Mail from Marloes from the Netherlands! How cool is that?? Letter: Marloes, Scan: Me.
Yesterday, I went to the mighty Merchandise Mart to pick up the PaperGirl mail.
I walked the whole way from school to the Mart and I was glad I did. The day was fine, the Chicago River looked pretty good, and there was a man on the Wells Street bridge smoking a cigar when I passed. (I must admit: I like the smell of a man’s cigar when I’m in a city, crossing a bridge, going to pick up the mail.) And when I got inside the Mart, I felt happy. After all, I have a key to a mailbox that will never contain a gas bill or a credit card statement, only glorious mail from people who like this blog. People like Annabelle, Richard, Katherine, Leah, Ellen, Lorel, Marloes, Deborah, and Liz.
Where do I begin?
Remember a little while back when someone suggested there be a PaperGirl retreat? Or was that me who thought it up? I can’t remember, but let me tell you: That idea keeps rolling around in my brain and I like it rolling around. When I opened the fabulous letters in this last batch, the idea of a P.G. retreat rolled up to me again for a totally selfless reason: You people should meet each other. You really should. The letters I have here in a box at the foot of my desk are written by such interesting, funny, neat people. You’re like, pre-BFFs. Trust me.
I keep fantasizing about what a PaperGirl retreat would be. It would be a quilting/writing retreat. I’d teach patchwork and writing. You could write about your quilts. You could put words on your quilts. You could just write about your life and then, when that got really hard, you could just go sew. That’s like my entire life. And along with workshop instruction and learning and fun, we’d go to the Art Institute and look at art and have some fabulous dinners downtown. We would drink really good coffee at breakfast and we’d go see a show or something at night. But the night wouldn’t go too late because I turn into a pumpkin.
Wouldn’t that be kind of great? I really love the idea of doing a workshop weekend that blends quilting and writing. Look, you heard it here first: If there’s interest, I can schedule a phone call with the one and only Carmen and we could at least think through logistics. How hard could it be? I’ve been teaching patchwork and writing long enough. I’ve been living in Chicago long enough. Hey, Rita and Lily had fun with me — my first testimonials, perhaps!
Anywhoo, it wouldn’t be a PaperGirl Mailbag post without sharing some mail, so let’s have it. Tonight, not a lace swatch or Italian linen (I haven’t forgotten about that!) but a poem, written by the irresistible, one-and-only Leah. It might seem boastful to post this poem for everyone to see, but I can’t resist the opportunity to share its charms, Leah. Rhyming “Wonder Woman-y” and using the word “gravel”? Seriously? Leah, you leave me no choice. Ahem:
In Chicago’s a sewist named Fons, With talent to rival magic wands: She enjoys frequent travel O’er land, sea, and gravel She just went to see Claus (not Hans.)
Her interests are varied and many, Her life’s more busy than any; Creating and planning, Studying and cramming, She’s a little bit Wonder Woman-y.
From Chicago, New York, or D.C., She writes for all others to see; Her adventures in life All the joy, all the strife, On her excellent blog, th’ ‘Ol P.G.’
Reading it’s always a pleasure, A favorite use of my leisure; It brightens my days In so many ways It’s fun, insightful — a treasure!
That came in the mail! Can you believe it? Amazing.
One last thing: Of course I love to get poems (and hats and chocolate from Seattle and drawings) but I must tell you that this mailbox thing is really for you, too. It’s good to write a letter to someone. It feels good. Don’t worry about writing it “well.” Don’t worry about the perfect card. Just write to me. You might discover something.
Star of Bethlehem with Pomegranate Trees, New York, c. 1850. Image: Wikipedia via Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
Tonight, I’m gonna scoot you over to the newest Quilt Scout column, brought to you by the fine folks at Quilts, Inc., the people who bring you Quilt Market, Quilt Festival, and all manner of cool quilt industry things that you should know about (like the upcoming “Beauty In Pieces” exhibit, which has been juried and judged and all that. I’m sure they’re going to let the folks know the results very soon. For the record: Everyone is amazing and quilters are the best people on the planet.)
This one was fun to write because I describe the quilt history research project I’m doing for my cool class in the Fiber and Material Studies Department. I am debating whether or not to send it to my professor. On the one hand, she’d love it; on the other hand, gross. The teacher’s pet thing has never been a good look, you know?
A basic response form; in grad school, they’re a little more involved. Usually. Image: Wikipedia.
A gal pursuing an MFA in Writing at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) needs to take a seminar, an elective, and a workshop each term. There’s plenty more stuff you have to do on top of that, but those are the three categories under which actual courses fall.
On Thursday, I have to send out 15-20 pages of writing to the people in my spring workshop — and I’m nervous about it.
The writer’s workshop comes as a standard feature in any writing degree program and countless creative writing courses ’round the world. The writer’s workshop is a place for a student to get thoughtful feedback on her work from multiple perspectives and have a meaningful discussion with like-minded people (read: fellow writers.)
It goes like this:
The writer provides her pages a week before class. Her classmates read her work carefully, make notes, respond to questions she may have posed beforehand. When workshop time comes, people go around the room and give their in-depth, generous-but-firm feedback while the teacher acts as benevolent moderator. The respondents ask for clarifications as needed; they pose questions. The writer isn’t usually allowed to comment until all feedback has been shared, however; she just takes notes, nods, and goes, “Mm-hm.” When everyone has shared their glowing praise and diplomatic criticism, she is allowed to respond to a few things. Workshop over, she thanks her fellow students, collects their notes, then goes back to her writing desk excited to incorporate what she’s gleaned from the vibrant conversation while at the same time realizing she must stay true to her vision.
That’s the best-case scenario. And plenty of workshops go something like that. Other ones, not so much. This is because there are problems with the standard workshop model. Several problems that come to mind include:
workshops are full of human beings and human beings are fickle and weird (ask me how I know) and this affects how people read, think (or not think), and give feedback
when you’re in the middle of writing something, it can be detrimental to have even really nice people telling you what they do or don’t like about what you’re working on
if you don’t have a thick skin, you may cry
if you don’t have a clear vision, you may falter
if you don’t stay open-minded, you may waste a great opportunity to improve your work
Workshops that have gone off the rails make for horror stories. You can actually google “writers’ workshop horror stories” and be entertained for a good ten minutes, even if you’re not a writer.
When I was an undergrad at the University of Iowa, I took exactly one writing course (comedy for the stage, in case you’re wondering.) Other than that, until I started grad school, I had never taken a writing class in my life — and I had certainly never been in a formal workshop. My fall workshop was pretty good. But I’m nervous about this one next week.
I’m nervous partly because the class is big: There will be 15 response sheets coming to me a week from today. Fifteen! I’m nervous because the pages I’m turning in have been worked and worked but aren’t finished, yet. I’m nervous because I’m writing about my dad.
But there’s value in sharing these particular pages. I want to know where my blind spots are in the draft; I’m actually a little stuck right now because of those blind spots. My classmates can help me, even if it’s going to be really painful to hear their criticism. There will be that, make no mistake; I am writing my little patootie off and it’s still so far from where it needs to be. Wish me luck.
And by the way: I AM SO EXCITED FOR YOU ALL TO READ THIS BOOK! Sorry. I never do that. I never use all-caps. But sometimes when I’m struggling I just think about the day when I announce the book deal and you all get a special pre-order price and an autographed copy and all that. I really do think about that, how PaperGirl is a snack but the book I’m writing is a meal.
You’re invited for dinner. You’re so, so invited. Sit by me.
Not what I’m looking for — but at least it wouldn’t make noise. Image: Wikipedia.
The writer’s conference was fabulous in every way. I have arrived home inspired, encouraged, and feeling generally optimistic my life as a writer.
But the trip was not without its pain, as you know, and I’m afraid that it wasn’t just nostalgia pain I had to endure. This trip forced me to admit a painful truth, and that painful truth is that my luggage is dead. I have to buy new luggage. Maybe even before QuiltCon in two weeks. It’s bad, you guys.
This luggage situation really frosts my tarts* because the luggage I have been using for the past couple years was way, way too expensive to be pooping out on me this soon. Nevertheless, both of my silver hard-top Zero Halliburton suitcases have major problems. Suitcase One has latches that no longer stay latched and call me crazy, but I kind of want the contents of my suitcase to, you know, stay put until I decide otherwise. The horror of seeing one’s suitcase half-open as it comes around on the baggage claim is hard to describe. Is something valuable falling out?? Possibly more horrifying: Is something embarrassing falling out?? Note that “something valuable” would be earrings and “something embarrassing” would be any number of lady items.
Suitcase Two has a wheel problem. This is a nice way to say that the wheels on Suitcase Two are surely the most poorly-designed objects on or off a suitcase that ever were designed ever on the planet. And no, I am not a designer of suitcase wheels; I’m not saying I could do better. Except that it’s clear common sense was not drawn upon in the design of the blinkin’ things and they should have consulted me.
The wheels are plastic, which I’ll concede seems standard. But the two back wheels feature plastic brakes. The brakes are activated by pressing down on small square buttons on the top of the…fender (I don’t know suitcase wheel words!) that stop the wheel from rolling when deployed. This would be a nice feature if you are a person who takes many sea journeys, I imagine; there, you would need to keep your luggage from rolling to and fro on the deck of the ship. But if you’re not a fancy sailor or a well-heeled woman on the Titanic, why on Earth do you need brakes on your luggage wheels? (Confession: I have engaged the brake buttons a couple times while on a packed subway. Having brakes that kept my suitcase from rolling back and forth and into people as the train lurched was sort of cool, though it’s amazing how well one’s foot works just fine in such situations.)
