5 Feb 2015

Little Peppers.

by | posted in: Rant | 2
Female child. Photo: Wikimedia Commons, 2007.
Female child. Photo: Wikimedia Commons, 2007.

It remains to be seen if I shall be a mother in this life.

In college, I was a vocal member of the “Kids? Me? Never!” Club. There were all kinds of reasons I swore I’d never have kids, none original or hardy, but one’s twenties are for making impassioned proclamations that may or may not stick. My eyes were on work and art and catching the eye of the chef at the restaurant where I waited tables. At that time in my life, it would’ve been far more plausible for me to say, “I’m thinking about switching my major to poli-sci,” than to say, “I think I’d like to have kids someday.”

Once I got kicked in the face by post-college, big-city life, my “Kids? Me? Never!” Club (KMNC) card was further accredited. A big, red, rubber stamp traveled all over it with words like “Broke” and “Aimless” and “Too Much Vodka.” Kids were now even further out in Possibilities Ocean. Back then, you would’ve heard me say, “I’m really happy with my stock portfolio right now,” sooner than you’d have heard me say, “I think I wanna be a mom.”

Then I got married and talked with my then husband about starting a family, of course. Then I was smote by God. Then I got divorced. Somewhere in that melee, a couple doctors said, “A pregnancy? For you? With the eh and the meh? Maybe not such a good idea.” There were others who were like, “You’re fine, you can have kids, no problem.” And as all this transpired, my KMNC card started to show some wear. I would forget to take it out of my jeans and send it through the wash. I would clean out my wallet and forget to put the card back in and then I’d find it a few months later and go, “Oh, yeah. This thing.” Sometimes, I even thought about throwing it in the garbage on purpose. Because when someone tells you (me) that you can’t do something, naturally, this thing you cannot do becomes the thing you must do. I don’t believe I must have a child, but my refusal to consider it is gone. The card is gone.

The other day, I heard a woman on the radio talking about adopting a little baby and raising that baby on her own. The story was beautiful and suddenly I had something in my eye. “I should do that,” I thought. “I could adopt a kid someday.” And I wrote down on a post-it note, “I think I want to adopt a kid someday” and I put the date on it: January 28th, 2015. It’s on the fridge right now. Who knows. I figure I could give a kid a pretty good life.

A video of a man being burned alive in a cage has been playing on small screens around the world since yesterday. I haven’t seen the footage but I heard about it on the radio. Though I keep my media intake extremely low, I have been surprised that in the commentary I have heard, no one has talked about how to ensure that young children do not see videos of men being burned alive in cages. It sounds like everyone is “horrified” and that the act was “unconscionable” and “terrifying” and if it is all those things to someone who can drive and read the paper, what do you suppose it is to someone who is six?

If I were a mother, I would read to my kid. Constantly, all the time. Questions such as, “Mommy, can I get this book?” and “Mommy, can I read while I take a bath?” would be met every time with “Yup.” I would make sure the kid had clean clothes and sandwiches. And if there was a video going around of a man being burned alive in a cage, I would throw my body over as many screens as I could to protect that child from seeing something like that.

A six-year-old is gonna learn about death. Bugs, birds, and hamsters all die and this is nothing to be afraid of when you’re using truth and kindness to discuss it. But cockroaches who burn men alive in cages, record themselves doing this, and then use their footage as a dental drill on the raw nerves of their enemies, this is not the kind of death a child can or ever should stare down.

You don’t need to be a mother, I guess, to feel lioness-level rage.

4 Feb 2015

Who’s To Say?

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Story | 0
Doris Day in Romance on the High Seas (1948)
Doris Day in Romance on the High Seas (1948).

I heard a parable once that stuck to me like bubblegum on my high heels. It’s one you may have heard yourself — you’ll recognize it at once if you have — and if you haven’t, do enjoy the stickiness. This is my retelling, which I’m sure is clear.

There once was a farmer who had a single horse with which to work his land. One day, the horse ran away. “That is terrible news!” said his concerned neighbor. The farmer shrugged and said, “Who’s to say what is good and what is bad?” The neighbor probably looked at him like he was weird. He was kind of weird, but that has nothing to do with the story.

The horse came back the very next day and brought another horse with him! Very good news, no? Maybe, maybe not. Because the farmer gave the second horse to his strapping son and the next day, the horse threw the young man off and he broke his leg in like nine places. The (nosy) concerned neighbor said, “Ooh! Now that is bad news!” but the farmer put up his hands and said, “Who’s to say what is good and what is bad?” Now the neighbor was like, “See ya,” and he didn’t take over a hot dish to the son, who was convalescing.

In a week or so, the king’s men — because we are in Arthurian England, suddenly — came to take every able-bodied man to war. They didn’t take the farmer’s son, clearly, because he was useless to them with the broken leg.

Good news, no?

I think about this story so much. Because again and again and again in my life, I see this playing out. When I moved away to college, I was sad and afraid. But then, you know, college was awesome. I got a job in a nightclub when I was twenty-two and thought, “Boo-yah!” but it was terrible after awhile. I was so excited to move to New York City last year and then it turned so sour. And I was incredibly sad and disappointed when I had to relinquish my lovely D.C. townhouse to the rat, rat, rats, but do you know that… Well, I’m so happy here. I love this building now. It’s cozy. It’s safer. The sun comes up over Washington D.C. in peachy pink and golden orange and I just feel so happy.

I’m not sure how anemia can be good, but who knows? The boy in the story who shattered his leg certainly didn’t think it was very good, but then he didn’t have to fight in a war. Maybe I’ll be spared a war.

Maybe you will.

 

 

2 Feb 2015

Sometimes Fancy Ain’t Fancy, Just Smart

by | posted in: Fashion | 0
Woman's silk damask shoes with buckles; 1740-1750, London. Photo: Los Angeles Museum of Art.
Woman’s silk damask shoes with buckles; 1740-1750, London. Photo: Los Angeles Museum of Art.

All this talk of magazine closures and hemogoblins calls for lighter fare. It’s time for fashion.

Years ago, I dated a chap who did not own a pair of bluejeans. He was fancy. He wore suits and bowties and because I liked him so much, I decided to clean up my act. I was a scruffy, twenty-two year-old slam poet waitress, so I naturally lived in jeans and hoodies. This guy was charmed by me, but it was clear that I’d need a dress or two if I was gonna go out with him.

Embarking on this upgrade wasn’t easy; I was still on a waitress budget, so I got good at sourcing fake pearl earrings and designer dresses at secondhand shops. But it worked. I began to cut a fine figure, if I do say so. I kept refining it because I discovered was that when I dressed a little nicer, when my shoes were polished, life was kinda better. People smiled at me more. I walked a bit taller. This was not social climbing — no one was mistaking me for Brooke Astor — but it was confidence-building. I was hooked.

The dapper fellow dumpity-dump-dump dumped me and broke my heart, but I continued to work on fanciness. (Who needed that guy, anyway. Bow-ties? Seriously?) Not long after the breakup, I quit working as a coat check girl and a waitress and got several great writing jobs. Eventually, I could afford nicer clothes (take that, Mr. Fancy Pants!) and I learned the true secret to looking good in one’s clothes:

Buy nice stuff, never at full-boat retail, and get a good tailor.

Got a nice dress? Take it to a tailor. For a bit o’ cash, you can get that dress taken in a nip there, let out a bit here, and voila: you are now a smokin’ hot mama. Gentlemen’s suits can be shaved down a smidge or opened up a bit; suddenly a fellow who looked rather average before is now A Man of Consequence. Tailors vary in style and price, of course, but start humbly and get used to the process: you’ll come to love it. You know all the dry cleaning places with the signs that say, “Alterations”? That means they do alterations in there. The pantsuit you really love but never wear because the crotch is…well, it’s not good. That can be fixed, usually. Instead of buying a new outfit ($100+) you can be green, fancy, and look great for far less.

Cobblers are important, too. The high heels that look like the dog chewed them can be restored within a day or so. Twenty bucks at a shoe repair shop beats Zappos with a stick.

That is the fashion report. The body report is that I’m feeling better but worried that my body cannot absorb iron. A friend emailed me to share her own anemia trouble; she’s been battling acute anemia for several decades. I may be in for another odyssey; we shall see. Thank you to each and every kindly soul who sent encouragement. I can’t reply to all the comments but I see all of them.

Thank you. Now go into your closet and make a plan!

