This image was contained within a roll of film found lying on a street in Australia in 1938 and was subsequently donated to the Royal Australian Historical Society. Image: Wikipedia.
I have prominent dimples on both my cheeks. (My face cheeks! Don’t be cheeky.) Some people have one dimple on one cheek or maybe a dimple on (in?) their chin. Me, I have double dimples. I’m a Double-D or “DD.”
Mostly, I don’t think about my dimples. After all, I’ve had them all my life. When people point them out, it’s like, “Yeah, yeah. Dimples, dimples, dimples. What else is new?”** It’s the same with my two front teeth, which happen to be very rabbit-like. I don’t think about my rabbit teeth too much, either, unless someone like Claus calls me “Bunny” and teases me (in a friendly way) about them, which he used to do and still does, when we email.
Which we do. A little.
But in Lincoln this week, I thought a lot about my dimples because I saw my friend Carolyn, who has the best dimples ever. Ever! Whenever I see Carolyn — an accomplished quilt expert and curator and all-around extraordinary woman — it all makes sense. Carolyn’s a DD just like me, and when she smiles (or even speaks at all, honestly) I realize that dimples may indeed have special power. At the very least, I have to admit they’re pretty cute.
So at dinner on Friday night, I confab-ed with Carolyn and another DD, the luminous and brilliant Heather. It was the first time in my life I had ever actually discussed my own dimplage and the dimplage of other women. What we discussed was fascinating and we were drawing conclusions that frankly helped me understand my entire life!
As illuminating as that discussion was, however, the three of us are smart enough to know that a sample size of three is not sufficient to form official Theories about DD’s, so I told the gals I’d conduct some extremely scientific research on the topic and see if any of our hypotheticals could be substantiated by actual data.
And now, from the Drumming Dimplerettes, a drumroll, please!
If you are a DD (male or female), please click this link to take this 10-question survey. It’s really going to be fun for you and I cannot WAIT to read your responses!!
If you are NOT a dimple-cheeked person or if you are a single-dimpled person, sit tight. Your time will come shortly, I assure you. Your data is every bit as important as the DD data and I am writing your very own survey right now, sitting at this airport in the southwest corner of the United States, waiting for a delayed flight to Orange County. Of course, if you want to check out the DD survey questions, great; you’ll enjoy reading the questions and will get some insight into the conversation I had with my fellow DDs. But please: Unless you are an actual DD, don’t answer the quiz. I know you want to. But this is science!
I can’t wait to put on my spectacles and make a spreadsheet.
**Actually, that’s not true: I love it when people say they like my dimples. It is my hypothesis that most DDs do!
Patchwork hanging (detail.) Uzbekistan, 20th century. Photo: Me, at the International Quilt Study Center & Museum, Lincoln, NE.
TELEGRAM FROM INTERNATIONAL QUILT STUDY CENTER & MUSEUM, LINCOLN, NEBRASKA, 8:46AM:
At board meeting. STOP. Quilt heaven. STOP. Lunch w/hero Jonathan Holstein. STOP. Total dreamboat. STOP. Strategic planning and acquisition viewing. STOP. Good coffee. STOP. Never leaving. STOP. Seriously though.DON’T STOP. STOP. I don’t want to leave. STOP. Okay fine. STOP. Gig on Monday in Irvine CA. STOP. Not possible to stay. STOP. Okay I need to take a shower and get to second day of meeting. STOP. This telegram is costing 9,000 dollars. STOP.
Welcome to my hotel room photo shoot. That’s the pouch Kelly made me and yes, I am wearing pink pajamas. Photo: Marty Fans.
Greetings from Lincoln, Nebraska, where it feels like Christmas Eve.
This is because the annual two-day board meeting for the International Quilt Study Center & Museum (IQSCM) begins tomorrow morning. Since I’m a board member, I get to go. That’s how board meetings work, I have learned and yes I do feel fancy but mostly I just feel geeky and happy. Jonathan Holstein is here. The only person I’d be more excited about meeting and working with would be Barbara Brackman. After that, probably Madonna.
The only drawback to being here is that I couldn’t stay in St. Louis, which is where I was yesterday. I had to leave Common Threads, a very cool, annual BabyLock event, which — of course! — landed the same weekend as my board meeting. Common Threads is an invitational meetup/think tank kind of a thing for quilters and sewists who work with BabyLock out there in the industry. There were around 55 people at the weekend retreat, some of whom I had never met, some of whom I consider good friends, e.g., Jenny Doan, Vanessa Vargas Wilson, Amy Ellis, and many other terrific, talented women.
Like Kelly Bowser.
Before I tell you why Kelly deserves special distinction, know that Kelly did not ask me to write this, nor am I benefitting in any way from singing her praises and talking about how much I love the thing she designed and how I have used it every single day for four years.
So, Kelly and I met at the first-ever Common Threads four years ago. I liked her immediately: She was funny and smart and warm. Kelly’s atalented designer, a so-good-it’s-annoying sewist, quiltmaker, blogger, and pattern writer, and she’s a mom, wife, and she has a law degree. We got to know each other and became industry pals.
That night, when I dug into the swag bag in my hotel room, I discovered the coolest little handmade cloth pouch! It was kinda puffy and had a zipper and everything. The tag said: “Kelby Sews”, which is Kelly’s brand. I learned that Kelly had designed and made everyone in the group that year (40 people??) their very own pouch, which she calls the “30-Minute Pouch”. (I understand you can download the pattern for free on Craftsy, so check that out.)
I just loved my little pouch. I began using it immediately. It is the perfect size for my lipstick, compact, eyedrops, tiny mascara, and aspirin thingy. That pouch has been in my possesion for four years. It has traveled tens of thousands of miles with me. It’s been in fabulous purses, let me tell you. It went to New York. It went to Washington. It came back to Chicago. It went to Berlin. It’s gone on so many dates. It’s been with me on family vacation. It was at my sister’s wedding.
I’m telling you: Kelly’s 30-Minute Pouch is seriously part of my life. In material objects, anyway.
There’s a lot to love about Common Threads. But my favorite part? Finding Kelly Bowser and rummaging around in my purse to get my lil’ pouch so that I can hold it up and go, “Kelly! Kelly, look!” Last night, a bunch of us girls had a great conversation about the power of the handmade object. You never know where the things you make will end up. It’s wonderful. Not everything that comes in a gift bag stays so long, you know?
And it pays to take care of something: Kelly was delighted to see I’m still devoted to my pouch, but she made me write down my address so she could send me a new one. I’ll allow it. But I’m not tossing the original. She made it for me!
On the bus the other day, I was thinking about the funniest things I have ever heard. I wasn’t thinking “What are the funniest stories I’ve ever heard?” and I wasn’t thinking about the funniest jokes I’ve ever heard, either. You might be thinking, “What else is there?” but I can explain.
You see, I remembered something out of nowhere that I hadn’t thought about in years — and I recalled that, at the time I came across it, I had never heard anything so hilarious in my entire life. I was eight, so don’t get too excited.
It was a little handwritten sign in a bathroom in Door County. The sign read:
“If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.”
I was helpless with laughter. I had never known anything more genius and silly and funny and gross in all my life. It was a real gem for eight-year-old Mary, let me tell you. Clearly, it stayed with me.
So after thinking about that for awhile and, yes, chuckling a little (mostly about me at eight, giggling until I could hardly breathe, not so much about the pee thing), I wondered about other things like that. What were the other funniest things I have ever heard?
The second thing that came to mind happened when I was in high school, so again: No need to brace yourself for nuanced, sophisticated comedy, here. I was working as a waitress at the local Pizza Hut.
…and that’s it. That’s the funniest thing: Me, in high school, slingin’ pies at the local Pizza Hut.
I’m kidding! Although there is some comedic value to that sentence. It has something to do with the word “Hut.”