And the brakes break. (I replaced a wheel once already.) And the brakes get stuck halfway down on the wheels. On this latest trip, as I rolled Suitcase One through the lobby of the hotel and through various airport terminals, I discovered that the brakes are now in some half-stuck state. This not only makes it hard to roll my luggage along for the resistance, it creates the most ridiculous, unbelievably loud and continuous sound. When I pull my luggage, it sounds like someone is intermittently honking a sad clown horn. It sounds like a duck is crying. My luggage sounds like a sad, plaintive duck.
You should know that my superstar stepdad, Mark, turned me onto the Zero Halliburton brand (no connection to the Halliburton company you’re thinking of, by the way.) Mark was a commercial airline pilot for years and was in the Air Force before that; the guy knows a few things about luggage. He bought me my first Zero suitcase back when I was in college because he has long believed it’s the best stuff on the market. I used that suitcase until it was too banged up to take on business trips; it was awesome. After retiring that one, I got another Zero suitcase that served me well for years, and I travel a lot and am generally hard on things like shoes and eyeglasses and suitcases. But neither of those pieces had wheel brakes. I will look at the company’s website, see if there are any sales going on, and probably get another couple pieces from them.
Unless you brilliant PG readers tell me otherwise. So, how about it? Do you have luggage brands you swear by? Remember: I haul heavy books and quilts from one coast to another on average 2.4 times per month. I can’t mess around with stuff from Wal-Mart. Nothing wrong with it, but this is serious stuff. Talk to me!
Back in October, I went blonde. Not Marilyn blonde. Not Madonna blonde. But like, definitely blondish.
Thing were changing in my life. I felt that to reflect The New Me, I needed a new attitude, a new hairdo. (I like saying things like “I needed a new attitude” and using words like “hairdo”; it makes me feel like a character in a pop song from 198os or a sitcom character in the 1950s.) Besides, I like changing my hair. Folks who watch the PBS show and/or watched Quilty over the years know that to be true; my hair is somewhat different in every season, pretty much. And why not? Changing your hair(do) is fun, it’s never permanent — even when it’s a perm — and I love getting shampooed by another human being. I mean, woah. That is the best.
When I thought over what I could do with my hair — I did notwant to chop it off again — I realized I hadn’t been blonde in awhile. The last time I was sorta blonde was in 2013, but that was mostly a heavy highlight situation. Before that, it was high school. It was time.
It’s been a somewhat gradual transition, but now, sitting here in almost mid-February, I am darned blonde and I have to tell you: Blondes may indeed have more fun.
It’s not like I’m suddenly partying all day long and bathing in confetti and riding around in Lamborghini convertibles in a bikini, which is what I picture when I picture Blondes Having Fun. But I swear, people treat me differently lately. I’m serious. It’s weird. It’s good. But it’s a little weird.
I’m telling you now because I’ve been blonde long enough to say it with conviction: People like blonde people. Blonde women? It’s hard to give you hard evidence. It’s not like people go, “Oh, hello! You’re blonde. I like that. Right this way!” or “Miss, would you like a hot chocolate? I just want to buy you one!” All I can tell you is that people are smiling at me 10-15% more than usual. True story. Smiling is happening with slightly more frequency than before. I’m not smiling more than usual. I’m always smiling. I have not changed my smile quotient. It’s everyone else.
I wonder about my fellow artificially-blonde friends. Is the Blonde Effect true for you? Do you stay blonde because you are doing your part for the goodwill of man…or do you just like looking like a cutie-patootie?
The Cleveland Park stop on the D.C. Metro’s Red Line. That was my stop. I stood right there. Photo: Wikipedia.
Keeping a blog for as long as I have kept the ol’ PG means learning something about content balance. I know not to get too goofy or flip in post after post (you won’t take me seriously); nor do I allow myself to be too dark or dour for long stretches (hello, Eeyore.) Varying the subject matter is intentional, but it’s not insincere: I simply try to write the kind of blog I would like to read, namely, one that makes me laugh and then cry and then laugh again. That’s why you get PG posts about sweetened condensed milk, then something about love, then death, and so on.
Tonight, I felt very sad. When I knew that I wanted to blog about this sadness because writing helps me understand things, I thought, “Well, you can’t write about that. You were sad in Berlin and that was only a few weeks ago. And you were sad when you wrote The Big Post. You had just better find something else to write about.”
But that’s wrong. Texture and balance is good, but you and I both deserve honesty, whatever that looks like. Besides, a “real” post about being sad is going to be ten times better than a hollow one with a nice little bow on it. That’s always going to be true.
I got sad because I’m in Washington, D.C. tonight. I’m glad to be here, but it’s just so heavy. As many of you know, I lived in this city for about a year-and-a-half between 2013-2015. (If you’re new around here, start here. If you’re not new around here, remember when I moved into the Kennedy Warren?)
I’ve come for a conference held by the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP). The graduate writers at SAIC are encouraged to come to this annual event to learn more about the business of writing; there are about ten of us here. When I heard about AWP a few months back and saw that it was to be in D.C. this year, I knew it would be strange to be back in the city for the weekend, but I ponied up for the ticket, anyway. I arrived this afternoon, went to my hotel, and promptly took a two-hour nap. I was tired, sure, but I think I was also zapping myself out, giving myself a psychic break. I self-zapped.
After a reading event this evening, I had a lovely dinner with a fellow grad and then bid adieu to the group. I hailed a taxi and as we sped through the streets of Washington, D.C., I watched the world zip by. I saw monuments and U Street and 14th Street and Dupont Circle. I saw a whole world I used to inhabit, a world I almost committed to completely, a world that imprinted itself upon me and I upon it. There in the taxi, Mozart playing on the radio, my scarf wrapped around my neck, my hands shoved deep in my wool coat pockets, my chest constricted and my throat tightened; I felt my heart flutter and my eyes began to burn and there it was: I began to cry.
I cried because I loved it here and I forgot just how much. I cried because it was all so confusing, that whole time.
I cried because some information passes through the mind and never, ever sticks — the name of that one neighbor, locker combinations, dates of various revolutions, etc. — and some information you never, ever think you’ll ever need to access again but then there you are, speeding into Georgetown, and you’re flooded with a hundred thousand impressions indelibly made when the world was different and you were different within it. This poem of mine gets at some of the emotions I’m talking about.
Tomorrow, maybe I’ll see a duck or a funny hat (or a duck in a funny hat) and I’ll be moved to write about that; tonight, it’s all the bygone cherry orchards and the cobblestones I adored.
“The Old Quilt [SCOUT]” by Walter Langley, date unknown. Image: Wikipedia.Tonight, a cross-post, because you cannot believe the stack of reading I have to do before tomorrow — and you should’ve seen the piles I read for today. Some people make mountains out of molehills; some graduate school professors make them out of reading assignments. Holy mackerel.*
But worry not: This is no sloppy-seconds kind of post I’m offering; I’m actually particularly fond of this week’s Quilt Scout column on how to measure the time it takes for you to make a quilt. That’s the question quilters get asked the most, you know: “How long did that take you??”
You are welcome; I am now going to go read an entire book and two PDF documents, all of which have copious footnotes. It was nice knowing you. Make sure Pendennis has all the candy pumpkins he needs.
*Note to self: Look up etymology of “Holy mackerel.” Second note to self: Stop blogging this very instant and start reading all the things you have to read, Mary Fons. I mean it. I’m serious. Go. Mary. MARY.
Picture of high school audience, Ladies Home Journal, 1945. Image: Wikipedia.
This morning, I beat the sun by a long shot.
I was up at 4 a.m. (gah!) so that I could have tea, go over my materials one last time, get all foofed-up, and get to my rental car, which I secured yesterday evening. By my careful calculations, I needed to be on the road to the northwestern suburbs of Chicago by 6 a.m. in order to be at the first of several high school gigs today.
Every year, a handful of dedicated high schools in the Chicagoland area hold “Writer’s Week” festivals. These festivals — which the students love but always struggle for funding and booster support, dangit — invite professional writers to share their work with the students and to talk and answer questions about the writing life. I have been a featured performer at a number of these festivals for well over a decade, now, which is great but also super weird, because I remember my first few times doing these gigs and it does not seem so very long ago. I remember being a young slam poet and freaking out the night before these gigs, timing my set until it was absolutely perfect because I had a limited repertoire; I remember rambunctious boys in the back of the auditorium one year who threw me off — and how I learned that day, the hard way, how to effectively stop any heckler. (Ninety-nine percent of the time, ignore them. I called the kids out that day and it wasn’t good. They wanted attention and they got it. I learned a lot that afternoon.)
I did first-and second-period at my favorite place, William Fremd High (they saw quilts one year), and then spent seventh and eighth at Bartlett High, a school with students were so respectful and courteous, one gets nervous. I did four shows today, in other words. In case you’ve never performed for 50 minutes in front of an auditorium of 300 or so high school students four times in one day, I assure you: It’s not for the faint of heart and when you come home, you will want to eat food and then face plant into the couch for awhile.
Twice today I was approached by quilters: a teacher at Bartlett and the mother-in-law of one of the Writer’s Week organizers. Both of them were excited to say hi and I could see that both of them were looking at me as the quilting person they’ve watched on TV while trying to square it with the high school poetry/writing presenter they just watched live onstage. Welcome to my world.
For many years, I have had a hard time telling people what it is that I “do.” I’m a writer. I’m a quilter. I’m a performer. I write about quilts. I write poetry and perform it. I perform, in a way, in the quilt world because of the on-camera work. I teach people how to quilt, but also how to write — it’s all this gorgeous, difficult slurry of words and fabric scraps and microphone cords. In the past couple years, I have been really working, with every project I take on, to combine these loves. How can writing and quilting and performance come together? Where do writing and quilting intersect — not for me, but for you? What can I give? And how can I help? (By helping others, giving my art away, that’s how I better understand myself. This is the win-win.)
