Some months ago, my sister told us a story about a very special sweater.
It’s one of my favorite posts of all time (perhaps because it’s in my sister’s voice) and it had a life outside the ol’ PG, actually; I shaped the text into proper monologue form, tweaked/polished it, and then shared it in a writing seminar last semester. Just like you, my cohort was charmed by my younger sister’s fashion concerns.
Well, there’s more where that came from.
The other day, sifting through WikiCommons (the site where I get all the strange-but-free images you see on PaperGirl), I found the above picture of a white shoe. I think it’s a terrific picture on its own, but it’s really terrific because it made me think instantly of my sister Rebecca, because Rebecca loves a white shoe. In fact, that’s how she said it to me one day:
“I love a white shoe.”
Now, that’s a thing we say. We say, “I love a white shoe.”
What you have to know is that my sister didn’t say this in a dreamy, effusive kind of way. She didn’t see a pair of white shoes and go, “Oh! I looooove a white shoe!!!”
It was more matter-of-fact. Rebecca spied a pair of white shoes — I’ll get to what kind in a minute — and said it like it was a foregone conclusion, like it was a truth held to be self-evident. “I love a white shoe.” And then she probably pursed her lips, shrugged, and respectfully put the shoes back on the rack. Because that particular white shoe? At that particular time? Hm. Maybe not.
But it wasn’t just the tone, the inflection of her “white shoe” comment that made it so meme-y for us. There was intriguing syntax going on, as well. My sister didn’t say, “I love white shoes.” She said, “I love a white shoe.” There was something awfully aristocratic about it. Very landed gentry. She said “I love a white shoe” as though we all have so many pairs of the same kind of shoe (e.g., Red Shoes, Paisley Shoes, Pom-Pon Shoes, etc.), that when considering an outfit, it makes perfect sense to say, “I think a white shoe. Don’t you? I do love a white shoe.”
What’s crazy is that for my sister, saying this does make sense. Not because she’s a wealthy landowner in 19th century Britain who lives off the rental properties she owns (see: landed gentry), but because she has this incredible style and the most extraordinary luck finding cool white shoes. Rebecca’s white shoe is a cool white shoe, the kind of shoe I do not even notice when I’m looking for “shoe.” Rebecca doesn’t wear white pumps (eek), or bright-white sneakers. No, my sister finds cool shoes in her shopping excursions and these shoes are frequently white. The shoe is often canvas/leather and has a touch of hardware on it, but never much; maybe a clasp. Maybe a small clasp. The shoes she finds are minimalist, you might say, designed by Opening Ceremony, or Jason Wu, or some obscure Italian footwear designer no one has ever heard of. She gets everything on sale, too, and usually on clearance because not everyone can pull of a white shoe, so they languish on the rack.
Rebecca wears a white shoe with dark clothes. I can’t figure out how she manages to make it so chic, but she does. Dark sweater, dark pants, neutral jacket … white shoe.
“Rebecca,” I ask her. “How do you do it? What’s your secret?”
My sister just makes the “What can I say?” gesture. She puts on her Ray-Bans. She takes a sip of her beverage and her beverage is something sparkly. “I love a white shoe,” she says.
QuiltCon? I know her. Image courtesy Modern Quilt Guild.
It snowed today in Chicago. I like snow. I like winter. But there isn’t anything wrong with going to California sometimes, you know, just to make sure your sandals are still in good shape.
Lucky for me and any other chilly quilters — modern or otherwise — out there, QuiltCon 2018 is coming! And this year, the most exciting happening of the quilt calendar year will be underway in sunny Pasadena.
Yes, at this exact moment, two weeks from now, the quilts will have been unveiled. All the awards will have been given out, which means we’ll all know who got Best In Show and isn’t that so exciting? Two weeks from now, vendors will be vending; neat classes will have gone down; “sewlebrities” will be soaking their autograph hands; after lots of emails and Instagram posts, internet friends will be hanging out IRL; and many, many, many, many, many, many, many pictures will have been uploaded to many, many, many, many, many, many social media pages.
