accurate, but has been reset several times due to my son hugging me and accidentally hitting the reset button. I’ve resigned myself to the fact I may never know how many steps I actually walk. All I know is that my sneakers are wearing out.

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By Friday I had learned my sun lesson, used sunscreen, and waited under a tree for my kids to come bounding down the school steps for the weekend. FringeKid is the first one out since they stagger the time each grade is released. As she tackled me in her usual afternoon bear hug, I asked the question I’m sure she dreaded all day.

“How’d you do on your spelling test?”

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Poor spelling is a genetic deficiency running directly through my blood line and every night I promise everything short of a trip to Disney if FringeKid will just remember how to spell her ten words. With a squeeze and kiss to her sweaty head, I assured her that I’d love her no matter how she did on her test.

Before the warmth of my breath left her hair, she hopefully questioned, “Even if I fail the second grade?”

Suddenly my affirmation of unconditional motherly love had turned into permission to sack her entire academic career starting in the second grade. Wondering where I went wrong and afraid to speak another word, I merely pointed to the swings and she took off at a run.

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This same child sat on the edge of my bed swinging her legs and watching me lace up my sneakers Saturday morning. The FringeBoys were off doing Boy Scouting things and we were about to return a few books to library, play in the park, and ultimately walk to the bakery. I had just clipped on my pedometer when she asked, “Why aren’t you losing any weight?”

“Have you heard of the evil fat spirits?” I asked, but she ignored me.

With all the seriousness a seven year-old could possibly muster, she suggested “Maybe you should have really worked on losing all that fat when you were much younger.”

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In that moment, I knew why some animals eat their young. It has nothing to do with hunger.

100_4469 Some days I just feel like my life is a comedy of errors. And because you are wondering, I ate a raspberry turnover. It was worth every last step that I will need to walk to burn it off.

September 23, 2009 by: The Domestic Fringe

Walking from the Evil Fat Spirits

Today I was planning on discussing an issue of utmost importance, something that would promote peace of mind, and radically change the world that I live in. I was going to discuss my hair and a new style for it, but honestly I’ve lost interest in my hair…at least for today. I’ve got something more completely geeky exciting to share to with you.

Today I made a big purchase. I mean it is my anniversary week and in our vows FringeMan did promise to love me in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, and buy me gifts every now and then. Well, I may be delusional about the gifts parts, but if I were to be married again (to FringeMan of course!), I would definitely write my own vows. It would be so much more entertaining heartfelt. I don’t think uncle Leonard would have ever fallen asleep during my wedding if I had written my own vows.

I digress. It’s the gift that’s important right now, not replanning my wedding. Although another bridal shower sure would be useful…new towels, sheets, a kitchen timer. Ahhhh, I dream.

Ok, I bought an $11 clearance pedometer.

Are you let down?

Did you think I bought diamonds or something? It’s only my twelfth anniversary. I heard pedometers were standard gifts for the twelfth anniversary. After twelve years, your steps slow, your bottom spreads, and you start to jiggle just a little bit more than you did on the fifth anniversary. Yes, pedometers are what you get for your twelfth anniversary and I couldn’t be happier.

It all started last week when I arrived at school just a little too early to pick up my kids. I didn’t want to lurk around the playground acting like I have absolutely no life and nothing better to do than walk to school fifteen minutes early, so I strolled to the library where I grabbed a new book off the shelf.

The story was about a single woman who had just accepted a buyout from her company (a sneaker manufacturer) and found herself home without a life, so she started walking. Ends up two neighbors start walking with her. They track their mileage and take a fantastic trip complete with romance, exercise, and fields of lavender. I could summarize the entire book with this one sentence: It was a chick flick in print.

So I became intrigued by the idea of keeping track of my steps each day. I’m a dork like that. I would also like to lose a few pounds, although that’s more of a dream than having another bridal shower without having another wedding. All the evil fat spirits have joined forces against me and have ensured I won’t burn any more calories than absolutely necessary to stay alive.

But.

I. Will. Walk. On.

My goal is 10,000 steps per day, because that’s what I’ve read you should walk if you want to lose weight; however, I’m getting a little nervous. I’ve been wearing this pedometer for exactly one hour and thirty-eight minutes and I’ve already walked 1,835 steps. I’ve also been sitting here at my computer writing this absurdly long and boring post that you won’t read. I haven’t left my house and I’m not exactly in prime physical shape.

I actually landed up in the emergency room on Monday night because I couldn’t breath. I have asthma so it’s not that unusual, but this time I needed medical intervention. I needed a bucket load of drugs that I’ll be on all week. So I’ve been taking it easy in the activity department.

I’ve only walked back and forth to school each day and I’ve skipped the long drag my dog takes me on each night. I only need to walk to school by 8:30 tomorrow morning, stay for a half-hour program, walk home, walk back to school to meet my son’s fourth grade class at 10:45 for a field trip, walk to the historical society with them because we all know fourth graders are dying to go to the historical society, and then walk back to school and back to home. I will then take lots of drugs and walk back to school in the afternoon to pick up my darling little children.