But seriously: The Pizza Hut’s manager’s name was Steve. That poor guy. He had a bunch of ne’er-do-well high school kids to corral all day and his “office” was a computer shoved into corner near the walk-in. He could’ve been a jerk — but he was so nice! He was understanding and cool but never inappropriately cool. Like, Steve wouldn’t buy us beer or let us take pizzas home for free. Steve was great. He was also a real cornball. That means he told corny jokes and was fond of puns.
One day, I got to work and Steve had clearly gotten a haircut. I said, “Hey, Steve! You got your haircut!”
And Steve snapped his fingers and pointed to me and said, “No, Mary: I got ’em all cut.”
I blinked. I cocked my head. And then I got it. And I loved it. I thought it was genius. Ha! Got ’em all cut! Because you don’t get a hair cut! You get ’em all cut! Oh, man. What a knee-slapper.
The other other thing I came up with was that my friend Nellie told me in college that she and her sisters, when they were kids, used to roll down this hill in the backyard. One day, her sister pooped her pants as she was rolling down the hill and after that, they called it “Poopy Hill.”
Yes, I am aware that two of the three of the funniest things I am claiming to have ever heard have to do with the bathroom. I sincerely hope that if I keep thinking about more wildly hilarious things, this will not be the case.
Walking through and around the Chicago Loop and its immediate vicinity makes me feel connected and strong. I want to walk here for a long time.
I see many beautiful things: a group of teenagers cavorting in front of a 7-Eleven, their youth crackling in the air; a seagull, flown in all the way from the lake, perched on a sign for the Washington Blue line station; the sun when it dips behind a Willis Tower. The city flowers in their planters. The cornices of the Harold Washington Library. Women smiling to themselves.
This last one keeps coming up.
Lately, I have seen many women in the Loop who are up to something good. They’re smiling like they’re in love. Or lust. Perhaps it’s their spouse. Maybe a new lover. Maybe it’s just a crush. (“Just”!) Maybe they’re smiling about last night — or this morning. Without question, it’s good.
It happened again this afternoon. I was walking east on Van Buren toward State. At the front of the crowd of people coming from the other direction was a woman, about my age, Korean, I think, smiling to herself. I glanced at her as we passed each other. She did not notice me at all because she was not particularly aware of anyone, or even that she was walking on Van Buren Street in Chicago. She was somewhere else, thinking about someone. It was obvious, even in the 2.2 seconds I had to read her face.
Maybe she was thinking about a text message or a flirt session with the object of her desire/affection. I’d like to think the corner of her mouth went up because she thought about she got the best kiss of her life this weekend.
Whatever it was, it was fresh. Nostalgia is not present in the smiles I’m seeing. These are the quiet, beautiful smiles of women — ranging in age, ethnicity, and physical appearance — in whom spring fever has manifested. I guess. That’s got to be part of it, right? There are countless ways to smile, countless reasons. What I’m seeing is particular.
Part of my happiness in witnessing this phenomenon is understanding how they feel. I’ve been that woman. I’m not right now, and I can say sincerely that it’s okay. I’ll be that woman again. As sure as the El curls to the west at Lake; as sure as the pigeons love the red Calder sculpture outside the post office on Dearborn; as sure as my tea in the morning, I’ll be walking through the Loop someday soon with my head in the clouds and a smile on my lips because of him.
The station looks different now. But it’s every bit as glamorous! Photo: Wikipedia.
In a few minutes, here, I’ll walk up the real-life Michigan Avenue to the real-life Tribune Tower to sit in the real-life spinny chairs in the real-life ground floor radio studio and be a real-life guest on Rick Kogan’s radio show!
The “real-life” qualifier has to be stuck in there to keep me from thinking I’m dreaming because the following things are beyond dreamy to me:
Michigan Avenue
The Tribune Tower
Spinny chairs (well, this one isn’t that special but still special!)
Radio studio
Being a guest on a radio show
Rick Kogan is a Chicago broadcasting legend and I get to be on his show tonight. The show is from 9-11 p.m. I’m not sure when I’ll come on, if I’ll be on for a little while or a long while. But I’m gonna talk about quilts and stuff and if you want to listen, WGN is at 720 on the AM dial. I think the show will be streamed online but I don’t know how so I can’t link you! It might get posted later.
It has just occurred to me that I don’t know if I will get a copy of this after it’s over. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’ll just be a dream come true and then I’ll wake up.
Tune in if you can. See ya on the radio!
Postscript: Here’s the link to the show. It was so, so fun. I adore Rick Kogan and you’ll see why. Looks like he’s gonna do a follow-up article and have me back real soon. Hurray!
London Bridge engraving by J.Woods, 1837. Image: Wikipedia.
London Bridge is falling down, Falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, My fair lady.
London Bridge is broken down, Broken down, broken down. London Bridge is broken down, My fair lady.
Build it up with wood and clay, Wood and clay, wood and clay, Build it up with wood and clay, My fair lady.
Wood and clay will wash away, Wash away, wash away, Wood and clay will wash away, My fair lady.
Build it up with bricks and mortar, Bricks and mortar, bricks and mortar, Build it up with bricks and mortar, My fair lady.
Bricks and mortar will not stay, Will not stay, will not stay, Bricks and mortar will not stay, My fair lady.
Build it up with iron and steel, Iron and steel, iron and steel, Build it up with iron and steel, My fair lady.
Iron and steel will bend and bow, Bend and bow, bend and bow, Iron and steel will bend and bow, My fair lady.
Build it up with silver and gold, Silver and gold, silver and gold, Build it up with silver and gold, My fair lady.
Silver and gold will be stolen away, Stolen away, stolen away, Silver and gold will be stolen away, My fair lady.
Set a man to watch all night, Watch all night, watch all night, Set a man to watch all night, My fair lady.
Suppose the man should fall asleep, Fall asleep, fall asleep, Suppose the man should fall asleep? My fair lady.
Give him a pipe to smoke all night, Smoke all night, smoke all night, Give him a pipe to smoke all night, My fair lady.
Postscript: It seems some people are not understanding the somber tone with which I post these lyrics. I didn’t want to explain it because I thought the message would come across and the doleful image would set the tone for it. I was wrong, it appears, in some cases. The very notion that I would make fun or post a trivial song in light of the London tragedy is absurd and offensive.
I’m trying to stay calm, here.
These full lyrics to London Bridge to me, echo the despair I’m feeling over the spate of terrorist attacks in the world of late. “London Bridge is falling down,” “Build it up, tear it down,” “Suppose the man should fall asleep?” and the other lyrics in the song echo the hopelessness I feel, the futility of fighting people who will end their lives in order to end others. I am furious. I am furious and inconsolable.
I can accept if the sentiment didn’t read. Writing is hard. But I would hope my readers know me better than to post a nursery rhyme when people have died. Have you ever bristled at being so misunderstood? I hope you never are. That is all.
Postcard from Dallas, 1911. It looks pretty much the same. Image: Wikipedia.
Greetings from Dallas, where the hair is big and the BBQ is burnt on the ends. As I am a gal who would do anything for Texas-big hair and would climb over my own mother to get to a plate of burnt ends, Texas suits me fine. (Sorry about the burnt end thing, Mom.)
I’m here to teach and speak at the Dallas Quilter’s Guild show this weekend. It’s a big one and, since I need to get up extra early tomorrow to try and get my hair as big as possible before leaving the hotel, I’m going to keep things simple and make tonight’s post a list. Besides, when I thought of doing this, a super-quick check on “fun facts about Dallas” yielded terrific results right away.
And now, I give you: FUN FACTS ABOUT DALLAS!!!
The frozen margarita machine was invented in Dallas in 1971. (What goes better with burnt ends, amirite??)
The entire Statue of Liberty could fit into Cowboys Stadium — with the roof closed.
The Dallas Public Library permanently displays one of the original copies of the Declaration of Independence. How about that. (They’ve got a First Folio of William Shakespeare’s “Comedies, Histories & Tragedies”, too. Neat.)