These are the questions. Thank you, high schoolers and faculty and staff, for giving me an audience today. I move toward answers every time I go to work.
I can’t. I JUST CANNOT. Photo courtesy a plain old google search, as Wikipedia doesn’t have any pictures of miniature Maltipoos, yet. If I get one, I’ll post one.
Most of you loved the idea and your enthusiasm was powerful. I had visions of little Pipkin (brilliant, Lesley!) licking his whiskers, curling up for a nap on a stack of quilts. I even emailed the pet adoption center downtown and filled out the application form to foster a kitten after several readers advised me to start there. It was all very exciting.
Just a few people said, “Hm… Are you sure, Mar?” and I was glad that those voices were there because as much as I hated to admit it, I had a small but real hesitation in my mind about getting a cat. If the “Hang on there, cowgirl” people hadn’t spoken up, I might’ve ignored that little doubt and there could be a kitten on my lap right now.
(Oh, wow. There could be a kitten on my lapright now… That sounds really great. Wait! No! Focus, Mary Fons! Focus!)
Here’s the problem: As I said in the original post, I really, really want a little dog. I love cats. I do. And we know from this Quilt Scout column that I’m not sold on the idea that “there are two kinds of people in the world” and therefore there are cat people and dog people and ne’er the twain shall meet. Truth be told, I’m actually afraid of big dogs; I’ve personally known two people who have suffered dog bites — bad ones. Like, face bites that required surgery. (I know; it’s really, really horrible.) But even not-so-big dogs can freak me out: One of my best friends from back home, her dog when we were growing up was mean as a snake, barked incessantly, and snapped at me whenever I got near her and she wasn’t much bigger than a Big Wheel.
But the truth is, like a young girl who has watched way too many old-school Disney movies dreams of her Prince Charming, I dream of my teacup Maltipoo, Philip Larkin. He’s a teacup Maltipoo and he’s my guy. My problem with getting a cat is that really, I want a dog and I’m not ready to be mature and wise and gracious and giving and get a different species entirely because I can’t have him, yet. (If you haven’t read the original post, the reasons I can’t have Philip Larkin right now are listed there.) I just have this Phil-or-nothing mindset. It’s like I’m practicing pet chastity or something, saving myself for…marriage. (That’s a super weird line of metaphor that I’m going to drop immediately, even though it is weirdly accurate.)
Perhaps what cinched it for me was my learning from all of you about how cats really need to have a feline companion, especially if they’re alone for long hours in the day. Having two cats makes total sense and if I ever have a cat, I’ll have two. But that was just it: Instead of not having one dog, suddenly I had two cats. And it felt wrong.
For now, I shall wait. I will pet my friend Sophie’s cats. I will pet my friend Heather’s cat. And I might still foster a kitten at some point, just to make sure! But several people have asked me about the Cat Question and I thought I’d update you.
A song from 1893. I know the feeling! Image: Wikipedia.
I was searching through the archives for something (I’ll tell ya later) and discovered that I have written a fair amount about falling. Tonight, because I am bone-weary tired after this first week of school and the events of the week besides and can’t make sparkling prose from scratch*, I give you not one, not two, but four archival posts about falling that are worth another look:
Oh, and one other thing: The comments function on my blog didn’t to work at all for a long time. If you’re new around here and click into old posts, it might look like no one read this blog for many years and then suddenly many people began to read it. (The truth is way better: I’ve had loyal, excruciatingly attractive readers for a long time.) Anywho, the comment functionality functions now, but I have heard from folks that the captcha thingy is annoying and lame. I’m working on that, really I am. Thanks for your patience with the technical aspects of the ol’ PG. Not my strong suit.
*This makes me want something from scratch, like my gramma’s rolls. Note to self: Write about Gramma Rolls sometime soon.
Someone getting their teeth dealt with in 1989. Photo: Wikipedia.
I have a dentist appointment in the morning.
Going to the dentist didn’t use to bother me that much. I mean, it’s hard for me to imagine that there are people who truly enjoy the dentist, though there are those blessed with perfectly straight, cavity-resistant teeth who they probably regard a trip to the dentist like they regard an afternoon detailing their car: not fun, exactly, but necessary from time to time and worth it in the end when you run your tongue over your pearly whites — or your squeaky dashboard, if you’re into that sort of thing.
But after I got sick and began my journey into the world of hospitals, procedures, surgeries, and check-ups that involve, you know, scopes and needles and stuff, I began to really freak out at the prospect of laying back in the dentist’s chair. Though few of us like a novocain shot, I really, really hate being approached by a person with a needle. I’ve just got some baggage, is all.
And I’m a pretty good little brusher and even enjoy flossing (though I don’t do it every day) but I come from a stock of people with deep palates and big teeth with, I was informed once, “topography.” The teeth in my head, in other words, have ridges and bumps and all kinds of lovely nooks and crannies that just love to hang onto that which will give me a cavity no matter how gallant I am about keeping the suckers clean. I’ve gotten A+ report cards at the dentist but it’s more often that I get bad news: a small cavity in a molar on my upper right, a small crack in the lower left M4 or however they number these things. And there’s always blood on the floss when I get a cleaning, always the taste of iron in my mouth.
The other trouble is that I am extraordinarily sensitive to pain. (Cough, cough, Claus. Cough.) If Patient A gets numb with one shot of novocain, I need four. Really. My sisters are the same. We all suffered as kids at the dentist in Winterset (a kind, imminently capable man whose daughters remain dear friends of mine) because we didn’t know we could ask for another shot. When I was in the chair, tears would roll down my cheeks and pool into my ears while he and his assistant filled a cavity, the zings and zaps of the drill making me wince and want to pass out until it was over.
Tomorrow is my first visit to a new dentist and this is big. My former dentist took care of my dental needs for over a decade, but for a number of reasons, it’s time to make a change. My sister Rebecca (of movie renovation fame) claims she has the best dentist in the city. Here, now, is an excerpt from the conversation we had on this subject:
ME: Seriously, there’s no pain?
REBECCA: No pain.
ME: Like, none.
REBECCA. Zero.
ME: Okay, because, seriously.
REBECCA: Just tell him you’re super sensitive. He knows me, too, and I’m the same. You’re fine.
ME: No pain.
REBECCA. Zero. And his receptionist is the best. Her voice sounds like she smokes fifty cigars a day, all raspy and Chicaaaaago. She’s great. I love it there. Tell them I sent you, maybe they’ll give me a discount.
So tomorrow I go for a cleaning and an assessment at Rebecca’s dentist. I’m excited to meet the receptionist, obviously, and I’m encouraged by my no-nonsense sister’s promise of a pain-free experience. But if you have any advice for the dentist-afeared, do let me know; there comes a moment when all the worrying and the putting off comes to an end and there you are in the chair and the gal says, from behind her mask, “Okay, open wide for me?” and you gotta say:
Square-in-a-square unit finishing 3” and featuring the last of that scrumptious vintage DUCK PRINT. Oh, little duck! I’ll miss you. Patch and scan: Me and the ducks.
I’ve often remarked on the strangeness of it: I talk about quilts all the time, I write about them. I read books about them, I teach people how to make them. And at the end of the day, after all that, most of the time all I want to do is sew.
After spending a day working at the newspaper and reading through a constant stream of classy, intelligent, thoughtful responses from both sides of the political landscape posted by you all to yesterday’s PaperGirl*, I came home, dropped my stuff, and made a beeline for my BabyLock and just started cutting and sewing patches. I don’t have a quilt in mind. I just cut some 3 1/2” and 2” squares and stitched square-in-a-square units like the one above. (Quilt geeks: Check me out matching up ‘dem directional ducks! Bam!)
I know that some people have to sew for work. Some people don’t know how to sew and will never learn. Some can’t afford it, with their time or money, some have zero desire to begin with. But there are those of us on this planet who sew patchwork for pleasure and we are the luckiest people that have ever lived, I think. The whir of the sewing machine. The satisfaction when you press back a crisp corner. The delight in seeing a finished block. This is bliss tonight, just sewing in my warm home while it Januaries outside in Chicago.
Maybe that’s what undergirds any political view I hold or have ever held: a desire to figure out how to make a world where anyone, everyone, can find the kind of peace I can find when I sit down at my sewing machine on a Monday night, after a full day of work and tough weekend.
It’s how we think we ought to get there that makes us different. The desire for peace and a good quilt, this is the same. We can get there.
Flag of the United States of America. Image: Wikipedia.
Preface
Settle in, friends, for a longer read. Get a fresh cup of tea; prepare a snack of the sweet or savory kind. Tuck your knees up under your seat and if you have a quilt, pull a quilt up over your lap. If you have a pet, pat the space next to you so your pet will come sit by you.
I don’t ask for much — I keep not doing a PaperGirl Pledge Drive because I just can’t bring myself to full on ask you for money — but this time I do want something from you and I want it fiercely. Read this post, please, and read all the way to the end. I initially broke this up into three different posts, but I can’t risk parts being jumbled up, so I’ve fashioned a chapter book.
Pendennis, I’ll have you know, is on my lap. I literally went to the shelf to get him when I started this piece this morning and I put him in my lap as I wrote. I need him as a source of strength because I am afraid to write what I am writing, have been afraid to write this for a solid year. I write to you all in the spirit of Pendennis.
Chapter I
To begin, I have to tell you a story.