See, I’m not being that active this week. My lungs just can’t handle it. So I fear that I normally walk 10,000 steps in a day and that the evil fat spirits are playing tricks on my metabolism and that I’ll need to walk 20,000 steps a day in order to lose a pound.

I also fear I’ll continue writing in run-on sentences long after these meds have worked their way out of my system.

Wanna go for a walk with me? Each day I’m going to post my steps in my sidebar. Public humiliation is a good motivator for me.

September 22, 2009 by: The Domestic Fringe

Certifiably Insane

After this post, you will surely label me as certifiably insane, but that’s ok. I’ve been feeling a little unfinished without a label…like I forgot to put on some jewelry or lip gloss or something. Now I’ll be fully dressed, ready to face the cruel world, and cast blame for my quirkiness.

Today the blame falls on this girl who happens to be demonstrating very poor fashion sense. She’s taking after her father in this picture.

100_4436 Socks with sandals? White shoes after Labor Day?? A wedgie??? How did she slip by me and make it to the car without my noticing? Fortunately because of my great photography skills or lack thereof, you can’t tell she’s got dirt smudged all over her face.

100_4439 It all began one evening when FringeMan remembered that Green Acres, his all time favorite ice-cream shop would be closing for the season. You know WINTER – that season that runs from October to May in several unfortunate places. Anyway, he wanted to get his last vanilla cone and who am I to turn down dessert? It would have been thankless of me.

We were merrily on our way, when after passing the giant old iron gates of a cemetery, FringeKid asks to turn around and visit.

“The cemetery?” I questioned wondering if it’s really possibly my child could have been switched at birth.

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FringeMan, although hot on the scent of vanilla flavored milk by-products, indulges his little girl and turns the car around. At first I refused to exit the vehicle. I mean, come on? These two are just plain weird!

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FringeBoy never did step foot out of the car. He’s the smart one in the family, because after a minute of seeing these guys curiously visiting the dead, I realized what a great photo opportunity I was missing.

100_4434 And this is where I shift the blame to you with your great bloggy pictures, fancy cameras, and mad photography skills. You’re making me think more and look for more opportunities to take unusual pictures.

100_4433 Now if you could only teach me to make them look as pretty as yours…

100_4435 Who am I kidding? It’s a wonder I even got these downloaded off my camera!

100_4442 Ahhhhh! No. Peeking.

100_4446 Enough. Tomorrow it’s on to important topics that have the potential to impact world affairs.

My hair.

September 20, 2009 by: The Domestic Fringe

Crashing my Way to Broadway

I reached my hand up to my forehead and then quickly looked at my fingertips to see if they were bloody. The tempo of the throbbing seemed to match the blinking of my emergency lights that automatically turned on. I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned up to look in my review mirror. Still surprised not to see blood, I was thankful I was in one piece. It was more than I could say for my 1986 Honda Prelude.

I wasn’t paying any attention to the road as I swerved around the corner, but in all fairness, the road was empty. It was early, dark, and cold. Neither my heater nor my defroster were working.

If only I can get this fan blowing, I thought as I leaned over into the dashboard jiggling the lever and trying to see the settings in the early morning blackness.

I looked up through the frosted glass of my windshield and realized that I was headed directly for a giant oak tree. Gripping the wheel with both hands, I slammed my foot down hard on the pedal, but only accelerated until I collided. The sound of crunching metal rang in my ears. My car and the oak became intimately acquainted when in my panic, I hit the gas pedal instead of the brake. An already small Prelude now resembled a large man’s accordion more than the vehicle that was going to get me to my job – My Job!

It was February eleventh and the second day of my first real, honest to goodness, benefits paying, sick days offering, room for advancement job. It’s also the night that FringeMan was taking me to see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway.

My heart sank to my toes as I staggered from the driver’s seat into the road. It looked worse from outside the car. A man, about my father’s age, had pulled over and was already giving me the third degree about drinking and driving and how partying was all young people thought about these days. The sad truth was that I hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet. In fact the water that trickled down the back of my throat while I was brushing my teeth would have to suffice until lunchtime or later, the way my day was already going. When I finally convinced him that I was on my way to work and not on my way home, he offered to call the police for me.

As soon as he hit ‘end’ and flipped his phone shut, he picked up on my lecture. Just when I leaned up against the side of his car to settle in for the fourth and fifth degrees, a woman from across the street ran over and began ushering me back to her house. She was a nurse with good intentions who regularly attended accidents with ‘my’ tree. I’d already claimed a chunk of it and it obviously had claimed a bigger piece of me. While I sat on a stool letting this nurse apply ice to my head, she tried her best to convince me a trip to the hospital was not only necessary, but possibly life-altering. All I could think of was the pain involved when I’d be fired from my new job.

Finally the cops arrived and saved me from the lecturers. “Totaled” they insisted, but they also took pity on me, tried to assure there must have been a patch of black ice involved, and called a tow-truck. Just then my mother came to my rescue. Before we left the scene, the nicest officer salvaged my ice-skates from the trunk. It was enough to lose my car, but I couldn’t let my ice-skates go to rest in the tomb of twisted metal junkers.