And I’m excited. Though I don’t make modern quilts, I love them and I love the people who make them. I’m also deeply glad to have emerged as a kind of go-to quilt history geek for the modern set. Put me in, baby. I’m happy as a clam (?) giving historical lectures at QuiltCon; the full houses that greet me seem to indicate folks like what I’m puttin’ down.
The only downside is that I have to top myself every year. For example, two years ago, I debuted “The Great American Quilt Revival: The Reason We’re All Here Right Now.” It went well — too well?? — so last year, I brought the pain with “Standing On the Shoulders of Giants: A Brief History of the American Quilt.” That one was really good. (Well, it was! Ask anyone who’s seen my lectures: I have serious powerpoint game.) And the lectures I debut at QuiltCon go into my repetoire and have a life after the MQG show, but it’s neat to present them for the first time out there with the mod squad.
But I have to tell you … This year in Pasadena, I don’t have a new lecture … I’ve got TWO!
Talk about topping what you did last year. QuiltCon 2019 is happening in Nashville next year; maybe I’ll pull out my guitar.* Anyway, both lectures are in pretty good shape, but this weekend is going to have me hunkering down, smoothing out, and rehearsing. For real, these two lectures (see descriptions below) are literally my best work yet, so that’s one of 9,000 reasons to do QuiltCon 2018.
See you in Cali!
The AIDS Quilt: Comfort, Compassion, and Change
When the first panels of “the AIDS quilt” were sewn together in San Francisco in 1987, the U.S. HIV/AIDS epidemic had only just begun. At the peak of the crisis in 1995, 319,849 people — mostly young, vibrant men — were dead from complications from AIDS while 200,000 more had were testing positive for the virus. As the death toll grew, so did the quilt. The story of the AIDS Memorial Quilt is the story of a modern plague and exists as evidence of enduring hope for victims and survivors, friends and family. Learn about the beauty of the quilt and an essential, tragic period in our history in this must-see lecture by Mary Fons. Warning: This lecture contains graphic content.
*Note: I curated an exhibit of panels from the NAMES Project quilt which will be on display during the show this year.
The Modern Quilt: Roots & Frontiers
The modern quilt was born in the first decade of the 21st century — but it didn’t hatch out of an egg. Modern quilts have aesthetic roots in various 20th century art movements, draw from many cultural “moments,” and owe plenty to quilts and quilters that came before. Seeing those roots helps us as quilters look ahead — and the future of the modern quilt is nothing short of thrilling. Popular QuiltCon lecturer Mary Fons brings you the history of the modern quilt (so far) and predicts what’s to come as the moderns forge ahead in what she believes is the second wave of the Great American Quilt Revival.
*Note to self: Buy guitar. Learn how to play guitar, write music, sing while playing guitar.
This is sort of hilarious: This is the view FROM the clock. Not of the clock. But it was on Wikipedia! Photo: Wikipedia.
Dear Chicago’s Millennium Park Plaza Building:
I am an enthusiastic supporter of all of the large buildings on Michigan Avenue. As such, I hope this message will be received in the spirit in which it was written: with friendliness. And some urgency.
Millennium Park Plaza Building, I’m writing to ask if you might consider fixing your clock. It is such a large clock, Millennium Park Plaza Building, and it’s been broken for such a long time. In fact, I don’t know when it’s ever been correct, and I’ve been clicking my kitten heels up and down your stretch of Michigan Avenue for some years. Just curious, Millennium Park Plaza Building: Do you recall when your clock was keeping the correct time? Was it perhaps in the 1990s?
There are many idioms that having to do with time. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” “Third time’s the charm.” “Better late than never.” There’s one I like very much that goes, “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.” You’re familiar with the phrase?
The other day, Millennium Park Plaza Building, I was crossing Michigan Avenue, right there at Randolph where your grand, handsome clock is so enticingly placed, towering, as it does, over the citizens of this great city. I looked up at you and — mercy! Your time was right! I was so pleased, Millennium Park Plaza Building, I can’t even tell you. The deep satisfaction of seeing your chiseled face at long last showing the correct time; seeing you do what you were born to do … It was a remarkable moment. I cannot be the only pedestrian who looked up at you, thought, “Ah! It’s 11:14 a.m.! Right on the money!” and felt a warm sense of rightness with the world, even for a flicker of a flick.