In 2007, I was working with the Neo-Futurists, the theater company you know I love very much. I was about a year into my ensemble-ship and I was more alive as an artist than I had ever been before, more satisfied with the work than I had ever been. But there was a big, fat fly in the ointment. I had a secret, and my secret isolated me from my new, brilliant, talented artistic family, something that I could not speak about for fear of…well, I didn’t know what, but I was afraid. The entire cast — indeed, the entire company, from ensemble members to the staff to the board and beyond that to every donor and audience member — were vocally, vociferously liberal in their politics.
I was not.
A few years prior, I had read some books and met some people and had some conversations that dazzled and inspired me and I had a cascade of revelations. Until then, I had always aligned myself with my Iowa-Dem-to-the-core family, but there was a lot about the liberal worldview that I had come to object to, had always sort of mildly been repulsed by — I cannot delve into details right now — and with the wind of dissidence in my sails from all this book learnin’, I finally copped to it, much to the horror of my mother and sisters, who have never wavered in their views.
The thing was, I didn’t align with the conservatives, either. What was so electric about some of the ideology I was learning about, which was libertarian, basically, was that it was neither of those blunt, hulking sports teams known as Republican (red jerseys) or Democrat (blue jerseys.) For a good many years, when asked through which political lens I viewed the world, I’d say, with a bit of a bratty attitude caused as much by my political affiliations as my being in my mid-twenties, “I’m a libertarian.”
Okay, so back to the Neo-Futurists. There were many political plays in our show, which changed week to week. I was cast in 2006, during the Bush administration and during that time, Bush was loathed and lambasted in our show; his policies and supporters, of course, got the same treatment. I was a castmember during the first Obama campaign and election and Obama was basically worshiped, even as he appointed to his cabinet some of the same people who had all but engineered the financial collapse of our country, even as government surveillance increased, etc. Through all this, I kept my mouth shut.
Most everyone in the cast wrote political plays for the show. There were impassioned conversations about politics in rehearsal. But I was mum; mum in the show, mum in the room. Then one day, though I don’t recall the breaking point, I decided to break my silence.
I wrote a play called “Donkey Punch.” In it, I sat on the stage in a single spotlight and talked about the proposition of universal healthcare (I was skeptical); about the war in Iraq (I was not entirely opposed); I talked about illegal immigration (how aspects of it made me uncomfortable.) Between each of these statements, I had cast come out and beat me with red, white, and blue pillowcase puppets I had made into the shape of donkeys and elephants. At the end of the play, I rose to my feet and said, quite plainly, what the play was really about: It was about how afraid I was to be the only non-liberal in the room, how I was afraid that now that the people I loved knew that I was different, they wouldn’t like me and they wouldn’t want me there.
So began a terrible time. Some nights, I was booed from the audience, hissed at. The play lasted in the show just four weeks, which is not a long time for a strong piece in that show (politics aside, the aesthetic structure of the piece was true) but I couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t the audience that was killing me: It was the ensemble. Not everyone, I must rush to point out, treated me badly, and more on that in a moment. Though most of my ensemble-mates treated me like my family did around all this — shocked and disappointed but sort of willing to ignore it — several members of the ensemble hated me. That’s not an exaggeration: They hated me. One of them proposed a piece at the following week’s rehearsal that aligned me with Hitler’s favorite filmmaker, Leine Riefenstahl. Another stood up from her seat and, pointing her finger at my face, told me I’d be sorry about what I was saying when I got sick one day and needed insurance; none of us could know that within a year, I would be gravely ill at Mayo Clinic. The other very angry person was the villain from this post, so it didn’t bother me as much, but still, and even with the lukewarm acceptance from other cast members of my outing myself as a non-liberal, I was a miserable creature, furious at myself for coming out, furious at a group of people who said they were tolerant but were the rabid opposite. I was afraid of the audience every time the play came up in the show. I was afraid that I actually didn’t know what I was talking about. Most deeply, I was in anguish that the politics got in the way of what the play was really about: Fear.
In the midst of all the grey storm clouds, there was a lining so silver, it has turned to gold in my memory. There was one person in the ensemble who showed the kind of courage in friendship you read about in great literature. Think Horatio. Think Samwise.
After the conversation around my play had reached a fever pitch (this was with one performance under my belt and when the finger-pointing and the Hitler references had been made), Neo ensemble member Bilal Dardai caught up to me as I ran, sobbing, to my car, and hugged me, and spoke words I will never forget:
“Mary. Mary, wait. Okay… Look, I don’t like your play. In fact, I really, really don’t like what you say in it. But I respect your right say it. And you’re really brave. I’m in your corner, even though I hate some of what you’ve got in that corner. It’s gonna be okay. They feel strongly about their politics. Just… Just shake it off. Your play… Is important. It’s important. I stand by it.”
And so he did stand by it. Even though he hated my politics, he protected my right to talk about them. Bilal knows how much his actions of protection and solidarity in the face of vehemently disagreeing with my views meant to me then and now; I have told him many times and in writing this, I tell him again, now, for all the world to see.
That is the story of “Donkey Punch” and now we speed through the years.
Chapter II
One of the things I liked about identifying as a libertarian — in fact, now that I consider it, probably the thing I liked about it — was that it seemed to announce to the world that I was a person who thinks for herself. I don’t vote straight ticket, thankyouverymuch. I look at the issues how I want to look at them. Just because I agree with you on Issue A, that does not imply, sir, that I agree with you on Issues B and C. Buzz off. I loved that being a libertarian was being a pain-in-the-you-know-what, being less easy to lump with the group.
My libertarianism was based also on an extremely rosy, Horatio Algerian view of the world, all bootstraps and elbow grease. Why shouldn’t it have been? My mother, after being heartbroken and abandoned by my father over and over again for 19 years, not only started her own business and put three girls through college but built a small empire with a needle and thread, forget bootstraps. At that time, having quit my job as a waitress, I was making a living as a freelance writer and stage performer. America was a great country. I had proof all around me that if you try hard and do the right thing, this country is your oyster. And so my thinking went for some years.
But, because I so pride myself on being a person who is always trying to read more and think harder, because I want to be the kind of soul who is always discovering and questioning, because I took a certain pride in being soindependent I would even turn my back on my family’s Democratic political views if I had to, I kept right on reading and thinking, discovering and questioning; some years a little more, some years a little less. And so it was that about two years ago, I found that I was beginning to change my mind.
You know that feeling when you’ve been food poisoned and it just starts to come on? Those very first twangs and kicks in your stomach, that jet of sour that you suddenly find shooting along your jaw? That’s what it feels like when you realize you might have to change your mind about some of the political views you used to crow about. That’s how it felt to me, anyway. It was, and is, an intensely uncomfortable experience. Because political opinions are so loud, so self-righteous. They’re impassioned and final; they’re pristine, they’re endorsed by history, or culture, or God. Our political views are the megaphones of our values and our values are born from that which we love and that which we are afraid of and when you feel like what you love or what you were afraid of is changing, it’s embarrassing. Your pride is in grave danger and this just plain sucks. My sister Hannah and I were at each other throats many times about things I said or ways I felt about this or that issue and when I found myself questioning what I thought, oh, no. She was right, I was wrong. No one likes to lose an argument. And my sister could be so biting, so arrogant about things. I didn’t like it that she would eventually learn I had turned away from some of the things I held true and thus be smug and satisfied.
As I began to realize that some of the things I used to believe I no longer believed, I felt like I had been walking around with my skirt tucked into my pantyhose for five years straight and had just noticed that was not a great look for me. I felt stupid and, even worse, I felt like I had caused the family pain for nothing. Wait, no: The skirt in the pantyhose was worse. My family would get over it.
The beliefs I had about the world being an oyster for everyone, well, they weren’t based in reality. The wage gap, the color lines, the issue of being a woman instead of a man — these handicaps are real. Some of my beliefs weathered the storm, like my firm belief that politicians and billionaires are all corrupt and in bed with each other. But a lot of the things I ignored or argued against before? They had to go.
And now we come to the end of Chapter II and I must pull myself from the past and put you directly into the present with me and this is the hardest part, this moment, because I have been avoiding it for so long.
Chapter III
I have been living in another closet.
It was made by my own hands and I have kept the door shut tight because I’m terrified that what happened ten years ago with the Neos will happen again, that when I tell you how I feel, you’ll leave me. You’ll stop listening. You’ll forget Pendennis and plays about vacuums; you’ll not send any letters, now, and you’ll say, “Ugh! I knew it!” Worse — way worse than any of that, I’m afraid that I’ll cause more tiny cracks of division among regular folks in our troubled nation and the happy soil of the PaperGirl comments section will fester with typo-ridden political manifestos and back-and-forths between people arguing, Facebook-style, over all this. I can’t bear that. I’d rather shut it all down than see people “talk ugly” to each other, as my grandmother would say. My closet has been my protection against that possibility. And it worked for me, and for you, I suppose, for a long time.
But last night, as a sledgehammer came down and cracked the bedrock on which my country was built, so did my heart split in two. When I saw families that couldn’t get to each other because of Trump’s Muslim ban, when I saw the faces of every immigrant on the boats at Ellis Island being turned back by an anguished Statue of Liberty, rather than shelter them with her generous robe, instead bar the golden door of opportunity and send them away from freedom and back into tyranny; when I saw that, my friends, I wept tears so bitter, they burned. I’m coming out now, because the pain of living inside is worse than telling you: I loathe our president and I am committed to actively resisting him and his policies.
Don’t leave. Listen.