February eleventh began with a bang and ended with FringeMan coming to pick me up for our date.

Buzz, Buzz, Buzz…

I adjusted the bodice of my black dress to cover the bruises left from my seatbelt this morning as my mother rang the buzzer allowing FringeMan to enter the doors below. FringeMan made his way up to our second story apartment, just as I dusted my forehead with one last swipe of powder. I didn’t want any bumps showing tonight.

The air was charged as we raced into the city. I hadn’t been to see a Broadway play since my uncle treated me to Annie for my fifth birthday. We found a parking spot a million miles away from the theater, but not even the frigid walk through Manhattan dampened my spirits. I simply snuggled into FringeMan’s arms and forgot the morning’s events.

Phantom of the Opera, an unparalleled masterpiece, is the longest running show on Broadway. I sat fascinated in my front/center balcony seat and didn’t even feel the bruises lining my chest and stomach. My accident faded into memories from an earlier life. All was suddenly right in the world as FringeMan slipped his arm around me.

I stood and applauded with exuberance beside the rest of the auditorium as the final curtain closed. FringeMan gave me more than a special night, he turned my bad dream good. We started back to the car on a cloud and while I lost track of time replaying my favorite scenes, FringeMan drove aimlessly through the city. I finally looked up and realized we should have been back to my house by now and we were still only about five blocks from the theater.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“A surprise.” He whispered with a gleam in his eye. I couldn’t imagine anything better than we’d already enjoyed, until FringeMan pulled over at exactly twelve midnight. Reaching for my hand, he asked me, “Do you know what time it is?’

Not wanting to break the gaze of his green eyes, I incoherently muttered, “What time?”

He slowly leaned toward me and slid his free hand up behind my head and into my hair. “It’s your Birthday!” He breathed and sealed my surprise with a kiss.

For more love stories, visit A Future Pastor’s Wife.

Sunday happened to be our twelfth anniversary. Happy Anniversary FringeMan! I love you better than I did back then.

To read Friday Flashbacks, visit Mylestones by clicking HERE. Since today (2/12/10) is my birthday, I figured resurrecting this story would be appropriate. Thanks Jo for hosting us on Fridays!

September 18, 2009 by: The Domestic Fringe

Flush This Post

“Mom, she’s gotta go bad!”

Each and every day, several times a day if it’s a weekend, my front door opens with a bang. The door’s hinges rattle and my wall reels with the impact. I run to corral FringePup from either escaping into the wild world of bicycles, footballs sailing through the air, and army men being shot from the porch with foam darts OR from knocking the fifty-two pound second grader to the floor and giving her a saliva bath. Neither option is acceptable.

My bathroom has cast a spell on one child and she’s drawn, beyond her own reasoning, to tinkle, flush, and rinse. My daughter adds drama to the daily ritual by overemphasizing the fact that her bladder is near bursting and she’s dabbling with the idea of incontinence. I fear Broadway is missing out on a great child prodigy, but I no more want my floor watered by a neighbor’s child than I want my dog to eat elementary school children.

And so I drop whatever it is I’m doing, tackle the dog in a hold that looks to the unsuspecting as if it’s a hug, and I wait to hear a flush.

It’s no wonder this little girl is attracted to my bathroom. I mean, who doesn’t love a room with three levels and varieties of flooring. A hole that drops clear into the basement, and a mirror that varies your size and width by location. It’s a full fun house in a 4 x 8 space. The mirror alone draws me. If I stand slightly to the left of the third and highest layer of flooring and tilt my head just so, my entire upper body contorts into an elongated giraffe like image. Although I don’t think my neck needs to be quite so long, it does wonders for slimming my jaw line and every once in a while a woman wants to know what she’d look like if she finally grew an extra three inches. Unfortunately the height is limited to my neck, but that’s trivial. I enjoy the moment.

I’m not sure this same girl has noticed the lone toilet sitting snugly, and I do mean tightly fitted, in the second floor hall closet. I’ve tried to camouflage it from unsuspecting guests. Apparently the previous owners didn’t feel the same need for privacy since they removed the closet door. I don’t fully blame this oversight on poor taste or outright flagrancy, because even without my extra neck length, I could not possible sit on that toilet with a door closed. Unless you’re two-foot three, I think your knees would chafe.

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I promise you that closet toilet’s days are numbered. And for the record, it’s not been used since we purchased the house. There is no water currently running to it and I refuse to touch it until FringeMan is ready to gut this space. I pretend this closet doesn’t exist.

Did I ever tell you about the house we lived in that had a ‘toiler’?

No??

I’ll just give you the definition of a ‘toiler’ for today. That will be enough food for your imagination to digest this weekend.

Toi-ler

–noun

1. a bathroom fixture consisting of a bowl, usually with a detachable, hinged seat and lid (preferably heated), and a device for flushing with water, used for (well, you know) and located directly in the front entrance of a home.

2. an unlikely combination of the words toi-let and foy-er.

On that happy thought, enjoy your day! Don’t forget ‘Party in Pink‘ on October 7th. Grab your button in the upper right hand corner of this blog. Thank you Snakelover for the fabulous party badge!