It was 11:14 a.m., Millennium Park Plaza Building — but you and I both know you had nothing to do with it. Because even a stopped clock is right twice a day, Millennium Park Plaza Building, and you only happened to be right about the 11:14 a.m. thing. You were wrong at the right time.
Millennium Park Plaza Building, you’ve been through a lot. You’ll be 40 in a few years and it’s not been an easy life; you’ve seen a lot of changes, had a few identity crises. Maybe your broken clock is symptomatic of how you feel on the inside. I get it, buddy. Sometimes my clock doesn’t work, either.
But if you can’t manage to get yourself off the couch and fix your clock for you, dear, may I suggest fixing it for someone else? Or someones else? You see, a lot of times, if you’re really down, the best thing you can do is to do something for others, to get the focus off yourself and onto someone else. Seek to love, not to be loved. Does that make sense?
Well, you’ve got the whole city to love, Millennium Park Plaza Building! When that clock of yours is finally working again, innumerable people at innumerable intervals will look at you, love you, check you twice, and yes, curse you and say bad words when they don’t like what you have to show them — but it’s not your fault Paul is late for work (again) or that Jacinda just missed her train to Bloomington! You’ll be helping people, that’s my point. And I know you can do it.
If you can’t fix your clock, Millennium Park Plaza Building, will you consider taking it down for heaven’s sake? At a certain point, a big, broken clock on a busy street really gets to a girl. She starts feeling a little lost. She becomes dangerously preoccupied with time, as a construct.
Ahh … Quilt House. A museum just for quilts in Lincoln, Nebraska. Photo: International Quilt Study Center & Museum.
Hey, gang!
I have a great time talking to myself, let’s be honest. But from time to time, I’ve found there’s nothing better than interviewing someone more interesting than me. Shocker, right? Yeah, well, it turns out I have a lot of interviewing to do. Like, a lot. Basically, I will never stop having people to interview.
I’d better get started.
Therefore, please enjoy this Quilt Scout interview with the delightful Marin Hanson over at the International Quilt Study Center & Museum (IQSCM) about a very cool exhibit happening in Lincoln right now. If Marin wasn’t so friendly and warm, she would be intimidating because Marin is wicked smart about quilts and, I’m sure, 90,000 other things. I enjoyed learning from Marin, who curated the show, and I think you’ll enjoy learning from her, too.
After you’re done, flick open your calendar, whether it’s on your phone or your desk or your wall, and figure out when in 2018 you’ll make the trip to visit the IQSCM. Some of you have been and need to go back; some of you have yet to see this iconic, exquisite quilt museum and in a way, I’m kind of jealous of the latter group. After all, you still have before you that incredible moment when you drive up to Quilt House and realize that the whole, huge, gorgeous place, honors quilts and only quilts. Well, this is the year to get there and have that moment — and if you go before May 13, you’ll see the Ken Burns quilt exhibit, too!
Speaking of interviews: Kenny, I’ve got you in my sights.
The famous “Gateway to the Sierras” suspended street sign in Clovis. Photo: Me.
I woke up in California today.
Specifically, I woke up in California’s San Joaquin Valley, in Fresno County, in the town of Clovis. I had a gig this weekend and the gig was marvelous. Lecture went great; class went great. All was merry and bright, except that I wasn’t feeling terribly well when I arrived on Friday. But what can you do? You keep calm; you carry on. By the time the class ended yesterday, however, sleeping for about 12 hours seemed like a real smart thing to do. And that’s what I thought I would do, except when the incandescent Jessi and the captivating Vicki (who I have a feeling is going to help me find my puppy, y’all) dropped me off at my hotel, I had to change plans. It was only 4 p.m. and I knew that if I fell asleep right that minute, I’d wake up at 9 p.m. and then … cut to 2 a.m. and I’m up, eatin’ chips … and potentially missing my 6:30 a.m. flight. No bueno.