Again and again, I have stopped — literally stopped — my hands over this keyboard, halting my impulse to tell you how deeply I oppose Trump, both the man and the president. Countless times, I censored myself. Because you don’t come to me for politics. Because I want this blog to be an oasis. Because what do I know. Because I have changed my mind before. Because maybe it will get better. Because if you disagree with me and never come around again, what will that accomplish? Who cares about my opinion, anyhow? I’m not an expert and I’m not a journalist. I’m a quilter. A student of writing and a person trying to figure out her life, just like you.
I didn’t say anything when he was on tape talking about grabbing women by their private parts, even though I felt like I couldn’t breathe for two days. Instead, I wrote a post about how wonderful women are. When it was coming to election time, I didn’t tell you who to vote for. I just told you to vote. When he was elected and I felt panic and shame, I wrote about quilt blocks. When he signed the order for the Mexico wall, I didn’t blog at all, didn’t tell you the horror I saw just ten days ago, at the Berlin Wall Memorial, how I just got back from seeing what happens when you wall people off from each other, how sick it is, how nothing good can come. I didn’t blog the day 250,000 people took over downtown Chicago to protest our president because I didn’t know how to tell you that I was one of those people. I marched with my friend K—, who has seen me weep and gnash my teeth over when, when it would get so bad that I would have to talk.
But I’ve been doing research on the AIDS quilt and an image kept coming to my mind. People who were dying and the friends and family of those people, as they marched for the FDA to approve drugs that would save lives, they held up signs that said “SILENCE = DEATH” because no one was talking about the disease that was killing hundreds of thousands of us. Then I watched a documentary about civil rights and the madness of our prison system and Martin Luther King was quoted at one point. He said, “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
That’s me. He was talking about me. I’ve been the silent friend. I have been complicit in that which I oppose because I have said nothing. I have a readership of thousands. I could speak up about what I see and what I believe and call out wrongdoing, abuses of power as I see them. But I haven’t, until now, partly because I’ve felt hopeless, that it won’t do anything, anyway, that we’re all just too entrenched in our beliefs and it’s too late. Mostly, though, I’ve stayed quiet because I was afraid. That’s over, now. Because this isn’t about me — it never is, not really.
Epilogue
Writing this is all I have done all day. I started it around 10 this morning. I have not been out of the house. I have not put on “real” clothes. I have had a low-grade headache all day and I have been crying, on and off, all day long. I made some spaghetti at one point, ate it. I took a restless, crappy nap around 3:30. I feel so weird, like this day was marked in the Big Book of Days for one thing and one thing only: this. It has taken everything out of me. I am scared to hit the “Publish” button and I know, looking at the clock, astonished that it is nearly 8:00 p.m., it’s time.
I don’t want a blue ribbon for this post. I’m not brave. If I were, I would’ve done this a long time ago. All I want is for you, each one of you, to know how much I love you. And how much I appreciate you reading the ol’ PG, day after day, year after year — because I need you. It’s not the writing I need; it’s you. I have my diary. I have my column. I have the book that I’m writing. I write articles for the school paper. I write emails. But this blog is special. It’s like nothing else that I write because you’re on the other end of it. I’m not alone because of you. I read all your comments. I love them. You are my friends. I love the Trump voters the same as the Hillary ones. Exactly the same. Just like Bilal loved me.
Bilal’s parents, by the way, they’re from Pakistan. That my true friend in my time of need was born to immigrants from the Middle East, this is not an unimportant detail.
PaperGirl will not become a political blog. I pledge to you to not “go off” about things unless I really think them through. I pledge to not get histrionic, or hysterical, or knee-jerk. Believe me, I feel like I walk around with the wrong information or not enough information about anything to talk to you about anything, so you won’t get tirades now, just because I’ve broken the seal. I won’t try to to change your mind about anything that you hold dear; you have exquisite reasons for the things you believe. But before I go, I will tell you one thing that I come by honestly, that you can see plain in my testimony and that I cannot leave you without saying, just this once:
It’s okay to change your mind. It’s okay to say you’re keeping your options open. It’s okay to say yes and then say no.
You don’t lose when you say, “I’ve been thinking. And I’ve changed my mind about a few things.”
Not pictured: My actual vacuum, my actual carpet, my actual wall treatment. Photo: Wikipedia
WOMAN: Every time I get you out, Vacuum, I think about my life.
VACUUM: Do you have to?
WOMAN: Look at this carpet.
VACUUM: No, I mean, do you have to think about your life? Plenty of people do housework without thinking about life. It probably makes the work go faster if you don’t.
WOMAN: (She turns the dining room chairs upside down and places them on the table.) I don’t try to think about my life when I vacuum. I don’t say to myself, “Time for housework, let’s think about life.” It just happens. For example, when I put the chairs up on the table like this, it reminds me of my first job.
VACUUM: I didn’t know you then. I probably wasn’t even born then.
WOMAN: Watch it.
VACUUM: Seriously, was I around when you were 14?
WOMAN: No, you probably weren’t. You’re a very sleek Miele Jazz, in case you didn’t know and though I enjoy looking up obscure facts on the internet, I just can’t get that excited about looking up when you were first made. (Pause.) Well, now I’m curious.
(The WOMAN stops moving furniture and goes to her desktop computer. She stands there for some minutes, clicking and reading.)
WOMAN: — since 1927, but I think your model first came on the scene in 2009. This is so pointless. What was I saying?
VACUUM: Your first job.
WOMAN: Right. My real first job was at the little diner in my small town. As soon as I was 14, I went in and asked if I could be a waitress there.
VACUUM: That’s kind of romantic.
WOMAN: Ha! Spoken like true non-sentient being. Waitressing is not romantic, especially at a small-town diner where you’re running biscuits and gravy to hungry farmers from 6:00 a.m. to 3 p.m. and burning yourself on the Bunn-O-Matic coffee maker fifty times a day.
VACUUM: Fifty times?
WOMAN: (Narrowing her eyes at the VACUUM.) Yes. Fifty times.
VACUUM: Literally fifty times a day, you burned yourself on —
WOMAN: Like I was saying, it’s not a romantic job but I do think fondly of it, now. When I put chairs up on the table like this to prep for vacuuming, whenever I mop a floor, I think back on the Northside Cafe and I feel… Nostalgic, I guess. I learned a lot there. (Beat.) Maybe you’re right; maybe I am conferring some romance on the experience. Maybe I’m in a nostalgic mood. Or a romantic mood — romantic in the classical sense, I mean. Does that even make sense? “Romantic in the classical sense?”
VACUUM: I’m not sure. You mean like —
(The WOMAN starts to cry.)
VACUUM: Woah, woah. What’s wrong?
WOMAN: I’m talking to my vacuum!
VACUUM: Mm.
WOMAN: There’s something seriously wrong with me.
VACUUM: It’s not bad to talk to me. I think it’s great. I felt really lonesome in the pantry. I was hoping you would vacuum this weekend and look, here you are, getting ready to vacuum. I love the memory you’re shared with me about your job. You’re making me feel really important.
WOMAN: (Sniffs, wipes her nose on her sleeve.) Really?
VACUUM: Yes.
WOMAN: Well, that’s… Great. That’s great. (She looks around her living room.) You… You wanna do this thing?
VACUUM: Yep, fire me up.
(The WOMAN and the VACUUM vacuum the apartment and it looks great when they’re done.)
The PaperGirl mailbox. Now there was a great idea.
You people just need to get out of town, okay? Just get out. Get right on out of town with yourselves. I have with me now a stack of the most incredible, awesome, fabulous letters you have ever seen in your life. Phyllis, Mark, Dottie, Joan, Karen (Kater!!), Catherine, Annabelle, L—, and Lindsey (we’ll get to you in the next PaperGirl Mailbag post, missy) you all just have to get out of town with theseletters! I waited till I had a moment’s peace and then I sat back in the good recliner that I only use for very special occasions and read each letter with great relish. I had a glass of prosecco while I did it and I even used a letter opener so as not to ruin anything, anything. For the record, there may be no gesture in the world that communicates “I am a grown-up” more fully than opening a letter with a letter opener. Well, opening a letter with a letter opener and then taking a sip of prosecco. I hardly recognized myself!
All the letters are extraordinary. Tonight, I must highlight the one that came from Sherry, in Indiana. When I opened the letter, there was a piece of beautiful lace inside. Here’s what the letter said.
Hey, Mary!
P.O. box at the Merchandise Mart? I love Chicago, too, and all the connections with Marshall Field, architecture, noise, energy, stuff.
Here is my Box Warming gift for you: lace cut from a 4-yard length obtained for Ethel Field’s wedding dress in 1891. (Marshall’s daughter.) The newspaper account says her dress was tulle, but what do they know??
Daisy Cornick, and old family friend of my parents and one-time floorwalker in the fabric department of Marshall Field’s State Street store fetched it when she worked there as a young woman. After my girls were born and a couple of years before she died in the early ’60s, she gave it to me along with other lace pieces — narrow trim, and shorter lengths — for their wedding dresses. Such a sweet gesture, but too gorgeous and fragile and historical to use. Aside from small pieces used for trim or embellishment, it’s been tucked in a box in my studio for cdecades, waiting for the perfect reason to whack off a piece and share!
Was any of the lace used for her dress? I don’t know. But the story is true. And fun.
Thanks for the PaperGirl blog!
Love,
Sherry B.
And then there was a little p.s., hand-written, about how Sherry has met my mom and how we have acquaintances in common because of the International Quilt Study Center & Museum.
Sherry, thank you. I’m going to take this to my Micro/Macro fibers class next week! Or at least I’ll keep it with the other incredible textile bits I have been getting (along with their stories) from readers like you. I mentioned the idea of a PaperGirl Retreat someday (and I’m really letting my mind wander on that, by the way); but maybe there will be a PaperGirl Museum before long.