My dad is an ordained Methodist minister who graduated from Dallas Theological Seminary (DTS) sometime in the 1990s, I believe.
The Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport spans 27 square miles — larger than the island of freakin’ Manhattan.
Barney & Friends was born here. In other words, Barney was born here. Also born in Dallas: Laser Tag, Liquid Paper (a.k.a. white-out), the ATM, microchips, and lots of other stuff. Oh, and the frozen margarita machine. See No. 1.
The Holiday Inn Dallas-Richardson is very nice. My room is clean and the bathroom is spacious.
The Dallas Arts District is the largest urban arts district in the United States. I think that’s cool.
I saw the chick who shot J.R. in the parking lot.
*CORRECTION: In the initial publication of this post, Pendennis referred to “the guy who shot J.R.” when in fact it was a female who shot J.R., which, now that we think about it, makes sense. We regret the error.
“Springtime” by Claude Monet, 1871. Image: Wikipedia.
Memorial Day is often referred to as “the unofficial first day of summer.” Memorial Day was Monday and I suppose there is a sense of a changing of the guard, seasonally-speaking, but the actual first day of summer isn’t until June 20th. Seeing as it’s only the first of the month, we are very much still in spring. Officially.
I’m in no rush: Spring is my favorite season. The world gets washed in spring and after winter, we sorely need it. The smell of wet leaves, soaked garden beds, damp bark — that loamy, vegetal smell makes my heart break. I welcome the breaking. All over the city, the flowers are tender explosions that line the slicked streets and I don’t care that my sandals squish as I walk along. I’m alive.
On the way to the airport at 5 a.m. last weekend, riding the El, you cannot believe the sky I saw. A storm was coming in from the west making the sky a deep sapphire blue, almost purple around the edges. But the sun was coming up over the lake behind us and suddenly, all the metal storage warehouse buildings along the Orange line route were bathed in gold, dripping with the gold light of that early spring sun. The dark heaven behind them threw each bright square into even sharper relief. It took my breath away. Not even Monet could’ve captured what I saw through my train window. Only spring can deliver that kind of beauty in the first place.
Spring has a good reputation. It’s been known to inspire all kinds of things. Lovers. Poetry. Music. Hope.
If you need any of those things, if you need to rely on any of Spring’s gifts — pea shoots, caterpillars, rhubarb pie, breezes singing through your bedroom window, peonies — you can. Spring told me.
The National Library of France in Paris. There wasn’t an image of the library where I was and besides, this photo is proof of heaven itself, as long as I can read French in heaven, which I imagine could be arranged.) Image: Wikipedia.
The other day, I spent some hours doing research for my Big Project in a downtown library. This library is a very, very quiet one. If you turn your pages too loudly, you get murderous stares from the librarians and the aides and anyone else in the place. I tried to open a piece of butterscotch and that was not gonna happen. The moment I pulled it out of my purse, two people looked over at me like, “Really? Really, with the candy?”
So you can imagine the shock when I heard a very loud “knock-knock-knock!” It was a pronounced rapping on a wooden door: “Knock-knock-knock!” The library’s main reading room is a rotunda with storage spaces off its main floor and inside the round room are bays and stacks and shelves. You can’t really get lost in there but there are alcoves. There are nooks. What I’m trying to say is that I couldn’t where the knock was coming from.
I looked up when it happened. The gal at the next table over looked up. The squinchy library aide looked up and looked annoyed. No one came in or out, though, and there was no sound of a door opening or closing. But whatever. We all went back to our researching or our homework or our squinching.
Then it happened again, about five minutes later: “Knock! Knock! Knock!”
The gal and I looked at each other. Where was the knock coming from? I whispered, “That’s a knock, right? Someone is knocking.” She nodded and looked about. I got up and peered around our immediate vicinity and into the alcoves nearby. I spied an elevator; I hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe someone couldn’t get out of the elevator! I went over to it and pushed the button. But when the doors opened, the elevator was empty.
I decided the knocking was definitely the work of a library ghost. Hey, there was a library ghost in Ghostbusters. It happens all the time, people. And the moment I thought about there being a real-life (-death) library ghost, my brain went into Edgar Allen Poe mode, dreaming up storms and candles blowing out in the wind, of doomed lovers who die writing poetry in the library and haunt it forever. I imagined a gloomy scholar trapped in the stacks!
When I got back to my chair, the gal at the next table over widened her eyes a little and made a face like, “Okay, this is all super creepy.” And before I had time to think better of it, I whispered to her:
“One imagines someone trapped in the stacks!”
It just came out that way. I told you: I was in Poe Mode!
The girl looked at me like, “Ooo-kay. Let’s not pursue small talk.” But she didn’t have to worry; I had a lot of research to do and I needed to be available for the ghost if he needed anything.
L-R: Rebecca, Mark, Marianne. We moved from the porch mentioned below to Mi Pueblito, the local Mexican restaurant. Photo courtesy PaperGirl Photo Editor. (That’s me!)
It’s Iowa in May. It’s 7:30 in the evening and it is gorgeous. I’m sitting out on the back deck of the house in Winterset. We moved here when I was in fourth grade and I left this home when I headed to college at seventeen. It’s a good house.
My mother, my stepfather Mark, and my younger sister Rebecca and I have decided to have a glass of wine out here. I have decided that I ought to interview the people I have just dubbed The Iowa Theater Three. What follows is the conversation, edited for length because we had to leave to get some food for heaven’s sake. We got Mexican food at Mi Pueblito. (See above photo.)
PAPERGIRL: Mark. The theater is officially open. How does this change your life?
MARK: Having the theater open will allow me — and everyone else in town, as far as I can figure — to stop having to go into Des Moines anytime we want to see a movie. I like the big screen. I like the movie experience. Having the theater back in town saves us an enormous amount of money and time and grief because we don’t have to drive into Des Moines to see one.
PG: And how about, like, domestically?
MARK: My home is a storage warehouse! I’m hoping we can get some of this stuff out of here, now! (Laughter.) You can’t imagine. Everything you can think of that you need for a movie theater, it’s all in the house: candy, cleaning supplies, cups, straws, napkins, office supplies. And it’s in the garage, too! An old rewinding machine, an new desk, still in the crate.
PG: You’re a good man, Mark. Mom, how has Mark been helpful in this process?
MARIANNE: There’s no better cheerleader than Mark Davis. He just rolls with it. And I have to say this: As a man who loves order, he has been very understanding of the — well, it’s not chaos. We’ve been doing all this in a very orderly way. But he’s been so good about the usurping of his space. Mark has been as supportive as a person can be. You know he sold his boat and donated all the money to the theater.
PG: Incredible. Mark, how much did you sell the boat for?
MARK: $3400.
MARIANNE: His name’s on the donor wall, now. And he drove two-and-a-half hours to Breda, Iowa —
REBECCA: To Snappy Popcorn —
MARIANNE: — to Snappy Popcorn to pick up five boxes of coconut oil for the popcorn machine. That trip saved us over $200 in shipping.
PG: Mark, you’re a good man. Now, the donor wall is something I wanted to ask about. It’s looking great. But I have a concern that now that the theater is open, people will stop donating. There’s still so much to do, but now that it’s an operating theater, I just wonder if people will understand that fundraising hasn’t ended — and people may not even understand that the Iowa is a non-profit. So Rebecca, can you just tell me a little more about where you guys are with donations and more about the choice to build the theater as a non-profit in the first place?
R: Sure. So, when Mom and I were first approaching all this, of course we had long conversations and did a lot of investigating into for-profit vs. nonprofit business plans. Mom’s background is in for-profit businesses; mine is in non-profits. When we did the pie-chart for a for-profit, it was basically ticket sales and popcorn. Which is risky, for one thing. But it wasn’t just that: It was that with the non-profit model, you get so much more involvement with the community. In applying for grants, sponsorships, and donations, or launching things like membership groups, the foundation of the organization becomes way more interesting.
PG: Right. Like, the grants you apply for become part of the story.