“Fons,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed in my room. “Fons.”
“Yes?” I answered myself, weary, dreading what I was going to say.
“You’re a five-minute walk to downtown Clovis, Fons. C’mon! Go down there and check it out! It’s that cool, old town kinda thing, remember? It looked so neat when you drove through yesterday.”
“I am not feeling very well,” I said. “And my contacts are so crispy.”
“Wear your glasses.”
I whined. “It’s sunnnnnnny.”
“Stop it. One hour, tops. Take some pictures. You’re behind on your Instagram.”
I knew I was right, so I heaved me off the bed. I took out my contacts; I put on my glasses. I got a totebag and made sure my phone had a charge. I put on my flip-flops, stuck my hotel key in my pocket, and out I went.
Downtown Clovis was neat. There was lots to see: tons of antique stores; great old signs; good-lookin’ restaurants; a men’s store that has been in business since 1900 or something bananas like that. And it was Winter Formal or something, so I saw a some high school couples out in their finery. As I walked around this street and that, I realized how much I was enjoying myself, how I felt better just by doing “nothing.” Please believe me that I do not see it as some badge of honor that I cannot remember the last time I had an hour or two like that, just walking, taking pictures, doing nothing, totally off the clock. I’m so rarely ever, ever off the clock. But I was, in Clovis yesterday, for just over an hour. I’m glad it happened, glad I convinced myself to go for it.
But when the sun began to slip away around 6:30 or so, I realized I was on empty, for real this time. I needed water, too. I kept thinking I’d find a Walgreen’s or a CVS and my plan was to buy two big bottles of Perrier and a bag of popcorn and that would be my dinner. You know how sometimes, that’s the best dinner? Just popcorn. Well, I walked and walked and … Nothing. I started looking for a tiny market shop or even a liquor store, but no dice. I decided to just walk on out of town and back to my hotel, but this was the pits! Surely there was a place nearby I could get a bottle of water and a bag of popcorn.
I saw a woman walking a few paces ahead of me. “Excuse me, Miss?” I said. “I’m sorry; could you tell me if there’s a Walgreen’s nearby or something like it?”
“Oh, well, let’s see,” the woman said, and she pointed down the main road. “I think there’s one down that way … Maybe just a couple miles down?”
I thanked her and shook my head. “I’m on foot, I’m afraid. I’m here for the quilt show and just thought I’d come walk around a little, find some snacks. No worries! Thank you for your help.”
“Oh, I’m a quilter!” the woman said. “Want me to give you a lift? I’m happy to do it.”
Mind you, this lady didn’t know who I was. She sort of knew about Fons & Porter (and when I told her about Quiltfolk she was very excited) but she’s new to the whole thing and is just getting into longarming. So this wasn’t a “Oh! Oh my goodness! It’s Mary Fons! Eee! Do you need a ride??” kind of a thing. No, this lovely woman — Pam — gave a complete stranger/out-of-towner a ride to get popcorn and water simply because that’s the kind of person she is. Can you believe it? She didn’t know me from Eve! When I told her how grateful I was that she was taking the time to help me out, she shrugged it off and said:
“Honey, I’m a Christian. It’s my job.”
That’s my kinda Christian, Pam. And downtown Clovis, that’s my kind of sightseeing.
In fact, I am not even going to open a tab and visit the BuzzFeed website and click on the”About” tab to see what BuzzFeed has to say about its vision, or mission, or evil plan for world domination. Because I do not want to be assaulted with what I will surely find there: pop-up ads, weird clickbait images that flash, and … quizzes. Lots and lots of quizzes.
Because what I do know for sure about BuzzFeed is that they are responsible for those infernal online quizzes that everyone was (still is?) posting every five seconds on Facebook and across other social media platforms. The quizzes are things like, “What Power Ranger Are You?” or “How Much Cooler Are You Than This Tree Trunk?” or “QUIZ: We Can Tell You Exactly How Old You Are By What Candy You Like.”