I’m saving all the letters and everyone who writes will get a hand-written note back. That’s a promise. I love hand-written correspondence!
*Nope. Not a real word, unless you’re me, in the Portland airport several months ago, turfing out with wine.
A sweets shop window in Hamburg. Yes, I bought several items. Photo: Me.
Winter break is nearly done; school is officially back in session starting tomorrow, though I don’t have class until Tuesday. I’m so excited to return to school; homework is like my favorite thing.
There’s something I’ve been thinking about since I took my trip to Germany. All right, I’ve been thinking lots of thoughts, but this one keeps poking me in the ribs and I figure if a thought is hefty enough to reach down and poke my ribs (knock it off!!), I’d better examine it. Welcome to the PaperGirl exam room.
My reports on the Berlin trip have concerned the emotional landscape I discovered when I got there; I haven’t adequately expressed how much I loved the city itself, how I biked through the streets with Claus, ate the most phenomenal food — mushroom and salsify raviolis, I’m looking at you — absorbed the rich, albeit somber history of the city and felt very much at home as soon as I touched down. (I did say the other day how much I loved Hamburg, but that post was more about the heart than the vibe of the city and the effect it had on me.)
So, yes, I loved Berlin and Hamburg — a lot — and as I walked across the cobblestones and sat in the pubs and cafes with my friend, as I took the trams and the trains, the thought would flicker through my mind: “I could totally live here.” And that thought terrified me.
As well it should, right? Remember how I left my beloved Chicago? Remember how happy I was when I came home? Remember how I took a chance on love, on life, on a new address (okay, a bunch of addresses) and how hard that was? When I got back to Chicago after being in NYC and DC, and when I walk up Michigan Avenue — every time, even now, well over a year after being home — I ache with happiness to be here. But as beautiful as it is to know where I belong, I feel that I must, I must keep lit the tiny flame of “What if?”
What if I fall in love again? What if I get an opportunity to move to Paris, to Moscow, to Hamburg? What if I find myself quite sad, or empty, or utterly unsatisfied and unhappy in Chicago? Anything can, and often does happen. I’m old enough to know that. Well, what if
If you ask me right now, “Would you consider leaving Chicago again?” I would narrow my eyes at you and say, in a very even tone, like I’m on a cop drama, “That’s not an option we’ll be considering.” I really do believe that my home is here and that I will be a Chicagoan till I croak, hopefully a long, long time from now.
But if I say “No, never” to the idea that I might live somewhere else — if I say, “That’s not an option we’ll be considering” — a piece of myself calcifies. To be unwilling to think of another way, to be absolutely resolute about something so fluid as life itself… It’s so hard, but I have to allow myself to fantasize about living in a European city, even as the thought of moving around the corner makes me just about burst into tears, forget moving to a different continent.
We just don’t know. I don’t know what will be best at different times for my life or maybe in the life of someone I love, someone I haven’t even met, yet. And that’s the other point I want to make on calcification: As painful as love is, and it’s been hard lately, I refuse to be hard-hearted. I’m sentenced, I think, to a life of loving a lot and if I’m lucky, there’s lots of love coming my way. But I have to stay open to it. Otherwise, it’ll find me closed up and go knocking on another door, you know? There are lots of doors, lots and lots of people who need love and who are waiting with their ear to the door, waiting on tiptoes for the knock. If there’s a “Closed” sign on my heart because I let the blues get to me, love might stay away for good.
I liked the architecture in Hamburg. I like the German language very much. I liked picturing myself at some point in my forties, maybe, living and laughing and drinking a beer in Berlin. (Doesn’t that sound fabulous?) I have to allow myself to fantasize about these things, even if they scare me. Otherwise, a hardness sets in.
That ain’t gonna work, man. After all, I’m a quilter. I’m into soft.
My quilt, “Northbound,” 2013; this is the cover quilt for my book, “Make + Love Quilts: Scrap Quilts for the 21st Century.”
Do you have a scrap quilt you are particularly proud of? Have you had a dream of this quilt of yours hanging in a show — in particular, hanging at International Quilt Festival? Would that not be a dream come true?? (For my non-quilting readers, trust me: This is a dream-come-true scenario.)
Well, the time is now to act on that dream! There is still time to submit a scrap quilt of your own making to “Beauty In Pieces: Scrap Quilts for the 21st Century,” the exhibit I have the pleasure of curating for Quilts, Inc., the folks who bring you Quilt Market, Quilt Festival, and of course, the most important of all their projects in their decades-long existence, The Quilt Scout. (I’m kidding: Quilt Market is every bit as important as my column.)
When Quilts, Inc. asked me about curating an exhibit and what that might look like, I knew instantly that I would want to make something for the mighty scrap quilt because I love scrap quilts the most. I like to say that if one shade of pink is good in a quilt, 60 shades are better. I also like to say that every fabric you use in a quilt represents a process, from the mind of the artist to the work of the engraver or computer, to the toil of the manufacturer, to the business of the shop, to you. The more fabrics you have, the more ideas and people you represent in your quilt. The scrap quilt is so strong, no?
So take a look at your quilts. And don’t fret about not having enough time to make something new; the call for entries for these things is pretty short and not long enough for most folks to whip up something fresh. For anyone who wants to make a quilt in five days, be my guest. Don’t forget to drink water and feed the dog.
I can’t wait to see your work. There is beauty — so much beauty — in pieces.
Not quite a month ago, I announced that I got a post office box for PaperGirl. I’ve visited the box just once so far, a little before I left for Berlin. I got two letters! That felt so, so, so good. To dear Phyllis and the giver of the lace sample from Marshall Field’s (!!) you will be honored here soon as my first correspondents.
Now that I feel officially back from my trip — there’s more to say about Berlin but I just can’t right now — I’m excited to do errands. That’s how I know that everything is gonna be okay: when I get excited about errands again. (Note: It usually only takes me a few days and I get this fabulous, dust-yourself-off trait from Mom.) Probably my most looked-forward-to errand is to go check the PaperGirl mailbox tomorrow. I can’t wait. My innocent excitement, the big-eyed joy I get whenever I get a letter — in any letterbox to which I have a key — is immense, so go on! Send that postcard or box of gold bricks to Mary Fons/PaperGirl, P.O. Box 3957, Chicago, IL 60654-8777 today. Your mail will be cherished and kept. That’s a promise.
What’s neat about the letter I’m going to share with you now, though, is that it came to me before I had the box. I got this message via my mom (and maybe to Mom via the Fons & Porter office?) a few months ago. I put it into a stand-in briefcase I wasn’t used to using and misplaced it until a few weeks ago. Susan, I apologize: This piece of mail you sent is extraordinary and you haven’t heard from me, yet. Let’s do this.
Thank you so much for the fabric and the fabulous letter, Susan. You’re an excellent letter-writer, by the way, and of course I love your taste in fabric.
PaperGirl readers are incredible. Maybe there should be an annual PG convention. Or at least a retreat. We could all meet, swap fabric, stories, and read books and sew. I would seriously be into that. Anyone else? Okay, here’s Susan’s communique:
In the 1950’s my great aunt Vivian went shopping for fabric to make kitchen curtains and this is what she came home with. Now, in that era, many women in their 50’s and 60’s were proper and matronly. Aunty Vivian chose the fabric because she liked the colors, thought they would be perfect! Then, after she got home… She saw the design and was aghast; how could she ever let her friends see these ladies in her kitchen!
I was a teenager (good grief, where has the time gone?) and thought the Springmaids, from the ads for Springmaid sheets, were as clever as could be. Had no idea what I would do with the fabric, but I wanted it!
Eventually, I covered a lampshade and stretched one repeat on a frame to hang next to the lamp. Yet I still had the enclosed piece and never could figure out what to do with it. Didn’t want to cut it up for a blouse, didn’t need a curtain, already had a lampshade… and so it sat in a drawer.
And, now it’s yours to pet and find a clever use for. I hope you enjoy it.
At the Elbphilharmonie in Hamburg. That’s Claus, who is almost pathologically averse to having his picture taken. (He’s very handsome, so this makes no sense.) Photo: Me.
Most of the time, if you ask someone, “Hey, what were you up to Sunday afternoon?”, the answer is not going to be, “I was in Hamburg, Germany.” That would be my answer, though, if someone were to ask me. It’s a very specific thing to ask — “What were you up to Sunday afternoon?” — but it could happen.
The entirety of my trip to his country, Claus was a superb tour director; this cannot be denied. He asked me a month ago if I was interested in leaving Berlin for a day to visit Hamburg. The decision was not to be made lightly. With only a week’s worth of time, leaving Berlin explore another city might be best saved for another trip. “Next time,” right? There’s always “next time.”
It’s true that I wanted to focus my energies and get deep impression of Berlin. But when I thought about a train ride through the German countryside and how heaven on Earth is snuggling on a train; when I thought about seeing another city in Germany that would then give me perspective on Berlin; when I thought about adventure, ultimately, my answer could only be yes. “Let’s do Hamburg,” I said to Claus. So we did. Claus bought train tickets and we were out the door early, greeting the cold.
You know how you go to certain places and you’re instantly like, “Wow, get me outta here!” The place could be a party, a neighborhood, a city — even a whole country. But then there are other places that just zap you and you go, “Okay, well, I’m moving here.” That was Hamburg for me.
The aesthetic harmony. The harbor. The jaw-droppingly gorgeous new symphony center that has only been open two weeks, which made it extra exciting to see. Hamburg is called “the Venice of Germany” for its canals and channels, but I think it beats Venice with an oar; the winding streets and bridges were downright seductive.