 

1 Feb 2015

Sneak Peek: Letter From the Editor, Final Issue of Quilty

by | posted in: Quilting | 1
The first time I saw the first issue of Quilty in print. Chicago, 2011.
The first time I saw the first issue of Quilty in print. Chicago, 2011.

I’ve been dragging my feet, writing the last Letter From the Editor for Quilty’s May/Jun ’15 issue. It’ll be tweaked before it’s in print at the end of April, but I’m happy with it for now.

Dear Friends:

The first issue of Quilty magazine came out the summer of 2011. As the magazine was put together, I remember knowing only two things for sure: Quilty needed to exist, and I needed to learn how to make a magazine really fast.

What you are holding is the last issue of Quilty magazine. With thousands of fans and a river of “I love you, Quilty! You taught me how to make quilts!!!” fan mail, it seems impossible. Quilty has made such an impact; isn’t it only getting started? Yes, but that start looks different than I thougt it would. More on that in a moment.

The reasons for closing a magazine are numerous and, frankly, rather boring; it’s all P&L spreadsheets, dry meetings, and examination of market data. Knowing that magazines close almost as frequently as restaurants is cold comfort to me. It takes a village to make an issue, but Quilty has been like my kid and now my kid is leaving home.

This is where I get Kleenex.

There’s no need to cry, though; Quilty is immortal. We have proof in letters, comments, pictures, and emails that hundreds and hundreds of people have learned to make quilts because of Quilty. Beginners everywhere — and not a few veterans — have been inspired to become that beautiful thing called “a quilter” because of a little magazine. Is Quilty really over? Hardly. For the people who learned by and from it, it will always be part of their story.

“Where did you learn to make quilts?” they’ll ask you.

“Oh, there used to be this wonderful magazine called Quilty. It was so great. It ran great patterns and there were all these how-to’s and tons of quilt history and context. It closed, but I have all my back issues. Wanna borrow them?”

And then another quilter is born and another. We are all stitched together, a big patchwork quilt. Quilty has been and will always be just one patch. Thank you for reading.

Piece,
Mary

 

31 Jan 2015

Let’s Talk About The Monkey.

by | posted in: Family | 0
Existential despair? Or rapture? One cannot be sure with Pendennis, but one can always be curious.
Existential despair or pure rapture? One cannot be sure with Pendennis, but one can always be curious.

I am a grown woman and I have a stuffed animal. Like, right over there. On the couch.

I do not chew on this object. It does not come with me on business trips. I don’t rub it on my cheek to soothe me when I’m scared or advised to seek the help of an oncologist to figure out my severe hemogoblin problem. This stuffed animal is not exactly a security blanket; besides, he’s too small to properly cover a grown woman. He couldn’t possibly be a security blanket. It’s ridiculous.

Many years ago, when I was in high school — late 1990s — I was the teacher’s aide for Mrs. Silber, one of the coolest, prettiest, raddest teachers I ever had. She was brassy and blonde and sorta husky, but that description makes her sound like a waitress in Reno. No, Mrs. Silber was classy. She was an art teacher, so that says a lot. Just tops, that lady. I actually babysat her kids once but I was a terrible babysitter because children scared me to death. I let them do anything. Marshmallows, TV — anything.

I had discovered the joy of sock monkeys somewhere during this time. Knowing this and loving me, at the end of that senior year, Mrs. Silber made me my very own sock monkey. Thirty kids drew me cards of sock monkeys to go with it. I was headed to college; I needed cards. Of course, I was overjoyed with the gifts. It was love at first squeeze.

Now, there was, you will remember, a sock monkey zeitgeist that has recently, blessedly passed. My love for my sock monkey was something I felt I had to hide while the culture experienced a sock monkey craze. Sheets, fabric, keychains, pajamas, mugs — for awhile, everywhere you looked (in Target especially) there were monkeys. But I was stalwart. I kept my dignity. I knew my love was strong, original, and unwavering, that the fickle public would move on soon enough. I was not wrong: Frozen came and Legos came again and I no longer felt like a joiner. I refuse to join!

Regarding the monkey’s name: Pendennis is the protagonist in William Makepeace Thackeray’s The History of Pendennis, written in 1904. If my life depended on it, I could not tell you why I named my monkey Pendennis because a public high school education in Iowa is great, but ain’t nobody reading Thackeray. I feel like my friend Leia and I came across the name, somehow, and it was just too memorable, funny, and odd to pass up. However he was named, the monkey was named Pendennis and so he has remained.

Pendennis is on the set of every Quilty episode ever taped. He is the mascot and masthead of this blog. He has been with me through many periods of convalescence.The gestures he effortlessly creates; the way his body flop-mopseys around; that eternal gaze… I either laugh out loud or shake my head when I see him or see just the tip of his hat poking out from the covers. Pendennis is a metaphor, a symbol, a monkey-ersonification of what I see is the baffling, beautiful experience of living. Yeah, I know. All that from a monkey.

I’ve written of my wee friend before. I will again, too, because there are friends and then their are friends — and then there is Pendennis.

29 Jan 2015

Cynthia!! A 10-Minute Play by Mary Fons

by | posted in: Plays | 1
You and me, Cynthia.
You and me, Cynthia.

I am flat on my back. My goals are to eat a piece of steak and answer emails. In that order. But this morning I took a little time to write a little play. The 10-minute play is a great form. It’s just get in, get out. There are 10-minute play festivals around the country; audiences love them because in chocolate and in theater, bite-sized is probably best.

Many of you will recognize the names of famous quilters in this play; I assure you I gave each woman the script to approve ahead of time. Not surprisingly, they saw the satire as all in good fun and happily let their names be used. Resist skipping ahead to see who; it won’t make sense without reading from the start.

And now, PaperGirl Theater Presents:

Cynthia!!

by Mary Fons
© Jan 2015


CHARACTERS

MARY – Thirtysomething white woman. On-camera quilt show host, designer.  MARY gesticulates wildly and has an expressive face; some viewers are vocal about hating these qualities in her but what can she do? MARY has exceptional taste in footwear. Uncombed hair.

CYNTHIA – Twentysomething, in her first job out of charm school. She wears oversized red glasses that are forever sliding down her nose. CYNTHIA dreams of vacations she will not have for many years. She plays guitars at open-mics on Tuesdays.

SETTING: MARY’S office, morning.

MARY: Cynthia!

CYNTHIA: (rushing in.) Yes, Miss Fons.

MARY: Where am I going next week? Hilton Head? Tahoe?

CYNTHIA: Omaha, Miss Fons, and Southern Illinois.

MARY: (sipping tea) I see. Southern Illinois is a rather large territory, Cynthia. Where in Southern Illinois am I going? Carbondale, surely.

CYNTHIA: Perry County, Miss Fons.

MARY: Cynthia, in the time it took you to tell me that, I have googled Southern Illinois and discovered the region is known as “Little Egypt.” Were you aware of that?

CYNTHIA: I’m afraid not, Miss Fons.

MARY: (Puts feet up on desk, chews pencil absentmindedly.) Cynthia, put on your list that every time I go to a new place, I want one fascinating fact about that place. It’s good for the blog. (Cynthia scribbles note.) Now, then. What am I doing in these places? Begin at the beginning, Cynthia. Omaha.

CYNTHIA: (shuffles papers.)  You’ll be teaching “A Quilt Called Whisper” on the first day —

MARY: (dreamy) “A Quilt Called Whisper.” Now there’s a class.

CYNTHIA: One of your most popular.

MARY: It’s no wonder! It’s what a patchwork class ought to be. Classic design. Updated palette. Tips. Tricks. Color play. All with book support. They eat it up, that one. Go on.

CYNTHIA: (reading from clipboard) Trunk show in the afternoon, then a lecture in the evening. Dinner beforehand with —

MARY: Which lecture?

CYNTHIA: “A Thirtysomething Quilter Tells All,” Miss Fons.

MARY: Aces. It’s got everything, that lecture. Drama. Intrigue. A story arc. Inspiration. There’s not a dry eye in the house when I finish that one. I make them laugh, I make them cry. Can Tula do that? Kate Spain?? I’d like to see them try. Does Angela Walters have women clutching their fellow guild members in overwhelming, emotional sisterhood feelings? Can Denyse Schmidt get people pulling out Kleenex from their purses? Please! No, Cynthia, it takes that special Mary Fons sauce to get those women truly being in their folding chairs. That reminds me… Get Denyse on the phone. (CYNTHIA retrieves cell phone; hits button because, you know, speed dial. She hands phone to MARY.) Denyse! It’s Mary. How are you? Doll, I was just at RISD and thought of you… No, no. I wasn’t speaking, just, ah, driving through, you know, to get to a remote town in Delaware… Look, DeeDee, those bolts from the new collection? You know I adore them; fabulous. Right, right. Well, they haven’t arrived yet, darling, and I just was following up… What do you mean I have to talk to your distributor?! Oh, sure. Well, see if I invite you to my Christmas party in eleven months. Just… Go schedule a retreat or something, will you?? (Slams down phone.) Unbelievable!