R: Yeah, like… Like we could apply for a grant from the state to preserve a piece of Iowa history with a renovation project. That kind of thing.
PG: So you’re always going to be grant writing and fundraising. It’s a living, breathing thing.
R: Fundraising is ongoing and always will be. Of the million dollars it has taken to do all this, we’ve got $200k in debt to pay off. There’s a lot to do — and we still have construction to finish.
PG: The office and the green room, right?
R: Right. And as you said, now that we’re open, some people will say, “Oh, well, they’re open, why should I give money?” And some people won’t give. Other people will give with their patronage, which is obviously important and valued! But some people may have been waiting to give until they saw the finished product.
PG: Ah. I didn’t even think of that.
R: Yeah, I mean, everyone who gave before the theater was open gave out of faith. Some people have been waiting to see if we could pull it off. For some, seeing is believing.
PG: Rebecca, that should be your new fundraising slogan: “The Iowa Theater: Seeing is believing.”
MARIANNE: I love that! By the way, Mary, in the two years we’ve been working on this, Rebecca and I made a number of field trips to other small, independently-owned theaters in Iowa. All these single-screen theaters are non-profits. We’re part of a trend. At the end of this fiscal year, and every fiscal year, the idea is to be in the black and the profit for the theater equals $0.
PG: And then you might even be able to invest in other non-profits.
R: Exactly. And one last thing from me on this: With non-profit status, we can do great fundraisers and offer tax deductions. Rather than this theater just stopping with the Fons family, it’s something bigger. The income goes to the space and the staff.* We have grants we have our eyes on for programming and historic improvements like a permanent display of the evolution of the building from the 1800s to now; a film club for the high school. Soon we want to offer pre-movie ads for local businesses and we want to get ready to rent the space for weddings and parties. And we want to do a yearly fundraising party! A special screening of Gone With the Wind, maybe. Oh, and we could live-stream the Superbowl.
PG: That’s amazing. I don’t even care about the Superbowl at all and I’m coming to that. I mean… The Superbowl in a movie theater?? Can I throw stuff?? Not at the screen. I just want to throw stuff. Like in the air. Not a football. Just things. And I want to shout.
MARIANNE: We’ll save you a seat. Look, by being a non-profit, our cultural mandate is clear: We want to provide a multi-use cinema and performance space for the community of Madison County and beyond.
PG: Mark, should we go get something to eat? Are you ready to head out?
MARK: Honeybun, I’ve been ready. Let’s get a move on.
I’ve been pourin’ wine and stackin’ chairs. I’m wiped. I’m also happier than anyone in Madison County tonight. Well, except for countless people in my hometown and environs who are thrilled have a movie theater in their hometown again.
To those people: Thank you. Thank you for buying a ticket for the screenings/gala tonight. Thank you for giving to the Kickstarter campaign, Thank you to the businesses, the clubs, the associations. Thank you to the crew. The staff. The cheerleaders. Thank you Mark, my stepdad; to Jack, my brother-in-law. You all/we all, have a part of this thing. How I feel, the fullness of tonight, it isn’t my joy. The reopening of The Iowa and the excitement and glitz of tonight, it’s our thing. It’s our Winterset thing. Doesn’t it feel good to do something together?
My eyes are closing because it was a busy day full of tasks, and I did 50% of what Mom and Rebecca did, believe me. This is partly because they had more to do. It’s also because part of my day was taken up with eating a good deal of the local, organic, fully-buttered, Iowa Theater-popped popcorn we serve at The Iowa. Let me tell you something: There’s nothing quite like watching a batch of fresh, Iowa-sourced popcorn burst out of the movie theater popcorn maker in your family’s own movie theater. It doesn’t get much better than that — until, of course, you butter that popcorn yourself, using the popcorn butter thing, which runs on a sensor, and that is rad.
But it gets really good when you get to cram your paw down into a paper bucket (filled by your other sister) and then you get to cram that mitt full of popcorn into your mouth while your sisters make you laugh and your Mom takes your picture. Did I mention there were Junior Mints in the bucket? There are Junior Mints in the bucket and they are melty in the popcorn and you have your mouth full and the whole theater smells so good because everyone in your family smells amazing. It’s perfume and deodorant and shampoo. Who knows what it is. You smell good. It’s something you can count on, weirdly.
What I’m trying to say is that everything is perfect. Life is full of terrifying things. But sometimes, you get to stick a mitt into a bucket of popcorn and it’s really, really special popcorn.
This one’s leather. Hermes Ostrich Birkin Bag. Photo: Wikipedia.
I had an experience yesterday that made me happy in my heart, though even as it was happening I thought, “Mary, you are so weird.” But I’m okay with being weird if it means moments like these.
On the way back from my infusion appointment yesterday, I felt all right. Actually, I felt pretty good. I decided to get a coffee for the bus ride home. It just so happened that the nearest place to go for a coffee was Nordstrom’s. I was right outside the doors! Nordstrom’s has a good cafe! Don’t look at me like that.
I went inside and noticed big red signs plastered everywhere announcing a one-of-a-kind, do-not-miss-this-or-you’ll-never-forgive-yourself sale (this happens a lot at Nordstrom’s.) Though I was in no mood to shop — really — I decided that after I got my coffee, I’d look at the handbags. There was a sale, after all, and I was iron-enriched. My evening would be simply be reading and writing and hanging out with my couch; some innocent designer handbag perusing before I headed home couldn’t hurt. Knowing me, it would help.
I made a beeline for the designer side of the handbag section. There was a wide table with a shallow lip full of bags of various sizes, all of them gorgeous. There were Alexander McQueen clutches embellished with Swarovski crystals and silk flowers. There were a couple structured leather Proenza Schouler satchels. There were Fendi totes. My heart went pitter pat as I looked through them all. I love a great bag.
But it wasn’t going to happen for me yesterday.
The bags, even at 40% off, were expensive. Like, slap-yo-mama expensive. What’s 40% off $2700? I don’t know, either, but that’s how much one of the satchels cost and I just don’t have that kind of scratch to drop on a purse right now. Oh, I’ve purchased some expensive handbags in my day. But I could count on one finger the number of times I’ve dropped [INSERT FIGURE HERE] on something that will soon contain exploding pens and smashed cashews and get kicked under my seat on my next Southwest flight.*
There was a Nordstrom’s clerk standing near the table. She was super pretty, a little older than me with white-blonde hair. Her job was to keep an eye on the merchandise, of course; those handbags were usually under glass or hooked to security cords. I greeted her and smiled; she smiled back.
Right before I decided to head out, I took a second look at a killer denim shoulder bag. It was Stella McCartney. A heavy, shiny chain ran up the sides and ran along the top. It was padded, but only slightly. It might not sound like much (puffy denim??) but trust me, this was one hot purse. Then I looked at the price: on sale at $830 dollars. Eight-hundred-thirty dollars! On sale! In that instant, I heard in my mind one of my all-time favorite lines from a movie:
“$830 dollars?! It’s not even leatha!”
It comes from Joan Cusack in Working Girl. Since so many readers love the exact same movies I do (Overboard, Baby Boom, etc.), I’ll bet many of you know this line, too. It happens when Melanie Griffith (Tess) is at her boss’s house, trying on her boss’s clothes. Tess’s friend Cynthia, played by Cusack, is with her. When Tess takes something off a hanger that still has the tag on it, Cynthia looks at the price, splutters, and says, in her thick Bronx accent, “Six-thousand dollas?? It’s not even leatha!” It’s so great.
Standing there with the Stella McCartney puffy denim handbag, I really had to laugh. And then I thought, “I’ll bet the clerk would laugh at this, too. Should I tell her?” I decided to roll the dice, a la my Uber tour of Savannah.
“You know,” I said, coming around to her side of the table. “I think you’ll appreciate this. One of my favorite lines in a movie comes from Working Girl. Have you seen it? Do you know what I’m talking about? Melanie Griffith? It’s an eighties movie.”