Now, these kinds of things can be fun. In small doses. If you don’t have anything better to do and … I’m not going suggest that you surely, surely have better things to do than take more than like two BuzzFeed quizzes in your whole, entire life but what do I know? Maybe you get great pleasure from knowing (for example) what kind of superhero sidekick you’d be if you were a superhero sidekick. I don’t know your life! Maybe BuzzFeed quizzes are research for you because you’re applying to be an actual superhero’s actual sidekick.
Anyway, I took one of these blasted things not too long ago. I cannot tell you why that was. The quiz I took was one of the ones I mentioned: the “We Can Tell You Exactly How Old You Are By What Candy You Like” quiz. Maybe I just wanted some candy at the time and didn’t have any and this dumb quiz was a stop-gap? There were big pictures of candy in the quiz, so maybe that was it.
Most of the questions were “this vs. that” questions, which basically made taking a BuzzFeed quiz like playing a video game. Click. Click. Click. Others were multiple choice, sort of. As I went through the questions, I jotted down some of them so I could tell you about it later. My selections in boldface:
Cape Cod Saltwater Taffy vs. AirHeads
Werther’s vs. Jolly Ranchers
At the end of the goofy thing, I was informed EXACTLY how old I am, just as they told me I would. Would you like to know EXACTLY how old I am?
I am 89 years old. According to BuzzFeed. Because of what candy I like. On the internet. I am an 89-year-old woman.
That I am suddenly an octogenarian feels right in this situation. I’m awfully grouchy about the kids and their koo-koo crazy BuzzFeed internetz, after all. But I do feel a little defensive. Why are delicious candies like Werther’s Originals and saltwater taffy the selections for those beyond the bloom of youth? Why should liking a lame, lightweight KitKat make me younger, while sweet n’ crunchy Almond Joy makes me older?
But this is the problem with BuzzFeed quizzes and so much content like it on internet: The more you try to make sense of it, the more you are frustrated, because it doesn’t make sense. It’s not supposed to. It’s not designed to. Stuff like this is space garbage, internet trash floating around in a galaxy of zeroes and ones.
The good news is that I don’t have a single gray hair.
“Woman Writing” by August Macke, 1910. Image: Wikipedia.
I’ve learned over the years that folks love the “Word Nerd” posts on the ol’ PG. The copy editing post was a big hit, for example.
Well, kids, it’s a Word Nerd Day. And it’s a good one, too.
I came across an abbreviation a couple weeks ago while (re)reading P.G. Wodehouse’s “Joy In the Morning” for the humor writing class I’m teaching. I’ll put the sentence in below; all you need to know for context is that it’s the incomparable (and incomparably funny) Bertram “Bertie” Wooster speaking:
… it had naturally seemed that the end of the world had come and Judgement Day set in with unusual severity. But to me, the cool and level-headed bystander, the whole thing had been pure routine. One shrugged the shoulders and recognized it for what it was — viz. pure apple sauce.
Viz! Do you know this one?? I didn’t, but when I saw it, I decided that if P.G. Wodehouse used it, I must start using it, too, and liberally. Here’s the definition:
viz. | viz | adverbchiefly British namely; in other words (used to introduce a gloss or explanation): the first music reproducing media, viz., the music box and the player piano. Latin, from videre “to see” + licet “it is permissible.”
Hm!
Thinking through this “viz” biz, I’m now aware that I’ve been using “i.e.” when I should probably be using viz.
In case you need a refresher, “i.e.” means “that is to say.” It’s used to add explanatory information or to state something in different words, e.g., “I love going on spa retreats, i.e., spending hundreds of dollars to have someone smack me with kelp leaves while I pretend that the quinoa patty I ate for lunch was totally satisfying and also I am trying not to get cucumber water in my eyeballs.”
[See what I did with the “e.g.” up there? Because “e.g.” means “for example”! I know. There are so many of those and now there’s viz.]
Here are some sentences where I practice using viz.
PRACTICE SENTENCE NO. 1
The main point of Mary’s lecture, viz. that caramel should be a food group, was misunderstood.
PRACTICE SENTENCE NO. 2
Several of Santa’s reindeer, viz. Dasher, Blitzen, and Donner, were total jerks.