CYNTHIA: (hesitant; quietly clears throat) The second day in Omaha you’ve got the Ohio Star Class, then a book signing.

MARY: Did you order books?

CYNTHIA: They’re already on their way. The shop is ordering rulers.

MARY: Thank god. I hate ordering rulers. I hate dealing with warehouses. Never, ever put the warehouse people on the line with me, Cynthia. Those people drink the blood of their young.

CYNTHIA: Understood, Miss Fons.

MARY: Did you know my mother had her own warehouse?

CYNTHIA: An accomplished woman if there ever was one, Miss Fons.

MARY: Those were the days, Cynthia. Before your time. You know, every once in awhile people accuse me of riding my mother’s coattails. (laughs bitterly) Do you know how hard it is to eke out a living in the quilt world today? It’s nearly impossible. The industry is glutted, swollen with the aspirations of hundreds of designers and authors, all vying for an ever-shrinking piece of the pie. Riding on my mother’s coattails… Please. I’d be a fool. Much smarter to try and make a killing in the bitcoin world. Cynthia, check the price of of bitcoin.

CYNTHIA: (taps phone) Around $300 to the US dollar, Miss Fons.

MARY: Balls. Cynthia, make a note: invest in gold this week.

CYNTHIA: (pause) Miss Fons?

MARY: What.

CYNTHIA: With all due respect, Miss Fons —

MARY: So much due, Cynthia.

CYNTHIA: Yes, of course; with a week in the hospital and paying your own insurance as a contractor and all… Well, I’m not sure this is the time to be investing in —

MARY: Fine. Look, just finish de-briefing me. Southern Illinois. I’m getting a stomachache.

CYNTHIA: (consults contract) A one-day engagement; afternoon workshop with “Whisper” and the “You Call That a Quilt?” lecture in the evening. A large guild, maybe two-hundred or so.

MARY: Nice big audience and another fine lecture. The women of Southern Illinois have impeccable taste. I’ll tell them as much in my follow-up thank you note.

CYNTHIA: I ordered more thank-you notes.

MARY: You did? Oh, Cynthia. You’re doing a fine job. I’m grumpy this morning and I apologize. It’s the three bags of blood they transfused into me this week. Can you believe my veins are pumping with the blood of three different people right now?

CYNTHIA: (visibly recoiling) It is…strange, Miss Fons.

MARY: I feel like one of those warehouse people.

CYNTHIA: Well, you don’t look like one, Miss Fons. You look great.

MARY: That is what I pay you for, Cynthia. Buttress me! Constantly buttress me. I need lunch. Let’s go to Daniel.

END OF PLAY

 

 

28 Jan 2015

What Happened.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Sicky | 33
Onionweed. An invasive species. Pretty, though.
Onionweed. An invasive species. Pretty, though.

Here’s what happened. No pity party, just the facts.

I’m crazy anemic. On top of that, I’m leaking blood somewhere, and this wimpy system got hit with a virus that was less like “the flu,” more like “the Invasion of Normandy.” The triple-threat was disastrous.

I sort of knew I was kind of anemic; I remember a doctor saying something about this years ago. But I didn’t know it was a big deal and I figured it was related to surgeries. Mild anemia is not a big deal, but severe anemia is and it’s not just related to surgeries. Anemia, by the way, is “a condition marked by a deficiency of red blood cells or of hemoglobin in the blood, resulting in pallor and weariness.” I’ve always been pasty and pale; now I know there’s a reason I look like a character cut from Twilight. When taping the TV show last year, I caught myself on the monitor standing next to a tanned, Texas-dwelling Liz Porter and scared the badoobies out of myself; I was practically translucent by comparison.

The headache came on Thursday night, an H.R. Geiger creature trying and failing to claw its way out of my head (the failing part made it try harder, see.) I do remember things — spinal taps don’t fade from memory quickly — but it’s all in patches, including a visit from my Chicago GI doctor one of the days I was at Northwestern. Dr. Yun asked me, “Mary, what the heck is going on with you??”  I remember croaking out, “I have to get on a plane to D.C. tomorrow morning” and she basically laughed me out of the building. My mother came in from Iowa; if you said you’d give me five million dollars to tell you when she arrived, I would not be able to take that money home. My sister and her fiance visited; I remember stories they told me of their visit to India, but when did they come? How long did they stay? I remember texting three people, one time each, but I can’t remember one of the people I texted and I have no idea what I said. A friend came to visit and all I remember is him opening his mail. I blogged twice and I am so afraid to read those entries for fear they were absolutely unintelligible.

They did an upper GI. They did another pouchoscopy. They did a CT of my brain. No bleeding so far. They tried an MRI but I pressed the panic button; the congestion in my chest was so bad, I couldn’t breathe outside of a head-locking, skull-screw, mask device; inside one, I was a basket case. I’ll reschedule that and the pelvic ultrasound.

So there you have it. Tomorrow, lighter fare. Now I must rest. I am in D.C. again, horizontal, unable to move anything but my fingers. They’re fine! I feel like I got punched in the ribs and someone has been beating my organs with a fish.

26 Jan 2015

3 Procedures + 1 DJ

by | posted in: Sicky | 3
"Twilight near Hetlingen in Germany." Photo: Huhu Huet, 2009.
“Twilight near Hetlingen in Germany.” Photo: Huhu Huet, 2009.

The title of this post is a play on the title of a song I love by the Beastie Boys: Three MCs and One DJ. The Beastie Boys were and are the best band in the world, so that settles that.

I had an upper endoscopy, a pouchoscopy, and a CT scan different from the CT scan I had yesterday because the one today involved contrast. When you have a CT scan with contrast, it means that when you’re in the big donut, you hear a voice come over the PA system that says, “Okay, Miss Fons, we’re going to start the contrast,” and then you feel the strangest, wildest warm liquid spread through your body starting at the point where you have your IV placed. Contrast fluid is getting pumped into your veins and you feel it! and it makes your belly warm, and it makes your arms and legs warm and, let’s be honest, it makes all your parts, hm, very warm and it’s not unpleasant, but this is not going to be offered as a spa treatment anytime soon.

So those were the three procedures I made reference to in the title; the DJ was just the muzak over the speakers as they wheeled me on the gurney to and fro and to all over these Northwestern hallways.

Did I mention yesterday they did a freaking spinal tap? And that I got three freaking sacs of human being blood? I have no recollection of writing yesterday’s post but I can’t bear to go back and look to see if a) I really did and b) if it needs revising/overhauling — I’m sure it does. No use. Typing through pain medicine is like typing Morse code through Jell-o, through pain medicine. It’s very anxiety-causing. Each PaperGirl post is a mini-newspaper, you know, except that every post is a first draft. The audacity.

The doctors don’t know what’s going on. Tomorrow, a pelvic ultrasound. They have to figure out where the Sam Hill all this hemoglobin is going. Fibroids? Something more sinister, still? My sister Rebecca and I have decided to call my blood cells my “hemogoblins” and we have to corral them all back to where they need to be.

Dull as my brain might be at the moment, the moments themselves, they live in the Land of The Neverdull.

Also, you must remember this. 

26 Jan 2015

In Hospital, or, “You Can’t Write This Stuff.”

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 2
The USS Stewert in Shanghai, China, 1927. Photo : William Verge.
The USS Stewert in Shanghai, China, 1927. Photo : William Verge.

 

This will have to be short because a) I can’t see straight to type and b) my brain is on a 90-second time delay.

On Thursday afternoon, I came into Chicago. I had a doctor’s followup appointment, a meeting, and I had various Chicago-based errands to run. A short trip: in on Thursday, out Saturday morning.

Thursday night, around 9:30 pm, I was gripped with a terrible headache. I thought, “Wow, this is a terrible headache,” and I lay down. At 2 am, I woke up with a sob. I took a bath. I put a cold washcloth on my head and pressed my forehead to the tile on the shower stall. It was cool, the tile. I noticed that my entire body was weak — like, couldn’t-lift-my-limbs weak. Back to bed, pleading with the gods, I told myself, “Okay, okay, chill. Chill, chill, please chill.”