The clerk sized me up right away, like, “What is she saying? Why is she talking to me like she knows me? Is this woman safe to talk to? ”
There was no time to waste. I told, very quickly, about the line in the movie, how Joan Cusack looks at the price tag and goes, “It’s not even leatha!” and how I thought about it when I looked at the denim puff bag.
The clerk loved it. She legit laughed, as in threw-her-head-back and laughed at the line. “Oh, wow,” she said. “That is so good. It’s great. You have no idea how much merchandise we have in here that that line applies to. Thank you. Seriously, thank you for that.”
So there you go. I’m weird. I sidle up to store clerks and launch into lines from Melanie Griffiths movies from 25 years ago. I have no intention of stopping this kind of behavior as long as it makes sense. Making people laugh while they’re at work makes sense to me.
*I fully intend to be the sort of person who sees a handbag on a table like this and says to no one in particular, “Would [SISTER/FRIEND/MOM] like this?” and then promptly buys it without blinking. Be patient, sister/friend/Mom. I’m working on it.
Now that’s a great place to jog! A beach! You go, girls. Photo: Wikipedia.
I was going to write about how I’m what’s called “a hard stick,” how at last week’s infusion appointment and today’s infusion appointment, the gals nicked a vein and/or my IV blew and ow, ow, OW does that hurt. Did I cry? Sure, I cried. I cried like a wee babe. My bruises are gnarly. But boo-hoo, Fons. Boo-hoo. Perhaps you should think about someone other than yourself!
Capital idea, old chap. In fact, you’ve given me an idea, Mean Voice I Just Made Up. This the perfect occasion for a light rant I’ve been meaning to deliver. Yes, I shall channel my personal woe into a light rant regarding those who jog on busy city sidewalks. Thoughts of myself are already evaporating.
Before anyone gets upset, let me plead my case — and please note that I’m delivering a “light” rant. My rant is a light one because my ire over this issue does not run that deep. I’m only interested in examining a simple annoyance. If you jog and you are already bristling, if your hands are already poised over the keyboard to upbraid me, wait until I make my point. If you’re still mad, know that I have braced myself for chastisement. Sort of. I hate chastisement.
To the rant!
I have no quarrel with joggers or jogging. There have been seasons in my own life when I enjoyed a nice jog. I may jog again, though the last time I tried it was too cold and my knees hurt. But I totally get the joy of the jog, the runner’s high, finding “the zone.” And city folk who jog — or out-of-town joggers just visiting — should totally jog in the city! I’m not anti-city jog. In fact, I think city jogging is a terrific idea! Just think about all the great urban spots begging to be jogged: Central Park in Manhattan; the miles of gorgeous lakefront here in Chicago; San Francisco’s hills and that Embarcadero thing. For a jogger, a city is a runner’s paradise.
Except that paradise does not include the entire city. I’m thinking specifically about congested sidewalks in the downtown area. Jogging on Michigan Avenue, for example, on a Saturday afternoon is maybe not the best. There are so many people there. They are walking and talking and shopping and eating things and trying to navigate the north/south or east/west of the narrow cement path they’re treading. When joggers come along — they are so often in pairs — it’s a problem. You’re walking along, thinking about your errands or how you need to call your mother and suddenly a man in neoprene is running at you and you have to jump out of the way. If you don’t jump out of the way, he gives you a dirty look, like, “Excuse me. Ever heard of jogging?”
It can’t be a good jog, the busy city sidewalk jog. Can it? Duckin’ and divin’ and getting slowed down by the packs of high school kids and the ladies who lunch, the throngs watching the mimes and the picketers outside the AT&T store? Wouldn’t you rather find a boardwalk or a stretch of sand dunes? A track of some kind?
For all those who disagree with me, you have the floor. Make your case for jogging on busy city sidewalks. Someone will probably convince me I’m wrong and I’ll change my mind. (I’m either very open-minded or a total pushover, I’m never sure.)
The idea here is that the little kitteh is making a list of things to do. Image: Wikipedia.
One of the hard parts about not feeling 100% is that it’s advisable to rest, to stay put. I am terrible at resting and staying put.
On a physical level, it’s just plain difficult for me to settle down in a chair for very long. I’m up, I’m down. I sit down to sew and oop! Gotta get up for some ice. I sit down to write and oop! I’m up because I really should go get the laundry out of the dryer before I get too into things. I sit down to have my breakfast and oop! I’m up because I need salt. That kind of thing.
But that’s just the micro-level stuff. It’s hard for me to stay put on the macro level, as well. After a string of days laying low, I feel so off. I want to be leaping and leapfrogging and feeling fabulous but I feel logie and grouchy and antsy. It’s important to mention, by the way, my desire to leap and frog about does not mean I have a yen to go outside and catch butterflies or hike the Appalachian Trail or swim laps all day and then link arms with my friends and dance till the sun goes down (or comes up? I don’t know, I’m exhausted just thinking about all that.) Leaping and leapfrogging and feeling fabulous to me can be as simple as getting up and feeling good, then being productive at my desk and then maybe going to lunch.
When I can’t do these things, when doing laundry is hard not just because I’m iron-deficient but because I’m mildly depressed over being iron-deficient, it’s hard to get up over the fence.
Today, I did things that helped. It always starts with little things. I made a list that was manageable. Here’s what was on the list:
fold laundry (*good job for doing it yesterday!!)
go to the library to return your book
go to post office
answer pressing emails
And guess what? I did all of those things (plus a few more) and I feel better as I write this.
If my blog is ever of use, it’s because I can tell you what’s happening to me and then, if it’s happening to you and you identify, you won’t feel like you’re sitting by yourself. Maybe you’re not anemic, but maybe you’ve been sitting still and feeling weird about that or feeling bad about it. My suggestion is that perhaps you might like to make a short list. It worked for me today.
It’s not like I’ve been flat on my back. Well, okay. Today I was flat on my back.
My day consisted of 2.5 naps and 2.3 bowls of miso soup with udon noodles. The naps happened because I am spooky tired and can’t seem to keep my eyes open. The udon happened because my weak hemogoblins are demanding quick carbohydrates. Normally I stay away from the demon noodle, but these are desperate times. As a result of all this drowsy noodle eating, I feel sort of worse than I did when I woke up. I’ve got that sick-in-bed noodle daze thing going on, you know?
Not every day in the past week has been like this, but there have been long hours on the couch or in bed. It’s very hard for me to allow myself to spend hours this way, but what can I do?
Well, I can read. So I’ve been reading. Most notably, I read Angela’s Ashes in about three days.
If you were even dimly aware of pop culture in 1996, you know the book I’m talking about. Angela’s Ashes was everywhere, a memoir of author Frank McCourt’s boyhood in Limerick, Ireland in the 1930s and ’40s. McCourt wrote it when he was 69 after a lifetime teaching high school English in New York City. The book won the Pulitzer Prize. It won the National Book Award. Angela’s Ashes won everything there was to win. It was on the New York Times bestseller list for three years. Six million copies have been sold to date. Hollywood made it into a movie. There are a zillion translations. It’s canonical.*
As for me, I was in high school in 1996 and too busy blasting PJ Harvey records in my Honda CR-X to care much about a tale of a hardscrabble Irish boyhood, so I skipped it. And I never did get around to reading it because, you know, life and a zillion other books to read. And if I’m honest, I do get a little resistant to anything that popular. I’m not a joiner and honestly, could it really be that great?
It’s better.
Angela’s Ashes is a masterpiece. It is perfect. A perfect book. Angela’s Ashes is a work of art that became a part of me, page by page. I moaned out loud as I read, anguished to the point of pain at the crushing poverty, the death, the cruelty of circumstances endured by this family. My eyes stung as catastrophe after catastrophe befell them; my eyes sting now to think back to the characters I grew to love.