PRACTICE SENTENCE NO. 3 But the hobo had one obvious problem, viz. he was wearing a tin can for a hat.
Okay, now you practice. Well, if you want. Practice using viz. if you’re a Word Nerd like me. (And if you’re reading this, you totally are, even if you didn’t know that about yourself.)
Rita, remember this picture?? There’s me, and Ms. L., and good ol’ Pendennis. Photo: Rita Farrow.
Every once in awhile, I have to rely on Pendennis, my monkey sidekick, to blog for me.
For well over 10 years, I have posted to this blog, on average, with precious few sabbaticals, five times a week. Whether I’m just naturally able to do this absurd amount of content creation or 10 years of an absurd amount of content creation has made me into a person who naturally does it at this point, there are some nights that I can’t create something brand, spanking new.
It’s never — truly, literally never, ever — because I “just don’t know what to write about.” In fact, I have the opposite problem. I want to write about everything. I have to. Writing about everything is the only way I can make sense of anything, so around here, it’s open season.
The reason I rely on Pendennis from time to time to “pick three” for me (viz., to pick three entries that strike his monkey fancy as being worth a second look or, for some, a first) is because sometimes, what I want to write about requires more thought, more craft, more focus, than I have time to give it at that moment. And, because I’d rather not blog at all than blog poorly, or post something half-baked or lame, there are times when P. just has to help, less PaperGirl goes dark for a couple days, which will never do. Three days go by and I don’t blog? Trust: I get hives. And Pendennis hates taking me into the doctor for the hives, so he’s usually willing to pick three if I look itchy.
What have you picked today, Pendennis?
(Pendennis stares, says nothing.)
Pendennis does not speak the English language (or any other language), so he can’t answer. Well, he won’t answer, let’s put it that way. But he will pick three for you tonight; you’ll see. And, because there appear to be lots of new readers all the time around here (hello, I love you, tell me your name) it’s especially exciting to have P. picking some posts from the past. Just think of all the new readers don’t know about the monkey and me!
Take it away, Pendennis. You had me at hello.
Pendennis Pick No. 1: ‘Lily’s Big Day(s) Out’
This was special. A blog reader and fan asked me for advice about her trip to Chicago with her niece. Would I give them some tips, she asked? Would I give tips?? I did more than that because how cool! I met Lily and Rita at the hotel and we had a Grand Day in Chicago. It was so cool. This is part one and this is part two. (Lily, hi!! Girl, how are you???)
Pendennis Pick No. 2: ‘I Literally Moved Your Cheese, Lindsay’
On a gig in Florida (I think?) I accidentally took the pre-sliced, pre-ordered cheese out of a bin at a Publix and bought it and definitely ate it. This is an open letter to the woman whose cheese I unwittingly stole and enjoyed. But I didn’t know I stole it! I couldn’t have enjoyed it if I knew it was contraband.
Pendennis Pick No. 3: ‘A Bird Pooped On My Head’
What else is there to say? It happened in Washington, D.C., and I remember everything about this moment. It’s nice to have the record, though.
Wait, who’s that chick in the red glasses?? Oh, it’s me! Photos by Melanie Zacek.
I kept saying there were big announcements coming soon, that I’d be sharing good news before long. Maybe some folks thought I was finally going to get my dream dog, Philip Larkin. Did anyone think I eloped?? That would be so cool if someone thought that.
There’s no Philip Larkin, yet, and I’m not as far as I know. I was promoted to Editorial Director of Quiltfolk magazine, though.
:: skips, jumps, trips on a stray sock, gets glass of water, returns ::
Can you stand it?? How cool is this?? To me, this the Coolest Thing Ever. Quiltfolk is doing is precisely what my heart is telling me — no, shouting at me — to do right now: investigate, celebrate, and honor quilt culture in America, past, present, and future. Quiltfolk is real. Quiltfolk is dreamy. Ergo, editorially directing Quiltfolk is a very real, very dream-y job for me. I have red marks on my arm from pinching myself for the past couple weeks. I’d better see my doctor about — oh, wait … Maybe not.