Two hours later, I was awake again.

This time, it was worse in the head. I gasped; it felt like there was an animal in my skull (a rat) trying to escape. I took a heroic dose of Tylenol and tried to rest. I hit all the acupressure points I had ever heard about. At 6 am, I woke again and could hardly move. I tried to get the phone to call downstairs for a taxi; that didn’t work. Nor did it work to get my jeans on. I managed both things eventually, which would have been to my astonishment had I the will to be astonished. I got myself over to the ER at Northwestern, thankfully just four blocks away. I took a taxi because taxi = $5; ambulance = $750. Even in my stupor, I knew to take the cab.

I was admitted fast. I have had three bags of blood transfused since then. A normal person’s hemoglobin count is 15; mine is hovering at four.

To make sure I’m not bleeding in my brain, I had a lumbar puncture before coming into this room. I have had a CT scan, a failed MRI (I got claustrophobic because I also have a viral respiratory issue??) and I have an upper endoscopy and a lady-parts ultrasound scheduled for a few hours from now. It’s quite possible that the hemoglobin problem, the anemia problem is directly related to GI stuff, but we don’t know, yet.

I felt totally fine on Thursday. A little tired. But who isn’t.

22 Jan 2015

White Out: Color Me Quilter Loves You

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0

 

The series is white hot.
The series is white hot.

On Wednesday next week, my popular webinar series is examining white in our quilts. When you make quilts, white — and all its gorgeous variations: bone, oyster, muslin, snow, cream, etc. — is not a “non-color.” White brings breath, space, and contrast to the rainbow of color that is our palette.

In case you’ve never watched a webinar, it’s really fun. My series is dense with information but entertaining, too. I mean, come on. It’s me. You know there are going to be a few monkey jokes in there. But I treat quilting with great respect and I’m a history and design nerd, so you’ll get your money’s worth.

Here is some anonymous feedback from folks who have joined the Color Me Quilter webinars over the past few months — so you don’t have to take my word for it.

Click on the “Webinars” tab on my homepage to get your ticket. And thanks.

“New interesting aspects to approach to choose colors – helps me with my quilts.”

“Changed how I look at the colour black – I usually think of it as a “non-color” to use when I can’t find anything else. Now I will look at Black as a key component of any colour grouping.”

“I am fairly new to quilting; quilting courses not easily available in my location so it is extremely beneficial to have an update on some of the basics – bindings, quilting techniques, applique etc.”

“Keep up the good work! I’m looking forward to the next program I participate in.”

“I downloaded the seminar so that I can go over it again. Usually, a second reading like going back through my magazines, I find something I missed. Reminds me of reading stories to my young children the 20th time. Find those small details!”

I wanted to use more black and found the accent colors that she used very helpful.

“A lot more information than I thought. I didn’t even know there was that much to know about the color yellow — my favorite!”

“It was great to have both Mary and Marianne on the webinar.  Each offered their perspective which was very interesting.  Blue is a favorite color of mine as well.  I particularly enjoyed the history of blue. Indigo is amazing!” [Note: Mom was a special guest on “Blue.”]

“Mary’s an AWESOME presenter … very entertaining and motivating – a great teacher on quilting.”

“The historical information about popular color combinations of the past was very interesting. The slides were well-chosen.”

20 Jan 2015

For the Quilters: A New Way to Stash

by | posted in: D.C., Quilting, Tips | 2
It's like the olden days!
It’s like the olden days, all colorful and random and cozy. In process: “George Washington’s Cabin,” by Mary Fons, 2015.

If you’re not a quilter, you probably don’t have a stash.

Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and make a “Well, my husband has a mustache” joke. But watch it: if there are quilters in your midst, they may be inching toward you, tightening their grip on their sharp rotary cutters. A quilter’s fabric stash is, in the simplest terms, the fabric that she owns that is not in a quilt, yet. A quilter’s stash is her library, her paint palette, her big lake of color and texture from which she brings great ladles of the stuff to put into her patchwork.

As you can imagine, some stashes are bigger than others. Quilters who have been sewing since the early 1980s have… a lot of fabric. Those who are new might have just the seeds of a stash. Some folks hoard and some folks cull (ahem) but if you make quilts in any serious way — and you ought to — you have fabric somewhere. And that is your stash.

Did I mention I moved around a lot in 2014? I moved around a lot in 2014. A good two-thirds of my fabric stash is in storage in Chicago, but I have a whole lot with me, too, and that means I’ve transported all this fabric many times in the past nine months or so. And something cool happened in the shuffle: I changed my stash organization style and this has made all the difference.

I used to organize my stash by color. All the reds, all the greens, etc., all together. Now, this is a fantastic way to do things and as a quilter who typically starts with color inspiration and goes from there, I fully support this mode of stashing. But because all my fabric has been in and out of boxes all year, keeping it all color-coded has been hard. So what’s happened is that my tiny red prints are getting thrown in with my wide, black stripes, my yellow chambray is all up in my calicoes, my browns and pinks are sleeping with each other — it’s mass hysteria. And it’s fabulous.

I’m seeing new combinations. I’m considering new styles. Fabrics I might never have put together before (e.g., pink, burgundy, navy) become, suddenly, very necessary combos.

So there you go. Mix ‘er up. Don’t be too regimented. A tidy stash and studio are essentials and I’ll keep preaching that gospel till I’m dead, but don’t be too strict with your materials. As I say in my book:

“Quilts are like dogs; the best ones are usually mixed breeds.”

19 Jan 2015

Magazine Graveyard: Quilty Is Closing

by | posted in: Paean | 8
Quilty magazine; first issue, Spring/Summer 2012
Quilty magazine; first issue, Spring/Summer 2012

About a month ago, I announced (publicly, though that sounds too fancy) that I was leaving Quilty magazine as editor. I had made my decision in August and, painful as it was, it was the right thing to do.

A number of weeks ago, my publisher informed me that Quilty magazine is closing.

The May/Jun ’15 issue will be the last issue. Me and Team Quilty are putting the finishing touches on the Mar/Apr ’15 issue now and that will be out at the end of next month. Then it’s just the one more issue in the spring and poof: gone with the wind.

When I go to speak at guilds and quilt events around the country, I will inevitably be approached by a smiling, happy woman with a copy of the first issue of the magazine.

“I’ve loved this magazine from the start,” she’ll say. “It’s so friendly. It’s so easy to read and honestly, this magazine has taught me how to make quilts. I love the articles, I love the tips, I love the videos that show you how to do everything… Thank you, Quilty!” I’d thank her for reading, thank her for buying, and I’d joke that she was smart to get the first issue, as it’s clearly going to be a collector’s item. I don’t want to inflate the value of a niche market periodical, but this might actually be true, now.

Quilty is just a magazine in a sea of magazines. Except that it isn’t. Before Quilty, there was never a magazine devoted entirely to the beginner quilter. It was my vision that this absolutely had to exist if we (quilters and the quilt industry) wanted to bridge a strange, frightening gap that is occurring for the first time in American history — namely, that we have a culture that still values quilts and we have great numbers of people who want to make them, but we have now and will have forever more a culture that does not teach sewing. We are a service industry. We are not manufacturers. For all intents and purposes, manufacturing and fabrication in America is over. We’re not going to start sewing our own clothes again and that means there aren’t sewing machines in the home.

So for the women and men who want to make a wedding quilt for their best friend in the whole world but who haven’t the faintest idea that you have to plug in the foot peddle or wind a bobbin to sew a stitch (“What’s a bobbin?”) there simply has to be a landing place for them, a world of with-it, clear, and yes, dammit, entertaining how-to content where they can get beginner instruction and actually reach their goal: to make their best friend a gift that is an actual, physical manifestation of love, that will last generations, and that will secure their place as the Person Who Gave The Best Gift Ever, BAM.

Quilty was that place, that friendly landing place. Surely, there will be something that will fill the gap when Quilty closes. There has to be. It’s not like Quilty was or is only one place for a beginner quilter to get help, thank goodness. But there was only one Quilty. Only one Spooly. Only a short period of years where being a little bit weird and a little bit funny actually happened in a quilt magazine.