And I laughed out loud, of course, because Angela’s Ashes is funny. It’s so funny you can’t believe it. I was shaking my head at what I read, wiping tears from my eyes from the laughter (or was it the sorrow?) marveling at this man, Frank McCourt. Not only did he survive his childhood, he found the humor and joy in it, too — and then he wrote it down so well we can survive with him and spew our tea all over our pajamas because he’s so entertaining while we’re with him. (Ask me how I know about that pajama/tea thing.)
My experience reading this book is universal to the point of being uninteresting, I suppose. It’s safe to say that everyone who reads Angela’s Ashes is deeply moved. Oh, I’m sure there’s someone somewhere who tried to start an Angela’s Ashes backlash, someone who “didn’t think it was as great as everyone said it was.” We’re all entitled to an opinion, but I would have a hard time understanding how anyone could encounter that rich pageant of humanity and beauty and misery and reject it in any way. Frank McCourt made the world a gift in the form of a book. And the copy I read I checked out at the library, which means it was free.
All of that, for free. ‘Tis a great world, indeed, Mr. McCourt. Thank you.
*Read the book if you haven’t; read it again if you have.
“The Matron, Floor Sisters. Ward Sisters all qualified Nurses and paid as such”. Credit: The RAMC Muniment Collection in the care of the Wellcome Library Archives & Manuscripts Keywords: World War I. (Image: Wikipedia.)
I’ve been gone a few days on order from friends and my hemogoblins who told me to “take it easy, Fons.” Not posting for several days makes my eye twitch and my foot tap something terrible, so I’ll be back tomorrow even if I’m hunting and pecking at my keyboard.
Thanks to all for the well wishes. You’re pretty and you’re nice.
This ice has potential. But only if it melts down. Photo: Achim Schleuning via Wikipedia.
A couple years ago, I wrote about how I don’t freak out if I leave out a pot of soup overnight, how I’ll just shrug and stick it in the fridge and make sure I heat it up extra hot next time. I made sure to mention that there are strict limits to this “eh, whatever” kitchen rule and to never be afraid to come over for dinner, but a lot of you still thought I was weird.
This post is way weirder. But I’m going to write it because walking home from the library, I laughed out loud to myself just thinking about it — which was also weird, of course, but fun for the guys who hang out in the park by the library who saw me laughing to myself.
The precipitous decline in my hemogoblins over the past few months has, as I’ve mentioned, led to a steep increase in my ice consumption. As a number of you have so astutely pointed out, this ice-eating is a symptom called “pica.” Pica is “a tendency or craving to eat substances other than normal food, such as clay, plaster, or ashes, occurring during childhood or pregnancy or as a symptom of disease.”
There are many things to be grateful for: Not craving a glass of ashes or plaster is at the top of my list right now.
Ah, but frozen water counts as non-normal food and as my picamarades know, when you’ve got anemia and pica is upon you, nothing tastes as good as a big cup of really good ice. And you’d better believe that there’s good ice and less-good ice. There’s bad ice (e.g., cubes too large, over-frozen, etc.) There’s acceptable ice. There’s even ideal ice. As an almost compulsive ice-eater, I have become an ice connoisseur and I would like to now review some of the ice that I have sampled lately.
Though this is silly, I assure you: I devote a good deal of time these days to ice procurement, consumption, and evaluation. It’s unsettling to me how excited I am to write these ice reviews. But here we go.
Note: Ice evaluated on a scale of 1-5 on texture, flavor, melting rate, and ease of obtaining. All locations are in the Loop or South Loop of Chicago. In the case of chain stores, the management cannot guarantee quality/consistency.
My Condo: 4.5 My ice maker is broken (oh, the irony) but I have four ice trays that are awesome if I only fill them up halfway. If I only fill them halfway, when I pull a tray out, the ice gets melty in the trays and it’s really chewy. Picking ice cubes out of the tray like that feels sort of like eating a box of chocolates.
Hilton Hotel Cafe: 3.7
I sometimes take a shortcut through the Hilton if it’s cold or rainy and the cafe near the lobby has a self-serve soda machine: total score. I’ve taken a big plastic cup over there on several occasions for the semi-crushed, fresh-tasting ice, but I can’t get cocky. The lady behind the counter gave me the stink-eye the other day.
Pret-a-Manger, Michigan and Monroe: 4.7 This big-city chain cafe has the best ice ever. It’s thin. It’s crispy. It’s crunchy. The cups are big. I try to scam two full cups of ice from the folks behind the counter when I buy a can of Diet Coke but sometimes they say they have to charge me for a large beverage if I want one. If I’m feelin’ flush, I’ll do it. (Q: Has anyone ever planned a heist of an ice machine? Call me.)
Starbucks (Any location): 3.1
Starbucks ice is okay in a pinch, but it’s too hard. And you often get big bars of ice that haven’t separated into cubes. Do you know what I mean? I hate that. My hemogoblins hate it when that happens.
That One Falafel Place on Wabash: 4.1 An upset! This is almost as good as the crushed, almost snow cone ice that you get at a Sonic. (Now there’s some great ice — alas, no Sonics in the Loop.) Anyway, I like this place’s ice better than the shwarma.
7-Eleven on my block: 4.0 The guys who work there are very sweet and rarely charge me for a refill. They may be concerned.
Some of the afflictions this miracle tonic claims to cure: Tuberculosis, Pulmonary issues; Diarrhea; Lymph Node issues; Anemia. Image: Wikipedia.
It’s amazing to me when there are reasons for things. Most of the time, I am tempest tossed, continually bewildered to learn that effects have/had causes. My body is a mystery to me, even now, thirty-some years into having the one I was born with. I talked to my doctor today and all the strange things that have been happening to me for the past three months suddenly made sense.
First, the strange things:
My ice-eating has become almost compulsive. In the past two weeks especially. I crave ice all day. It’s so weird. I wake up in the morning excited about my first glass of ice. It’s never been like this. (I thought I was just being a weirdo.)
When I stand up, I have to hang onto something or stay very still for a moment and breathe, otherwise, I’ll stumble and maybe fall. (I thought maybe it was the medicine I’m on.)
I’m short of breath. (I thought I was just out of shape.)
Even thinking about doing a cardio workout makes me tired. (I thought I was just lazy.)
When I sleep, I am out in .2 seconds. When I wake, it’s like emerging from the grave — I have no sense of the night, no sense of having slept, no sense of feeling rested. (I thought I was just behind on sleep.)
My limbs are weak-ish. (Any ideas?)
Diet Coke is back in my diet because if I don’t drink a couple throughout the day (with ice, of course), I can’t make it. (I thought I was just more addicted to caffeine than usual.)
Without foundation and a good amount of blush, “washed out” didn’t quite describe my complexion. (I just thought I was a white girl who had just been through a Chicago winter.)
I’ve been blue. (Who isn’t?)
Now, a quick pop quiz, remembering that I call my “hemoglobin” my “hemogoblins”:
Q: What’s a normal hemogoblin level in an adult female?
A: 14.
Q: How low does an adult female’s hemogoblin level need to fall before she needs a blood transfusion?
A: 7.
Q: What’s Mary’s hemogoblin level right now?
A: 7.5.
This explains everything. I’m so tired. I haven’t been posting as much as I usually do because I’m just so tired. I try to make time for everything but it’s like working through mud, sometimes. There’s so much to do, and I was consciously and subconsciously doing the Have To’s and not all of the Very Much Want/Need To’s.
The reason I’m not getting a blood transfusion right now is that my insurance company won’t approve it unless I hit 7. The plan, therefore, is to get an iron transfusion approved and do that first. Me, I’d rather have the blood. Let’s cut to the chase, gentlemen. But it would probably be unwise to twiddle my pale, anemic thumbs until I dip lower and then do my best vampire impression, so I’ll take the iron infusion when they give the go-ahead. That should help. It’ll also cost $750 a pop, even with the insurance, and it usually takes two. Super.
Can I tell you something that is very honest?