The food was incredible (e.g., pumpkin soup, fresh fish, chocolate from the chocolate shop, micro-brewed beer.) I didn’t buy anything — hello, spring semester tuition bill — but the window shopping was great; there were many shops that offered German-made goods and if I could’ve spent lots and lots of money and checked nine suitcases, I would have come home with an entirely new wardrobe. Le sigh.
It was a dream day. Start to finish. Am I punishing myself, reliving it? Or is it giving a gift back to the day to describe it all? There’s a fine line between honoring and wallowing, I think, but damned if I know where the line is or where I’m falling on it now.
Being an adult feels lousy, sometimes. This is due in part because all the beauty of a city like Hamburg can be laid before you — even in memory — and all you see is a rain cloud.
From inside the Berlin-Hohenschönhausen Memorial. Photo: Me.
I have returned after being in another country — and I don’t just mean Germany. My heart’s been in a strange land.
When you have had the kind of week I’ve had — was there ever a “kind” of week as this? — attempting to write it all down in any coherent way feels impossible. How can all the thoughts, emotions, panics, moments of hope, and moments of despair that occurred during my brief (but long), trans-Atlantic (trans-planetary?) trip be corralled into letters and sentences?
James Joyce wrote the strange and beautiful and at often inscrutable Ulysses out of a desire to capture in language what our thought process actually looks like. His assertion was that we don’t think in complete, organized, crafted sentences and paragraphs; it’s thought soup up there. Therefore, in Ulysses, you get sentences that look really strange but also closer, somehow, to how words and thoughts ceaselessly roll and zip and rumble around in our heads. You get sentences like:
“Our souls, shame-wounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.”
and:
“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”
and this, oh, this:
“Love loves to love love.”
Truth: I have a copy of Ulysses I’ve never read. But it has officially come down off the shelf because I feel sad and empty about love and when you feel sad and empty about love, you don’t need medical attention; you need poetry. You need a great novel like Ulysses or anything by George Eliot. Art heals parts of us that doctors cannot apprehend. Grief, regret, a broken heart — ask your doctor about these things the next time you have a physical and you will elicit only a strange look. You will not be handed a cure, nor will you be handed a book of poems, though that would be way cool, don’t you think? If your doctor handed you a book of poetry and told you to call her in the morning? We laugh, but this kind of medical care could help a lot of people. It could help me.
Berlin was hard. It was hard because even though Claus and I aren’t together, I think in the back of my mind — truly, I have not been entertaining this thought consciously because I pride myself as having two feet on the ground — I thought we still might be. Or maybe we would be. Could be. But we’re not. Not now. Probably not ever. Sure, sure: Who knows? But after this trip, I feel like I just can’t hang a hope on that. For a lot of reasons. Neither of us are seeing anyone seriously; we talked all about that. It’s not that. We have the most marvelous time together. We love each other dearly. But there are major roadblocks in this relationship — and the Atlantic Ocean ain’t the only one, friends. (It might not even be the biggest one and that’s a very large body of water.)
It’s so sad when reality dumps ice water on a fantasy that kept you warm on bad days. You know?
We visited the Berlin Wall memorial. We toured a Stasi prison in the old GDR. When I say I was in another country, this is partly due to the fact I spent half the week in former communist East Germany and among German WWII memorials. There was a lot of looking at death this past week, a lot of witnessing an entire country’s pain. I didn’t write in my journal. I didn’t write to you. I just had thought soup the whole time; thought soup and heart-sickness.
I’m no James Joyce and even goofing around with his style is something I should probably not even try, that’s how good he was at writing. But the cool thing about writing is that these letters and words and sentences are as much mine to goof around with as they are anyone else’s, so here goes. Maybe these Ulyssean, “thought soup” sentences will do a better job at getting at how I feel today and better describe what Berlin was like than any of the ordered, normal sentences I’ve written so far.
Wet keyboard tears plop splash miss you miss you, oh well, oh well, oh no.
Snow in Berlin swirling round the crashing yes beard scruffy beautiful man this man who is this man who is this man I love.
The Brandenburg Gate, Berlin, 2008. Photo: Wikipedia.
I got here on Thursday morning and it feels like the last three days have just been one, long day and night. It’s not jet lag, exactly; it’s more a feeling of being drunk with excitement and expectation.
I’ve been going, going, going since arrival and this post is a placeholder. There’s so much to tell but I can hardly keep my eyes open to type the next word and I fear that soon I’ll lay my head down on the keyboard and you’ll get something brilliant like kosssssssspsspppp ihhwwhhoooooooo
… so I’d better sign off till the morning. Also, it’s tough to know where to start as I examine my thoughts on the trip so far because full disclosure: It’s been very emotional to be here. If my relationship with Claus were a meal you cook at home, it would be breakfast. There are many moving parts, it’s hard to get the timing right, everything is delicious but burns easily (I’m looking at you, bacon and pancakes) and the orange juice is pulpy but the muffins are amazing, so get them out on the table! With butter! I need a spatula!
Was that a woiisisiisaaaaaaallllllll,,,mbnn moment or themost brilliant thing I’ve ever written??
The Woodstock Opera House! Do you see me inside, waiting for you? See? Look closer… (Just kidding! I’m not there, yet!) Photo: Wikipedia.
My bag is being packed for my trip to Berlin and I said I was going to tell you about some of the mail that has started to come in, but I realize that I need to do this first!
This year, I have the distinct pleasure of speaking this year for the kinda-sorta legendary Creative Living Lecture Series in Woodstock, Illinois. I’ll be there next week, January 19th. There are 400 seats in the theater and I have learned that they are almost sold out for the show! But there are still tickets left to come see me next Thursday, so if you can make it, get yourself a ticket and let’s hang out. Here’s where you can get the ticket online, or you can call or go here:
WOODSTOCK OPERA HOUSE BOX OFFICE INFORMATION Phone: (815) 338-5300 Hours: Monday – Thursday, 10:00 AM – 4:00 PM,
Friday and Saturday, 10:00 PM – 6:00 P.M. and 2 hours before performances.
(Visa, MasterCard and Discover accepted.)
The phenomenal Creative Living Lecture Series has been running since 1964 and is organized by the Woodstock Fine Arts Association. Reading through the history of that group is to read the story of incredibly passionate, dedicated people who had a vision for their town and also for the historic opera house where the series takes place alongside lots of other terrific productions throughout the year. The opera house is on the historic register and guess who performed there once? My husband across time and space: Paul Newman! Did you know that I am actually single because I am and have always been and will always be married to the most perfect man who ever lived on the Earth, Paul Newman? Orson Welles also performed at the Woodstock Opera House but I am not married to him. Just Paul Newman.
Creative Living has featured incredible speakers over the years, including: Dr. Temple Grandin, Maya Angelou, Billy Collins, Charlie Trotter, Beverly Sills, Martha Stewart, Dr. Joyce Brothers, Rick Steves, Studs Terkel, Joseph Epstein (one of my favorite writers!), Ann Patchett (one of my mom’s favorite writers!), Rick Bayless, Bill Kurtis, Gene Siskel, and so many other people that are amazing that I can’t believe I’m going to be a part of such a neat event. I get to breathe that air, man! Wow.
My talk is about my journey in quilting and I will also speak about the history of the American quilt and about designing fabric. I’ll have quilts to show, of course, and there will be books for sale that I will happily autograph.
Come to Woodstock! I can’t wait to be there and see you.
Claus sent me this when he got to Berlin this summer. It’s on the fridge. Scan: Me.
On Wednesday, I am going to fly on a plane and land in Berlin! Just over a month ago, I got a cheap, cheap ticket for a quick, quick trip and now the journey is almost upon us.* It’s been over five years since I left the country so as you can imagine, I am very excited to go.
But if I was just going to Berlin for the heck of it, just to see Berlin or take a trip to a foreign land because the price was right, I’d be excited with the kind of excitement you get when you get a cupcake at a cupcake shop (yes, there are shops that only sell cupcakes and this is why I live in a big city.) You take the cupcake out of the box and peel back the paper and open your mouth to take the first bite and to be sure, this is a great level of excitement. But it’s not as good as it gets.
Because I know this wonderful person in Berlin. And I get to see him after saying goodbye to him seven months ago. So the kind of excitement I feel about going to Berlin is like getting a homemade cupcake from someone who made your favorite kind — yellow cake, vanilla fudge frosting with sprinkles — and not because you asked but because they love you. They love to see you smile. My friend Sophie made me a Funfetti birthday cake this summer, so I know these things do actually happen, these people do exist.
Tonight, I was fortunate to share a glass of wine and some french fries with two of my favorite people: the birthday cake-maker, Sophie, and Brian, a hot chocolate fan. Six months ago, I didn’t know either of them; we connected because of grad school at SAIC. If I get nothing but these friendships out of the experience, grad school will have been worth it. Seriously; come have wine and french fries with us and you’ll see what I mean.
We talked about our respective love lives. I asked Sophie about a possible engagement ring in her future; Brian spoke to the situation he finds himself in lately, introducing his newly-relocated-to-Chicago girlfriend to his friends; I spoke about my ongoing, satisfying dalliance with a certain young man. Of course we talked about my upcoming trip. Suddenly, the conversation went to a very deep place. Discussion of jobs lead to passionate feelings about Big Stuff — life and money, goals and reality, art school, the meaning of happiness, success — and several things were touched off in each of us that, over the course of the conversation, created some tears and frustration. (Full disclosure: I cried a lot.)