I think the Quilty videos will continue after I leave; I’ve got one more shoot to do in April, then it’s no longer my sea-faring vessel to man, so I don’t know. There are thousands and thousands of fierce Quilty fans out there. I see their letters, I meet them, I watch the ticker tick up on the video views. You matter, friends, even if those fabulous, glossy pages will be no more. Keep learning, keep asking questions. Tell the Quilt Police to go play in traffic. Make the quilts you want to make.

And buy up a bunch of past issues. Let’s start that eBay bidding war.

18 Jan 2015

Le Smoking.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0
Insert brand here. Photo: Kiwiev, 2014.
You’ve come a long way, baby. Photo: Kiwiev, 2014.

I used to smoke. A little.

Smokers gauge the personal investment in their habit by the number of packs they smoke per day. Even when I did smoke cigarettes, the idea that I would smoke an entire pack in the course of one day was enough to make me queasy. But I counted as a smoker, and I know this because I would roll my eyes at non-smokers at house parties who would bum a smoke the minute they got tipsy. It’s incredible how the most health-conscious among us will crave a cigarette after enough vodka.

The most I ever smoked was probably three cigarettes a day, on average. This habit — and, relatively mild as it was, it was a habit to be sure — started in high school. I did it so my sister’s older friends and my best friend Annie would think I was cool. I didn’t need to try and impress Annie once we truly bonded, but she continued to impress me for a number of reasons, including her commitment to smoking about a pack a day of Marlboro Reds. Reds! By sophomore year! The last time I saw Annie was in Oklahoma, and we hit up a Kum n’ Go to buy a couple packs of smokes. We smoked a couple, guiltily. The older you get, the less cute smoking becomes. Annie has kids. I’m at high risk for cancer in my intestines due to my health history. Put ’em down, girls.

In college, though, that was when I smoked for keeps. Smoking was cute when I was twenty and besides, it was strategic. I was studying theater and everyone knew that auditions were essential, but the real casting happened on the stoop of the theater building between rehearsals and classes. If you wanted to date or go to parties, you flirted and got invites whilst puffing away on your American Spirits. The smokers were the cool kids and I was desperate to be cool by the time I got to Iowa City. In high school I was only grudgingly accepted. I wasn’t a social leper but in the galaxy of Popular Kids, I was a distant, dwarf star. I remember being at the legendary senior party at the end of senior year; just being there engendered love for my fellow classmates, even the ones who would never talk to me. Ben Radish* and a bunch of other people were in the kitchen of the house where the party was and Radish squinted his eyes and regarded me from across the room. He lowered his can of Natty Ice and nodded his head, barely.

“You know, Mary Fons? I guess you’re pretty cool.”

It was like a blessing from the Pope. It’s amazing how much I craved validation from a high school wrestler in a HyperColor shirt whose last name was Radish.

Anyway, the whole cool kid thing, the strategy thing with smoking, it kept going after college because I continued to make theater in Chicago and I was a waitress. Same cultures. Same five-minute break structure in a person’s day. You smoke, therefore you have friends; you smoke, therefore you have something to do between the early morning rush and the mid-morning rush.

But I bagged smoking some time ago. Years ago, with occasional “Let me just see if this still works for me” transgressions. It does not. The more you are not a person who smokes, the more revolting the stink of cigarette smoke becomes, at least for me. I like the way a cigar smells when it’s being actively smoked twenty feet away from me; I do not like the way my shirt smells even after simply holding a cigarette for someone while they button their jacket.

I walk the cities where I live and see people lighting up. I get it. I used to really love smoking. It was a habit and I’m a fan of habits, especially ones that relieve anxiety (e.g., patchwork, chewing my cuticles, rocking ever-so-slightly during intense conversations, etc.) But smoking is for the birds. And the birds don’t even smoke. So probably no one should.

Of course, we could all vape. 

*Name changed.

 

17 Jan 2015

Weltschmerz R Us.

by | posted in: Word Nerd | 0
What is absolutely superb about this picture is that these two kittens could be illustrating any one of the words I define in this post. Glorious. (Photo: Stephan Brunet, 2007)
What is absolutely superb about this picture is that these two kittens could be illustrating any one of the words I define in this post. Glorious. (Photo: Stephan Brunet, 2007)

The English language is a monstrous mutt. It’s a hydra. It’s a slouch. It’s messy, confusing, and — if I may be so bold as to say it — it whores around. The French have put a cap on the words in their language, but English? She takes all comers.

And thank goodness. Because as gorgeous and vast as the English language is (there were something like 1,025,110 words as of January last year) sometimes only a word or phrase from another language will get you where you need to go. Here now are three of my favorite foreign words and terms, favorites because in a matter of syllables they precisely describe universal concepts that English can’t do in a long paragraph. First I’ll give you the word, then the dictionary definition, then a working interpretation. Also, those are my own phonetics because writing phonetics is my kind of fun on a Saturday night and I am not joking even a little.

sprezzatura: (Italian; say “spret-za-TOO-ra”) rehearsed spontaneity, studied carelessness.
When you spend 1.5 hours getting ready for a date just so you can look like you don’t care, you’re practicing sprezzatura. 

l’esprit d’escalier: (French; say, “les-PREE de-skal-YEY”) Literally, “the spirit of the staircase”; the predicament of thinking of the perfect retort too late.
Some jerk says something awful to you. You fume, you steam. Five minutes after you and the jerk part company, it hits you: Ooooh! You should’ve said [insert awesome comeback here.] Yes, Virginia, there’s a term for that exact feeling. “L’esprit d’escalier” is what happens when you think of the perfect, deliciously awesome thing to say to a jerk when he/she is gone and you’re halfway down the stairs, headed to your car. We’ve all been there.

Weltschmerz: (German; say, “VEL-schmertz”) a feeling of melancholy and world-weariness.
I love how the Germans jam words together. Welt = world; schmertz = pain. When the bastards have gotten you down; when you don’t miss New York but you do miss the love you had there; when you spill tea in the kitchen and you clean it up but there’s still invisible-to-the-naked-eye honey on the floor in spots that sticks to your bare feet; when tax time approacheth and you’re a self-employed woman with a zillion 1099 forms that will surely all be lost in the mail this year because four addresses in 2014 (!!!!); when you go to a guild meeting — a wonderful, amazing, warm and inspiring guild meeting — and see no fewer than four pregnant women, and you feel pretty sure you will not be a mother in this life; when you forget to get shaving cream — this is Weltschmerz.

See what I mean about needing a paragraph? One word will do it if you pick the proper one. Or, as the stewardesses say (in English):

“Please locate the two exits nearest you, keeping in mind that the closest exit may be behind you.”

 

15 Jan 2015

A Tale of Two (More) Rats.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0
Hello ratness, my old friend.
Hello ratness, my old friend.

The quilters of Washington, D.C. are making me feel so at home. I had dim sum with Jan last week; she’s a dynamo at work and fearless in the sewing studio and now she’s invited me to a Burns Supper! You gotta google that! And she doesn’t even know I’m Scottish! I cannot wait for this and will give a full report!

This week, I had my second blind date: I met fabulous quilter Carissa. We had tapas, threw back a few sidecars, dished about life, and went to a show. Carissa is very smart, very beautiful, and confessed to me that when she read about my rat problem, she died inside because she once had a rat problem, too. I had second thoughts about leaving the old place; I thought maybe I had been a weenie, that I should’ve just gone on the road for a few weeks and made the management company deal with it before I paid rent. The tale Carissa told me on Tuesday night wiped every molecule of doubt that I had or will ever have about getting the [beep] out of that rental.

Carissa told me that they moved into this house in Dupont Circle years ago. And they started hearing scratching in the walls. She told me that my description of the smell in my former home (“almost sweet” and “sewage-y”) was hard to read because it was dead on and she’d never forget it. Over a few months, the smell and the scratching had stopped being sorta weird and had become Serious Problems. Exterminators were called in. A hole was chopped in the wall. Traps. Estimates.

WARNING: What I’m about to tell you is true and it is so revolting and horrible, you might not be able to handle it. You will probably scream, so make sure that’s not going to scare anyone in the room, especially if they are at a hot stove or putting together a model airplane.

One night, Carissa was up with her newborn baby. She heard splashing. Splashing in the bathroom. Carissa got up, holding sweet little Milo in her arms and, confused as a person would be, hearing splashing in the bathroom in the middle of the night, she went to the bathroom and turned on the light.

There was a rat in the toilet. The rat was in the toilet because it had crawled up through the sewage pipes and was now in the toilet, attempting to claw its way to freedom. I assume “freedom” would have meant Carissa’s bathroom floor.