I had a moment today after I got the Anemia Update and I wished I was at 5. Because if I was at 5, maybe I could be admitted for a night. Maybe even two. And I could just rest. No one would question it. Not even me.
That’s messed up, I guess. But sometimes, it’s like… It’s like you just need to get off the bus and have someone come in and take your vital signs and help you to the bathroom and bring you gingerale in a little cup with a foil lid.
Good luck, brothers and sisters. Image: Wikipedia.
It’s graduation time.
Yesterday, the Loop was teeming with happy, giddy students and parents and siblings already in town for graduation ceremonies and festivities. For many youngish humans in my city right now, school’s not just out for the summer — it’s out for good.
As I made my way to the first of several engagements yesterday afternoon/evening, I thought about my own graduation from the University of Iowa so many years ago. They named me valedictorian of my department, though I’m still not sure what that meant, other than that I was tasked with giving a speech at commencement. This terrified me. I was sure that I couldn’t write a commencement speech that wouldn’t be cheesy or boring. So I turned my allotted 15 minutes into a performance: I had fellow grads in the audience write advice on small slips of paper, crumple them up, and toss them up onto the stage so I could catch and read them. Whether this was effective/entertaining or not, I have no idea — the whole thing was a blur.
Sort of like my entire undergrad experience. Not because I was a party animal for four years. (That was just senior year.) It just went so fast, is all. And what I do remember about it is in flimsy patches. I’d have to sit down for awhile and really try to remember, year by year, what that time was and what it was all about. Part of my forgetting surely is due to what came after those good ol’ days: the Mack truck of post-college reality. I went from being a popular senior in small-pond Iowa City to being a studio-apartment-dwelling coat check girl in an enormous metropolis that couldn’t care less about me (or that I was valedictorian.) Those were the hunger years. I had no idea how hard they’d be.
Though there were smiles and whoops downtown yesterday — and all across the country, wherever colleges are wrapping up the year — there was something else in the air which suppose I’d call a tremulous expectation. There’s a “now what?” coloring the graduating seniors’ pride and joy. I know that “now what?” very well. Seeing them cavort around this weekend brought it all back.
I don’t mean to be a buzzkill. It’s wonderful to see all these kids with their whole lives in front of them. Maybe it’s that I’ve lived through some of the life that was ahead of me and it looks different from here. Not bad. Just different.
Me n’ Kin-Kin teamed up on the set of Quilty. Kin-Kin, this would have been 2015, right? Photo: Matt Gonzales.
A few weeks ago, I confessed that I had been putting off seeing my GI doctor out of fear of what she would tell me. Many of you sped to my digital side to give me a digital hug and say, basically, “Go see your doctor, kid. We like you. We want you to live.” It was the encouragement I needed to make the appointment and keep it. Thank you.
Well, I went to see Dr. Yun yesterday. But I wasn’t alone.
Regular readers of the ol’ PG know my friend Heather. I have mentioned her many times, perhaps most notably in a series of posts last summer when she had her first child, Julia, and I was present for the birth. (There were also frequent Heather sightings while I lived in NYC and D.C., as I stayed with her and her delightful husband when I was in town for business or holidays; there was also this post about the Dairy Queen blizzard.) Those who loved classic Quilty know Heather that way, too; she was assistant producer on the show four out of the five years we made it and appeared as a guest on the show many times, too.
There are many qualities that I admire in Heather. She is generous, as evidenced by the number of times she has given me keys to her home. She is dependable, the proof there being the years we worked together with nary a hiccup. Heather is funny. She’s a great designer. She’s clearly a wonderful mother (more on that lil’ rascal Julia in a minute) but there’s something I admire most in Heather and I’m blinking back a tear or two as I type this: Heather is steadfast.
Forgive me for making it about me for just a moment, but to properly describe Heather’s steadfastness, I need to first describe what it’s like to be my friend. It’s not very…even. I’m out of town a lot, for one thing. When I finally get home from being among a ton of people, I’m in desperate need of recharging. As an introvert, this means that I need to be alone for awhile, otherwise I’m no good to anyone, including myself. Sometimes, I fall in love with a boy and move to New York City, but then we break up and I move to Washington, D.C. and when I get home, I start graduate school. Crafting chains of events of these kinds is a specialty of mine, but I end up with few opportunities to go to matinees or maintain a weekly sew day, for example. And then there’s the writer thing. Writers are weird. Most of us have some measure of social anxiety — yes, anxiety with people we know and love very much. I’m raising my hand, here.
But Heather is true. She loves me because I’m Mar, I think. She sees my wild life and it’s okay with her. Even if we don’t see each other for awhile, when we get together, it’s great. We’re peas n’ carrots. I’ve told Heather things I haven’t told other people. I’ve relied on her. The fact that I know I can absolutely rely on her says much about how she loves me, the very nature of Heather. Her steadfastness makes the world a better place. Now, she knows I love her fiercely — I’m not completely hopeless at friendship, I just show it in different ways, cough, cough — but she does such a better job at staying connected and I am grateful.
Yesterday, I dragged myself out of bed, dragged myself to the train, dragged myself up to the 16th floor of the Lavin Pavillion at Northwestern Memorial. But though I was anxious and gloomy, I made it. I made it because Heather texted me that she and Julia would be there soon. Sure enough, moments after the nurse left me alone in the exam room and just before I started biting my cuticles, I heard a soft “knock, knock” on the door. I jumped off the exam table as my beautiful friend pushed open the door with Princess Julia in her stroller. They had come to be with me in a place that feels to me like a dark forest.
Forests are no match for true friendship and the sweetness of an eight-month-old baby. That child is incomparably adorable. Julia has discovered her tongue (wonder of wonders!) and sticks it out with glee as often as possible. Heather looks great. Between chatting with her and watching Julia rocket around the room on all fours, I had no time to be afraid. When Dr. Yun came in, I answered her questions without crying even once. And suddenly, the appointment was over. Honestly, it could’ve gone on longer and I wouldn’t have minded at all.
Heather and Julia came with me for my blood draw, too. Dr. Yun wants several tests done; I’ll go under for those. Really, that’s the scary stuff. The tests and the news afterward. Heather and I have already talked about another rendezvous.
Friends! Readers! Countrywomen and several countrymen! I blow a great trumpet! My call to thee riseth upon the winds that sweep across the fruited plain and swoopeth down to alight on thine ears! Hear ye, hear ye: The Iowa Theater is going to open at the end of this month!
IT’S HAPPENING!
If you didn’t know, my sister Rebecca and my mother Marianne — with the help of the community of Winterset and so many people in Iowa, e.g., business leaders, generally great Midwesterners — are renovating, rehabbing, and restoring The Iowa, the wonderful little theater-on-the-square in the town where I grew up. (Aye, as a wee bairn, how I loved to see the grrrreat films of yesteryear and — sorry. I’ll stop.)
The renovation project/non-profit startup has been a massive undertaking. It has taken much, much money so far and great quantities of elbow grease. In fact, as I gear up to ask something of you, I would like you to picture my poor, poor little sister and my poor, poor mother, both of them working so hard for the past year that they may have no elbow grease left! Oh, the humanity! Dry, dry elbows, all for the good of their community and movie-theater popcorn and the love of small town U.S.A.!
Will you donate a little bit of money? Just a little. Or, hey, a lot! I would not presume to tell you how much money to donate to such a wildly wonderful project. I mean, I don’t have to tell you. You’ll see when you watch the video that The Iowa project is really special. The Kickstarter campaign my sister speaks about is specifically to help restore the marquee, but believe me: There’s a lot more left to do and you shouldn’t hesitate to donate, even if the goal is reached for that portion of this thing.