People will tell you that folks are most guarded and sensitive when talking about sex, but it’s not true: Jobs and income and money and making a living, owning what you have, wanting what you don’t and even not wanting what you do have — this is far more intimate stuff to talk about. We went there tonight and it wasn’t easy, but it was really important. If you don’t get vulnerable to the point of tears with other people at least sometimes, you forget that you can do that and the world doesn’t disintegrate and they don’t run away. And you don’t run away. And this can be the biggest revelation of all.
The reason I’m telling you about this in the same post about going to Berlin is because it’s all related.
I live by myself. I like living by myself. I like my tea in the morning and a hamper filled with only my underwear. But I am the opposite of alone. The people in my life, they push me to think harder, love better; they correct me, they encourage me. Berlin, Chicago, Australia (hi, Yuri), Iowa, or New York City — in these places, I am never alone. And when I’m in between those places? They’re with me in those places, too.
Ocean, schmocean. You know?
And then there’s you. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you what’s been coming in the mail. File my whole life under “Embarrassment Of Riches.”
Fiber artwork depicting adaptive yoga by “FiberArtGirl” in 2012. Image: Wikipedia! See footnote.
I did it! Yesterday was Day 30 of my 30-Day Bikram yoga challenge. I did 30 classes in 30 days without skipping a single day. How about that. It took serious dedication, I ain’t gon’ lie. But it also wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done because I was genuinely grateful to be there.
When I walked into the studio a month ago, my body was crying out for help. My knees were junky, my shoulder hurt all the time, and bad habits were catching up to me in all kinds of ways. I was hungry to do some work in that hot room, even if it hurt — and it frequently did. But when you have the right mindset about something, the struggle bus doesn’t seem like the worst way to get from Point A to Point B. At least you’re gonna get out of where you are, right? At least you’re going to have Point A in the rearview mirror before too long and if Point A is just that lousy, you can’t wait to see it getting smaller and smaller as you go forward. The struggle bus feels pretty good when you see that, even if where you are is kinda rough.
I don’t usually prescribe things or give advice — a girl needs to figure out her own life before she starts telling others about theirs — but tonight, I can’t help myself:
My dears, try some yoga.
There are PaperGirl readers out there who are practitioners already and I am mentally high-fiving you all. But for those who haven’t ever tried yoga or have fallen off their practice, I urge you with not a whiff of ecstatic-weirdo-convert or tiresome “Let me tell you how much you’re missing by not doing [insert thing here]”: Give yoga a chance.
It’s about breathing and stretching. That’s all. Yoga is not a religion. It’s not a threat. It’s just you.
“Yoga” means “union,” as in the union of your body and your breath, for example. You don’t have to be fit to start; that’s never been true. You can do yoga with injuries because there are modifications for every pose. People in wheelchairs do yoga;* people who have had spinal surgeries (and all kinds of surgeries) do it. You can move your toe one little inch and if that’s your yoga that day, if that’s you doing something good for your body, that’s terrific! You’re doing yoga!
I’m telling you, my knees don’t hurt right now. Really, after just 30 days of stretching and breathing and stuff, they feel great. My shoulder hasn’t felt better in two years. And I’m a very skeptical person! But the proof is in the mirror. My pelt is shiner. My eyes are sparklier. I don’t feel as sad as I did 30 days ago, either.
Hey, don’t take it from me. My mom — the one-and-only Marianne Fons — does regular yoga. She started years ago when a studio opened in Winterset and she credits yoga with helping her be more flexible. She loves how during “relaxation” at the end of every class — yoga classes end with “savasana” pose, which is basically like taking a mini-nap! — she often gets great ideas, like what her next quilt will be, or how to end a chapter of her novel. Mom also says yoga gives her extra pep. We all want more pep, even Marianne, who was born with a pep surplus.
Yoga is not a contest. You don’t have to go in being “good at yoga”; the big revelation is that no one is ever “good at yoga.” Because that is not the point. Having yoga in your life is about taking a few minutes each day to love your sweet, tired, beautiful, tough, hard, soft, aging, sick, strong, fabulous, confusing, mysterious, gorgeous, true body. Nothing more, nothing less. You are so powerful. Did you forget? Yoga can help you remember. I promise.
Give it a shot this year. Tell them Mary sent you. Do any kind of yoga, whatever feels good. It can be “old lady yoga” or Bikram yoga. Ashtanga is way cool but it’s pretty demanding. Lots of gyms offer it, many cities that do Groupons will offer awesome deals to get started. Shop around. Get a pal to do it with you; that could be fun. Don’t see it as a New Year’s resolution; see it as your birthright to be a friend to yourself, to act on your own behalf.
Okay, advice over.
You know what I did to celebrate the completion 30 day challenge? I went to yoga. So I’m 31/30. Well, I also got a veggie burger from Devil Dawgs around the corner from the studio and mercy that thing was good. It’s the spicy sauce and the grilled onions.
*The image for this post came from Wikipedia as usual, but how neat that when I searched ‘yoga’ I found a quilt about yoga!! This was made by someone called “FiberArtGirl.” Way cool. Thanks, quilter. This is really lovely.
Advertisement for depilatory cream, c. 1915. Image: Wikipedia.
As my appointment with my dermatologist drew to a close on Tuesday, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. Well, I could have refused it, but I didn’t.
“We got a new hair-removal laser,” Dr. B. said, re-clipping my chart to her clipboard and gesturing to an enormous box in the corner of the room. “It’s state-of-the-art, really the best on the market. We’re doing a training session with the staff on Friday and there’s one slot left open for volunteers.”
What she meant was “volunteers willing to be zapped with literal laser beams on their bodies — but for free instead of paying for it!”
Now, I’m not a person who really obsesses over body hair — you people know who you are — but I have been curious about this laser business. I looked at the pamphlet Dr. B. gave me; that laser was fancy. That it wouldn’t cost me anything was the selling point, as it were, proof that laser hair-removal just doesn’t mean that much to me: I’ll try it if I don’t have to pay for it. Lo and behold, here was my chance.
“Okay,” I said, and hopped off the chair. My appointment was set by the girls for today at 2 p.m.
I almost cancelled. It was Friday afternoon, it seemed like a low-commitment appointment, and who wants to get zapped by a literal laser beam just for fun? Well, me, apparently. Besides, I like Dr. B. and the office staff a lot and didn’t want to flake out on them, even for a no-big-deal, free appointment like this one.
Little did I know what a huge deal this actually was, this training session — and little did I know that I would soon have six people looking at my armpit.
When I arrived promptly at two, they were all waiting for me, all the girls and Dr. B., plus the guy in charge of the training. It turns out Dr. B.’s office isn’t even open on Fridays, but the entire staff was there all day today to learn this equipment. There was a decidedly serious look on everyone’s face which I would come to understand was because the guy doing the training — call him Laser Guy — was super intense about this laser training. Which is a good thing, I suppose, but you could’ve cut the air with a knife — or a, you know, laser.
“Come in,” said Dr. B. with a tight smile; Veronica ushered me back into the exam room.
“So what area are we doing?” Veronica asked me in a low voice as she opened up packets of alcohol swabs.
I had been thinking about this and decided that I would like to never have to shave my knees. Shaving my legs is no big deal, but man! Shaving the knees is annoying. The Marie Antoinette-ness of the situation not being lost on me, I told Veronica, ever-so-slightly stressing the “eee’s” in the last two words:
“I’d like to do my knees, please.”
She jerked her head up. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you. It’s just the upper lip, chin, or armpits.”
I have big rabbit teeth. One of my eyes is sizably smaller than the other and remember my lipoma? I’ve got plenty of “unique” physical characteristics, but upper lip hair and chin hair, not yet. I’m sure my day will come. Standing there with Victoria today, I was grateful anew for this: I don’t know if I would be okay with a laser, especially a free one, was going to be laser-ing my face.
“I guess arm…pits,” I said, and Veronica gave me a paper shirt to put on as she went to get the rest of the staff, Dr. B., and Laser Guy. I didn’t even have time to feel sad about having to shave my knees for the rest of my days before everyone was filing into the room.
Dr. B. gave me a pair of leaded goggles that made me look like a character from Bladerunner. I was instructed to lay back and put my arm up. Laser Guy barked orders and talked about me like I wasn’t there, like, “Now, you would want to ask the client, ‘Do you have any other questions before we get started?’ and if she asks about pain, you would want to say what?”
“She would like to ask about pain, actually,” I said, totally blind at this point because of the goggles and aware of a fan blowing somewhere. Dr. B. told me the pain would be about a 4-5 out of 10 and that I’d be fine. Okay, I said, and Laser Guy talked a little more and then they went for it. They zapped my armpits.
It was really weird. It didn’t hurt that much, but remember that our armpits are not supposed to be seeing much action. Really, they’re not supposed to see any action of any kind, ever. That’s a tender spot that isn’t good for much. My point is that if there’s a laser in there, it’s not going to feel good. And you smell burnt hair, kinda. I mentioned that I smelled it and Veronica said,
“That’s the smell of success!”
“Don’t say that,” Laser Guy said. “That’s not for the clients to hear, just our little joke. Seriously, don’t say that.”
When I had changed and walked out of the room, they all sort of role-played with me about after-care follow-up appointments while Laser Guy watched and took notes. The whole thing was surreal, like an alien had body-snatched Dr. B. and the gals for the afternoon to train them to use a world-domination laser beam. I thanked them and made a beeline for the elevator.
Outside, the sun was shining and my armpits were tingling in a pleasant way. All in a day’s work.
!["The Old Quilt [SCOUT]" by Walter Langley, date unknown. Image: Wikipedia.](https://www.papergirltoo.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/Walter_Langley_-_The_Old_Quilt.jpg)