We were in a taxi when Carissa told me this and I had my mittens over my mouth going, “Ugghgghhh! Ughhhghhhh!” and rocking the way a severely autistic person might rock for comfort. The taxi guy was alarmed. I repeated over and over, “No. No. No. Carissa. No. No, Carissa, no. No.” My new friend told me they did not stay in that house very long after that.

And, real quick, because I can’t believe this happened today, a second rat story:

I turned a street corner and saw one of those two-story inflatable rats that union workers use when they’re striking. The huge rat was outside a hotel and the union guys were blowing whistles and shouting; cars were honking in solidarity. I had to meet someone in the lobby so I crossed the picket line (is that what I did?) and the man working the front door opened the door for me.

“That rat’s for you guys, eh?” I asked. It was possible it was a construction job the union was protesting, not the hotel itself.

“Is that what that is?” the guy said.

I blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“It’s a rat, okay. I thought it was a bear.”

I looked at him. He appeared to be a fully-functioning person. He had a job, obviously. I did not understand, however, how he could spend his entire day in the shadow of the biggest rat in the city (we hope) and though he had to actually step over the creature’s inflated pink tail to go hail taxis for people, he did not register the species of this animal. Forget the cultural context he should know by his age; did the six-foot wide pair of rodent teeth not give this away??

There will be no more rat stories on PaperGirl for a long, long time. This is my promise.

12 Jan 2015

Poetic Interlude: The Sandpiper by Elisabeth Bishop

by | posted in: Art, Poetry | 0
A sandpiper at the water.
A sandpiper at the water.

On this Monday, let us pause for poetry. Have you ever read Elisabeth Bishop’s poems? I’m only now discovering them. Have you ever seen a sandpiper hopping around on a beach? I hadn’t until I read this poem written by Bishop in 1956.

The Sandpiper

The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.

– Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.

The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn’t tell you which.
His beak is focused; he is preoccupied,

looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.

12 Jan 2015

Make It Work: How To Spruce Up A Bad Apartment

by | posted in: D.C., Day In The Life, Tips | 0
My living room. It wasn't finished at this point, but it was getting there.
My living room. It wasn’t finished at this point, but it was getting there.

It’s true that I had a moment of real despair when I moved into my new apartment. When the door shut behind me, I saw, as if for the first time, the unit for which I had just signed a six-month lease.

The flat screen TV was gargantuan. Its tyrannical throne was a clear glass table that was long and rectangular, too short and shallow to use as my sewing table, far too big to stash in a closet. The cords for the TV, the DVD player, the cable box, the router, the other router and several extension cords were in tangled hell on the floor and because the table was glass, the tangle was practically the centerpiece for the room. The cream-colored sectional had at least eight slightly dingy cream-colored pillows and a couple ratty light blue ones; a weak afterthought. There were several fake plants. Ugly, mass-produced “art” adorned the walls and my heart just sank. The drapes were heavy and blue. In every kitchen cupboard I found dozens upon dozens of glasses meant for alcohol: plastic martini glasses, plastic margarita glasses, shot glasses, drinking glasses, juice glasses. There were Dollar Store tzchokes everywhere, and for some inexplicable reason, more tupperware containers in a lower kitchen cupboard than I have ever seen in one place in my life. This apartment was a revolving door. It put the “corporate” and “temporary” in “corporate temporary housing.”

Something had to be done. A lot of somethings. I sat like Rodin’s Thinker and thought and thought. Then I dove in.

Curtains: down and folded and into the utility closet. All but six glasses — for water drinking and juice — were stored in a cupboard with 98% of the tupperware. All tzchokes stowed. All art (except this one really cool framed cloth Guatemalan thing, which I love) replaced with the few pieces I brought on my journey this year. I wrastled with the couch cushion covers until I got them all off and into the washing machine they went. I salvaged exactly three white bowls in the kitchen’s dish cupboard and stowed every other dark blue plate and bowl. Because ew.

I completely dismantled the “entertainment station.” None of it survived. My new home might be on life support, soul-wise, but it didn’t stand a chance with a TV. I unscrewed the cable box, unplugged everything, untangled all the cords, organized everything and into a box in the (pleasingly spacious) bedroom closet they went. The 1,000 plastic hangers I found went into bags and into the utility closet and I unpacked my wooden hangers and lovingly hung my wardrobe. The glass table I swapped for the lean-to desk that was weirdly in the bedroom and the tall, boxy, glass IKEA storage shelves I moved together and set them at an angle for my fabric. Tablecloth on the glass “dining” table which is now my sewing studio. Design wall, up. I ordered dimmer switches for the track lighting in the kitchen and living room. Down came the depressing brown shower curtain and I found a very cool, very bright white one on Amazon and promptly ordered that, too. And a gorgeous, Lucite lamp for my sewing table.

And I was reminded, once again, that if you put enough quilts and enough books in a room, you cannot fail.

Every scrap of linen was washed in practically boiling water and I turned the easy chair at an angle toward the window so that I could look out at the tops of the buildings in the morning as I write and have my tea.

And now? I love it here. My surface remodeling worked and, dare I say, it’s darned cozy in here. I could almost feel the space going, “Where have you been all my life?”

Uh, Iowa, Chicago, New York and many points in between. I pick up a few things.

10 Jan 2015

The Postal Museum: Must See

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0
The famous "Inverted Jenny" stamp, circa 1918.
The famous “Inverted Jenny” stamp, circa 1918.

As I get more familiar with Washington, DC, the more I absolutely love it here. Stinky rats? Gross. Relocation? A real pain in the neck. But it’s a testament to the city that we both keep rising to the top of the poo bucket. And another thing: it’s so fantastic when you trust yourself and what you trusted yourself about — in this case, truly disliking living in New York and believing a move to Washington was a wise decision — is validated. It’s so hard to put the breaks on a relationship, to dive headfirst into pain like that. But what’s left of my guts is reliable; I trusted my insides and so far my situation seems to be okay. Better.

Yesterday I had an errand to run next door to The Postal Museum. Writing letters is a joyful activity for me and I love stationery and stamps. I love envelopes and office supplies. Clearly, I am the demographic for a museum of this kind.

Sometimes, one’s true nerdiness cannot be hidden by any veneer of coolness or hipness that has been constructed over time. My squeals of delight in that museum yesterday elicited alarmed looks from my fellow museumgoers but there was nothing I could do. Here is what is in that museum in the first room of the whole place: 

A Stamp Act stamp —  A STAMP FROM THE FREAKING STAMP ACT!!!
The first stamp in America ever — EVER!!!!!
A letter from the Pony Express — THE BLINKIN’ PONY EXPRESS!!!!!
An Inverted Jenny — I was less amazed by this but it’s the most expensive stamp in the world
Fumigated and perforated letters from the time of cholera — CHOLERA!
Other things that were amazing — OTHER THINGS!!!!

And they had so many interactive stations, too. There’s this huge screen where hundreds of stamps are cataloged and you use the touch screen to scroll and scroll through all these stamps and you can select your ten favorite to put in a virtual stamp collection! And then you can email it to yourself!

And there was a kiosk where you could put your face on a stamp! And work on the design and even give it the rate you wanted! (I did a couple versions, but my finest work was the 10-cent stamp.) And you can email that to yourself, too! My 10-cent stamp never came through my email, though, so I guess I’ll have to go and play on it again. Oh, darn.

To me, the mail is like airplanes: I can’t believe we made this stuff. That these systems work. It’s just the coolest thing in the world that you can send a piece of paper to me and I will get it at my house and it’s very cheap to do this.

I leave you with the exquisitely beautiful, unofficial creed of the USPS. It was a line Herodotus wrote a long time ago, translated by a Harvard professor named George Herbert Palmer. If you don’t get chills reading it, you must be in a very warm room:

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

Send a piece of paper today, won’t you?

8 Jan 2015

Differently Abled.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 1
The Gallaudet Cheerleaders, 2013. Photo: Gallaudet University.
The Gallaudet Cheerleaders, 2013. Photo: Gallaudet University.

 

I’ve returned to my Bikram yoga practice and it feels great, except that the first time I walked into the Capitol Hill studio on New Year’s Eve day, a real cruddy memory came flooding back.