Here’s who should donate:
people who put Junior Mints (or M&M’s, Raisinets, or Reese’s Pieces) directly into their popcorn when they go to the movies people who love John Wayne people who love an American town square people who smile at babies babies who smile at people people who were thinking about buying something online within the past hour that they did not need (*do this instead!) people who scream when the movie is scary people who cry when the movie is sad people who cry when the movie is beautiful people with kids (*hello, date nite!) people without kids (*hello, just go see a movie!) people who like it when something good happens in the world (*because there’s so much other stuff that does not feel like this)
and
high school kids (*because the balcony has been restored, you guys, and that means you just got a prime freakin’ make out spot, okay, so you’d better fork over whatever cash you made delivering pizzas last week because you’re welcome.)
Here’s the link to the campaign. If the goal is reached by the time you get there, please donate! That’s not the end of the fundraising, trust me. The money is needed and will be used to make The Iowa great. You’ll have a hand in it, you really will.
Hey, she might be looking at quilts! We may never know. Image: Wikipedia.
I have one more day of classes before my first year of graduate school comes to a close. Can you even believe it?? I hardly can.
Now is not the time for deep reflection, however. That will come later this week, but not yet. It ain’t over till it’s over, people, and it ain’t over until 6 p.m. tomorrow night, after one more presentation (with attendant critique, gah) and then my final advising session. The advising session will be a blast; the presentation, not so much, unless I get my précis done. Now.
But I needn’t go dark today on the ol’ PG; lucky for me, the newest Quilt Scout post is up! So I’ll direct you over to Quilts, Inc. today to read my little piece called “Quilts On Phones”. It’s about how much I enjoy it when people show me pictures of their quilts on their phones. You can click this link right here and you’ll be zipped right on over.
Hey, guess where I’ll be, starting tomorrow night?
That post has been deleted because your ol’ pal Mar doesn’t feel so funny anymore. Well, not funny ha-ha. I feel more sorta funny hysterical. Not funny hysterical as in “That’s hysterically funny!” but more like”Please, please make this day end.”
At press time, I’ve been at the Westchester County Airport since 3:30 p.m. It is now 9: 10 p.m. My plane will not board for another two hours.
But before you clutch your pearls, you must know that this is actually miraculous news. For just two hours ago — let’s call it the Planestine Era — I did not possess a boarding pass for a flight to Chicago tonight. Oh, no, no, my little marzipans. I had something else — two something elses, actually. I had in my sad, manicured paw a boarding pass for a flight tomorrow with a layover in Washington D.C. which would put me at O’Hare at nearly noon. And this scrap of paper was stapled to another scrap of paper which was a hotel voucher for a night’s sleep at the nearby La Quinta Inn. (I use the phrase “night’s sleep at the La Quinta Inn” loosely.)
It has been, as my dear mother would say, “Airport Appreciation Day.”
First of all, let me tell you that I understand the following:
No one is hurt, no one has died.
No one ought to be getting on a broken plane.
This is what I have been telling myself for the past seven hours. Perspective is crucial at times like these. Perspective is a tool that, as an adult, you simply must employ on Airport Appreciation Day. Otherwise, you are in danger of acting like a child and I assure you: A child is precisely what you want to act like when you’re in my situation. I get it.
Remember the days when you were at a slumber party or a circus and you pitched a fit because you just wanted to go home?? Remember how no amount of candy or toys or hugs and kisses from Mommy or Daddy or Gramma or Grampa would console you because you were tired and angry and fed up and grouchy and probably there was something going on with your poop (sorry, but you know I speak the truth) and you just freaked out because everything was lousier than it had ever, ever been, ever and NO NO NO.
Yeah, I know. But difference between children and adults is that we know better than to do that past a certain age. Oh, we have exquisite reasons to freak out. The feelings are totally legit. But when we’re grown, we have to try harder. We must breathe. We must recognize the humanity in the people who are working ticket counters and serving sodas on airplanes. After all, they are just like us. They are trying to earn a living. They do not wake up in the morning, stretch, and think to themselves, “How can I have the worst day of my life? How can I cause suffering in my fellow man? Oh, I know!”
No. The people who work at the airport wake up everyone else. They wake up like you. With few exceptions, these folks are trying their best to like, avoid hideousness.
I saw some hideousness today. Tonight. People yelling. People disgusted with each other. It was rough. And I wasn’t a cool cucumber the whole time: When they told me I wasn’t going to sleep in my bed tonight after being in three states this week, hot tears started pouring down my cheeks. Some people in the line might’ve thought I was a drama queen, but I assure you, those were real, bitter tears.
But I knew to dry up before long. This is life. This is travel. The man behind me, he lashed out at the ticket people working through the long line of exhausted, bewildered passengers. I’m not saying I’m better than than that guy; I’m saying he couldn’t overcome his inner, tired, sad child. Tonight, at least, I managed to overcome mine.
Writing helps me live my life. That’s why I do it. Writing is how I make sense of things, so as I wait here at the gate for two more — please say just two more — hours, it’s my only comfort. My blood pressure has dropped. I am breathing easier. This is the gift I have in my life. It’s you, it’s my journal, it’s my book. For me, I always have an escape route. Letters and a page.
Wait! I didn’t tell you how it worked out!
Right at the moment when I was leaving the airport to go to my sad, sad hotel room, there was announcement: American Airlines was going to see if they could get a plane over here to Westchester County to fly us to Chicago. I raced back through security. We all waited with bated breath. Then, the good news came: Yes! Yes, there would be a plane! It wouldn’t be here till 10:40 p.m., but it would come!
So I had a glass of wine with a few other folks in limbo and then I came down here to you.
Sometimes my sister Rebecca will mention a hugely popular movie or a television show and I’ll say, “What’s that?” and she will smack her forehead and roll her eyes and say, “You are unbelievable.”
A good example of this was La La Land. We were walking along a few months ago and La La Land was apparently what every last person on the planet was talking about but I had literally never heard of it. When Rebecca discovered this, she groaned. “How is that possible?” she said, shaking her head. “Are you like in the world?”
Yes, but I just don’t see many movies and I don’t have a television. And though I definitely consume visual media, it’s not super mainstream media most of the time. I love to watch documentaries. I very much enjoy watching lectures and educational content on YouTube while I sew. Oh, and I’ve seen every episode of The Great British Bakeoff at least twice. But the big shows like Game of Thrones, Scandal, or [insert show here], I just sort of don’t get sucked into that stuff.
Except. Except for this one dark, gripping, tension-filled, beautifully rendered, twisty-turny, Shakespearean blinkin’ show called… House of Cards.
Mercy, that show is good.
It was all Claus’s fault. A couple years ago, he started watching it and wouldn’t stop talking about how incredible it was. From the opening credits to the storyline(s) to the cliffhangers, he just went on and on about it. I finally decided to give it a chance, even though Mom said she and Mark tried to watch it but couldn’t get past a couple episodes because “the characters were just such awful people, honey.”
Yeah, no kidding. Murder, treachery, mutiny, little lies, big lies, enormous lies — the characters in House of Cards are more dastardly and dirty than the meanest Blackbeard-ian pirates that ever sailed the high seas. But they’re fascinating. I don’t know when I’ve ever been more into a television program than House of Cards. Kevin Spacey is irresistibly wicked. Robin Wright is terrifying and beautiful. I’m in love with the character of Doug Stamper, which, if you know the show, is super weird. But what can I do? He’s so wrong, he’s right.
The reason I’m bringing this up now is that Washington, we have a problem: Season 5 is starting at the end of this month.
This means I am about to be obsessed with watching a television show again and I was enjoying not having to deal with that, honestly. It’s kind of stressful. You see, I started watching the House of Cards when there were nearly four seasons already made and available to stream on Netflix, so I started at the beginning and watched episode after episode after episode until there were no episodes left to watch. I watched that show like it was my job. I’d start in the evening and I would watch it until 2:00 a.m., then dream about the show when I fell asleep! It was crazy.
Now, since I’m caught up, I have to see the show and then wait?? For an entire week??
Rebecca, this is why I don’t do this kind of thing. But if you want to get caught up on House of Cards, I would love to come over to your place and watch it together. We can eat popcorn and watch the pirates run amok!