In 2009, I was here in D.C. with the Neo-Futurists, performing for a month at Woolly Mammoth theater — which is just a few blocks from my new home, incidentally. It was that trip that caused me to fall in love with D.C. At the time, I was extremely committed to my yoga practice and would get up at five in the morning to walk to the Capitol Hill studio to take the six a.m. class so that I could be showered, fed, watered and at the theater by nine o’clock rehearsal. I kinda can’t believe I did that.

I had an ostomy bag for many years. I had my first bag for about a year and then the surgeons poked my intestine back into my body. I got sick again right away, so I had to get an ostomy again. The second time, I had it about two years. When I was well enough during both periods, I kept practicing yoga. Bikram yoga is 90 minutes inside a room heated to 105 degrees. An ostomy bag is attached to the body with a wax seal and a sticker. Before every class over those years, I would have to tape up my bag with athletic tape so it wouldn’t fall off, then empty it, and then explain to the teacher before class that in between the standing series and the floor series, I would probably have to go empty it again. I usually did; the second half of a Bikram class is done largely on your belly. A bag full of… Well, you can imagine. Typically, it’s not cool to leave a Bikram class at all, so it was my responsibility to apprise teachers of my special case.

The only time any Bikram teacher ever made me feel bad about my ostomy bag was at the Capitol Hill studio, and I’ve practiced in Bikram studios coast to coast.

“Hey, hi,” I said to the teacher with a smile. “I just wanted to let you know, I have an ostomy bag, and I usually have to go to the bathroom between the standing and floor series, so if that’s cool with y—”

The teacher looked at me like there was a bug crawling across my face. “Oh. Well… Is it…visible?” she asked me, her lip kind of up by her nose.

I blinked. No one had ever asked me that before.

“Uh… No, not… No. I mean, you can see a little bit of the appliance and the tape, I guess, poking up over my shorts…” I trailed off. I felt so lousy. It’s amazing how the differences we have become our “normal” until someone makes them bizarre and therefore wrong.

The other day in the changing room, I heard some very unusual sounds. Two girls were making the sounds, which were kind of breathless squeaks. I turned to see two young ladies smiling and jumping up and down and signing to each other like crazy. Either they hadn’t seen each other in awhile or one of the girls was having a really great day and telling the other about it. One of the girls had a Gallaudet sweatshirt on and I remembered that the prestigious college for the deaf, Gallaudet University, is here in D.C.

Bikram yoga is a class that is taught by one teacher who has a 90-minute “dialogue” that he or she recites. It’s the same every class. You listen to the words, you do the poses. Those girls come to yoga, but they can’t hear the words the teacher is saying. But Bikram yoga is also — and always — taught in a room with a floor-to-ceiling mirror in the front of the room. So you don’t really have to hear the dialogue, I realized; you can just watch what the class is doing and keep perfect pace.

I understand why “disabled” is a term that a lot of people don’t like. “Differently abled” is a far better choice of words.

6 Jan 2015

Maps The Clock Puts There.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0
Bed illustration, 1869. Photo: Ward, Lock, & Tyler of London, via Wikicommons.
Bed illustration, 1869. Photo: Ward, Lock, & Tyler of London, via Wikicommons.

Dangerous things include:

Alligator hunting
Necking in the 1950s
Taking a job as a logger
Quoting your own poetry

The last thing could be the most dangerous of them all, but I’m going to do it, as I feel a kind of heady, delirious courage at the moment. I have been packing and moving boxes since dawn — right about when it began to snow. All the possessions have been transferred. I am in a new home. I no longer have keys to my little Capitol Hill treehouse.

Here’s the quote, from a poem called “A Cake/For The Fall”:

“The lines on our faces are maps the clock puts there/the forehead shows that path of the first worry/the cheek charts the hardest years/laugh lines are easy landmarks/but beware fatigue at the corner of the eye, my son/it belies the optimist’s gaze/I can spot a broken heart in a happy man a mile away”

The poem was written many years ago and when I wrote it I thought I was writing about a boy, but now I think I was writing about time. Days like these — periods of time like these — put lines on our faces. Today I picked up the third? fourth? duffel bag of fabric (Pendennis tucked into one of them for safe keeping) and I fumbled for the new set of keys for the apartment that is ugly and cramped compared to my darling little rat-infested house. I stomped snow off my shoes. I looked out at the view that I have; I saw not the grand dome of the Capitol Building but square, squat buildings that look like boxes, and a highway, and an empty lot. The apartment itself is a box inside a building that looks just like the others out there. Only the snowfall was familiar as I pressed my nose to the glass.

It’s not so bad. It has its charms. But oh, I cried.

And I thought about my poem because I remember when I was a kid and I’d look up at adults and think, “They look so weird and different from me.” It’s the lines. Adults have lines in our faces, and even if they’re not wrinkles yet, kids do not have even a whisper of these. They don’t have lines because they haven’t moved twice in a month, in winter, after love faltered in a different apartment in Manhattan. They haven’t forwarded their mail. Again. Of course, I don’t want any of that to happen to any kid, but it will. It’s the law of nature, little dude, little miss, and you, too, will grow up (and grow old) under the law. But it gets better after it sucks for awhile. That’s a law, too.

Tomorrow, my sister and her fiance are returning home from their 10-day trip to India. What stopped me blubbering on like a dweeb today was remembering that I want so many, many things, but most of all, I want them home safe and sound.

5 Jan 2015

A Recipe For Lemonade (Because You Know What They Say)

by | posted in: Food | 0
I am hiding in this tree.
I am hiding in this tree.

Delicious Lemonade
Makes 5 cups

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups freshly squeezed lemon juice (about 10 lemons)
1 cup superfine sugar (or use as much simple syrup as you like to reach desired sweetness)
2 cups water

Directions
Strain lemon juice into a pitcher and mix with sugar; stir until sugar dissolves. Add water; stir again until well combined. For pink lemonade, stir in cranberry juice.

Tips
If you’d like pink lemonade, add some cranberry juice! If you like sparkling lemonade, you can use sparkling water. If you put some vodka in there, you’ll have a Vodka Collins. You can put a sprig of lavender in there for some lavender lemonade, or even some basil, if you’re feeling it.

Just play!

4 Jan 2015

On Limbo and Luck.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 2
Good luck, I think? Image: Wikipedia.

Last night, I wrapped a fluffy robe around myself and sank back into the pillows of my hotel room bed. I’ll do the same tonight. I still don’t have a home, but tomorrow I may. The management company has been working with me and though we may not invite each other to any Christmas parties anytime soon, I think we’re going to find a solution soon.

As I looked at company’s available properties that could potentially work until I leave D.C., I thought about luck. Many well-intentioned folk commented yesterday that I “couldn’t catch a break” or said that “bad luck is following you!” I am in no way criticizing these comments; every single person meant the absolute best and I’m mentally bear hugging everyone, here. But I disagree about the bad luck part.

Well, mostly. Renting an apartment with rat infestation and a bunch of other problems that seemed to be problems before I moved in is pretty bad luck. But I had to think hard what other events people were citing as such. The breakup wasn’t bad luck; it was a breakup. Heartbreaking and deeply disappointing, of course. But I don’t think falling in love and then needing to step back and go, “Hang on, is this right, right now, like this” is a stroke of bad luck. It’s just the way love goes, sometimes, and we heal and scar and do it again, usually.

And intensely disliking living in New York City wasn’t bad luck; I just didn’t like living there. And remember, I knew New York. I anticipated loving it there, and tried to, but it didn’t take. Now, if I had closed my eyes, plunked my finger down on a map and said, “Ah-HA! That’s it. I’m moving to Reno!” and once in Reno I drove my car into a cactus, got shingles, lost all my money in pinochle and got married to a dude that turned out to be a convict on the lam, that would be lousy luck. But taking a chance and then being honest about the dead-end of the chance, I don’t see it as bad luck so much as Stuff That Happens To A Person. Does this make sense?

Losing my Kindle could count as bad luck, but I should’ve been paying attention.

Today was really hard. It’s pouring rain and I have to walk to my hotel; I came back to the house to get a few more things. But I maintain am a wildly lucky person and have always considered myself as such. The mere fact I was born in America in the latter half of the 20th century is a lot that is far luckier than the vast majority of the billions of humans on this planet. That I have brains to figure this apartment thing out as an independent woman with decent credit and a cell phone, that I have a roof over my head at all is pretty good. I absolutely adore Washington, DC. The architecture, the sky over the city, the fact that I live in the same county the Lincoln Memorial are all reasons to be crazy happy. And it’s not New York. Man, I really hated it there.

My housing situation is beyond lousy and okay, a little on the unlucky side. But I will have a roof over my head and that is never to be taken for granted. Heck, with all the luck I have in my life, perhaps it was time to balance those scales.

I can take it.

3 Jan 2015

Plot Twist (With Sewer Rats.)

by | posted in: D.C. | 5
Yeah.
Yeah.

Settle in. This is gonna be awhile.

The townhouse I rented here on Capitol Hill is darling, and I’ve said so. There’s a nice big kitchen, there’s a staircase up to the quaint second floor with the bedroom and white-tiled bathroom. The overstuffed easy chair and loveseat are covered in mahogany leather; the pots and pans are All-Clad. I feel like an upwardly mobile mommy blogger here. It’s ducky. Me and this apartment, unfortunately, are about to fade to black.

When I moved in, there was a funky smell. It was an odd one, kind of pooey, kind of ammonia-y, a strange sort of musty. I had just driven a U-Haul from the heart of Manhattan through the rain, through Capitol Hill, so a) I only shallowly registered this and b) figured the house had been sitting empty for awhile and by getting some circulation going and moving in, within hours any must would go away.

A few days later, it had not. I kept several windows in the house open a crack, but I was beginning to be concerned and it was beginning to be too cold for open windows. Was it sewage gas? Was that it? I let the management company know that my house didn’t smell particularly like the field of flowers it ought to, for the price I was paying. They were slow to respond. When they did, I was out of town, and there’s no way to tell if they actually came by to check anything, but they said they sent someone over and I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. They said it might be a dead animal in the wall and that the smell should go away. Part of the problem with all of this has been that I was out of town a fair amount in December; business trips and the holidays meant that I was only in my new place half the month. Had I been here every day, I would’ve reached a “Oh hell no” place earlier. Before I left for the holidays, I told the management company that the problem had to be resolved (or at least explained and a resolution planned) by the time I came home from my holiday trip.

When I walked in my house last week, the smell was not gone at all; it had gotten far worse. It was an almost sweet smell, a true sewage-y smell, now, and I had a headache almost instantly. I said many bad words and contacted the management with an ultimatum: either they get someone over here to fix this and reduce my rent in the meantime, or I start filing complaints in a real official type of way. By two o’clock, I had a representative from the company and an exterminator in the house, both of whom agreed that this place smelled. Bad.

There are sewer rats in the crawlspace.

There are sewer rats in the crawlspace of this house, evidenced by the feces and urine the exterminator found in the crawlspace. There’s a lot of “evidence,” and if the rats are in the crawlspace, you can bet your bippy they’re in the walls and underneath the property, too. Remember in New York when Yuri and I had a mouse? I long for Mickey, now; I also wonder why, until this year, the sum total of my experience with these kind of animals was petting a hamster in Miss Osborne’s second grade classroom. Now I’m apparently the Rodent Whisperer.

My research into the health concerns of being around rat poop and rat pee were not encouraging. Something called Lymphocyctic choriomeningitis and — more common in the U.S. — the hantavirus can occur when you breathe in the bacteria from rat waste. You had me at “meningitis,” my little rat-a-tat-tats. Both diseases can be deadly; 35% of people who get these diseases die from them. The good news (?) is that of the over 300 cases reported in the past ten years in the U.S., the vast majority have occurred in the western states in rural areas. California farmers get the hantavirus way more than writer-designers in Washington do. But all the information I found recommended that being around rat waste is bad (okay, yes) and that if you are around it, it’s not a bad idea to refrain from dusting or vacuuming too much, as not to disturb the already airborne bacteria.

I love vacuuming, you bastards!

There are other problems with the house and the extreme grumpiness that has propelled this lengthy post this morning is due to the fact that I slept all of three hours last night. There’s something wrong with the heat here. The upstairs is stiflingly hot. The fan will not stop blowing and though I have the thermostat set to 66-degrees, it cannot be less than 85 up there. It was annoying when I first moved in; it’s now untenable. I woke up at two o’clock and at four o’clock after having nightmares about being in a crushing crowd of people while wearing super-constricting jeans. (In other words, it was a dream about being hot.) I had a choice: stay upstairs and sweat through bad sleep or come down to the icy cold first floor — the windows are open, remember — and be assaulted by smelliness and visions of the Rodents of Unusual Size skittering around underfoot. The loveseat where I would ultimately choose to make my bed is about five feet across; I am five-foot-eight. I can’t remember the last time I was this grumpy.

The management company is appropriately horrified at all of this. They will relocate me immediately, of course. At about four-thirty this morning, wedged on the damned loveseat, I emailed them that they would also be putting me up in a hotel until that time comes.

This is where my grumpiness turns to hot, despairing tears. I just moved. I just moved here. I changed my address. I set up shop. My design wall is up; there’s a quilt being made. I have my tea tray all ready every morning. I don’t want to look at cardboard boxes. I just want a home. I just want a little peace for crying out loud. For heaven’s sake, man.

This is my tale of woe.

 

1 Jan 2015

Me And George.

by | posted in: D.C., Day In The Life, Tips, Travel | 0
Portrait of George by Gilbert Stuart Williamstown. Not another town! Gah!
Portrait of George by Gilbert Stuart Williamstown. Not another town! Gah!

Moving to a new city means relinquishing your card to the People Who Know Where They’re Going club. Because you don’t. Know where you’re going. Even with Google Maps, sometimes.

And now, a quick history lesson with creepy details:

Several hundred years ago, America’s forefathers formed a more perfect union. Around the same time, the urban planners of Washington, DC drew a circle around all that hot, democratic action and built a city around it. Washington is organized into four quadrants (NE, NW, SE, SW). To have a city divided like that, you have to have a central locus point. Are you ready to freak out?

The central locus of DC is a crypt.

Did you know that?! Turns out, to properly navigate your way through DC, you gotta pivot on a skeleton. Well, sort of. Here’s the deal: the Capitol Building has a rotunda, which is the inside of the big, beautiful Capitol dome (currently covered in scaffolding because it’s having some work done.) The Capitol crypt is located directly below the rotunda and was made to be the entrance to George Washington’s tomb, two levels down. I know!

George Washington politely declined to be entombed in the Capitol Building, however. Since he was dead when he expressed his wishes, he got whatever he wanted. (Just kidding; his wishes were in his last will.) Washington is actually buried in Mount Vernon, VA, on the family’s estate. But the crypt and tomb are still the smack-dab middle of DC and you can tour the place, which I’m going to do as soon as The Great Holiday Goof-Off officially ends. (I love The Great Holiday Goof-Off but it’s cutting into my DC museum time.)

From the crypt, the streets in DC are numbered going east, from 1st to 2nd, to 3rd, and so on. They are also numbered the same as they go west: 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and so on, but these numbers are claimed by different quadrants. The same system goes for the north and south, but the city planners used letters instead of numbers or names. To go north of the crypt, you hit A, B, C, etc.; heading south, you do the same thing, but — and I know you’re getting this, students — you’re in a different quadrant. To go to 4th and F Street, you need to know which 4th and which F Street you need. Because there are two of those.

This system makes a lot of sense as long as know which way is north. If you get turned around, you’ll end up on the other side of town pretty quickly. (Ask me how I know.) Then there’s the matter of all the state-named diagonals that cut through the grid. Thinking of those right now gives me a headache. I slightly hate Massachusetts Avenue; it has foiled several of my expeditions. It goes down but it heads west! It’s… I can’t talk about it.

One of my favorite writers died of cancer a few years ago. He made the comment that the saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is a bromide with essentially zero truth behind it. If you’re in a car accident and walk away without a scratch, you might have a little swagger. If you learn from mistakes that were painful, you may become wiser. But chemotherapy, round after round, doesn’t make anyone stronger: it makes you weaker. If you have surgery after surgery on your abdomen (ahem) your abdomen is not stronger, suddenly; it’s fragile. It’s delicate. It’s at risk.

I’ve been wondering if that thinking might apply to having to frequently figure out the layouts of new cities. It’s something that I’ve had to do a lot in the past eight months. Does it help my sense of direction to be constantly thrown into a new place? Or are my navigational skills compromised because, for example, I just figured out which streets in Manhattan have bike lanes and no longer need that information but I must learn quickly whether the Glenmont Red Line train heads to the NE quadrant of town or the NW quadrant. Am I strengthening my brain or scrambling it?

Have map, will use brain cells. Because I need groceries.

 

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