[Look, people, if I don’t laugh, I won’t stop crying about yesterday’s post. Thank you, everyone for listening to me — and to each other.]
A new job offers an opportunity to reflect on one’s professional life, don’t you think? I mean, when I was in high school and stopped waiting tables at the Pizza Hut north of town to wait tables at Northside Cafe on the town square, I recall doing some soul searching. Come with me for just a moment, will you, as I mull over this promotion?
It’s been about 10 years since I began working in earnest in what I saw at the time as my mother’s industry. I still think of it as her industry, honestly, and I’m okay with that. We’re all just standing on the shoulders of giants; my mother would say the same thing.
Anyway, in the early years I was a nervous beginner asking the dumb questions on “Love of Quilting.” A couple years later, I grew into what we call a “confident beginner,” able to create and host “Quilty,” an online how-to show for other beginners. “Quilty” grew a cult following for the five years it was on the internet-air, and I was able to use my freelance writing skills to serve as editor of “Quilty” magazine for four years. I wrote a book during that time. I dreamed of making a Mary Fons fabric line of reproduction fabrics and I did! I really did that and I loved that project. I’ve created and delivered a ton of webinars. And I have spent many, many days planning and executing gigs from one coast to the other, teaching and lecturing for (tens of?) thousands of quilters at this point.
**Quick note on that last thing: Between my former life as a Chicago theater professional and my experience as an itinerant quilt teacher/speaker, I fear no room. No grand auditorium, no tiny church basement, no ad hoc retreat center phases me. Beyond that, there is no tech failure I cannot work around. When the projector at a guild meeting in Oklahoma two years ago was DOA, I did my entire slideshow presentation with no slides. And you know what? I slayed.
The whole time, ceaselessly, I’ve been writing. Writing this blog; articles for Fons & Porter; the Quilt Scout; articles for magazines like Modern Patchwork and Curated Quilts. And, starting with Issue 04: Tennessee, I’ve been writing for Quiltfolk magazine.
One more point to make and then more about Quiltfolk:
All this stuff I’ve been up to over the past decade has been done in front of everyone. As I’ve grown (into) my career, I’ve been on display. Anything I do, it’s out there, right away. This is partly due to the Fons name, partly due to the internet overall, and partly due to this blog, of course. Without the ol’ PG, I could show you less. I could hide better. I could have career developments and changes and losses and trials and victories and failures and disappointments and agonies and ecstasies slightly more in private if I didn’t do what I’m doing right now, which is writing to thousands of subscribers about my life, on my couch, in my pajamas. With some chips, maybe.
(There are chips.)
My point — and I do have one — is that doing everything in full view is kookoo bananas … but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love growing up in front of you. You’re my tribe. You’re my people. I love you. You see me. And when I look at the comments and the paper mail, I think that you really do love me right back. (Woah.) And when people actually love you, they are happy for you when good things happen, and so you want to tell them. You want to celebrate, they want to celebrate. Because wow, life is hard, sometimes, but other times, it’s just really good. This is really good, this new opportunity Mike McCormick has given me. Thank you, Mike.
Quiltfolk is important. When you see it, if you haven’t seen it, yet, you’ll know. You’ll see.
In closing: To those of you who are wondering how I’m going to manage the new position while I’m in grad school, know that a) I’m almost done with school; b) the promotion at Quiltfolk forced me to resign — with class, diplomacy, and a promise to help in the transition — from the student newspaper; c) I’m not accepting any gigs for the foreseeable future; d) I’m considering bi-weekly Swedish massages until I finish graduate in on May 14th, 2018.
A doctor’s office in 1960, which fits the feeling, somehow. Image: Wikipedia.
A couple months ago, I got a letter from Humana, the company with whom I’ve had an insurance policy since 2004. The letter stated that my individual medical plan would be cancelled as of December 31st, 2017.
No explanation. No apology. Just cancelled. See ya.
This post is not about healthcare policy. I’m not interested in debating about healthcare offered by the government, companies like Humana, or anyone/anything right now. Even if I did, I wouldn’t do it here. And I know — I am 100 percent certain — my beautiful readers are way too classy to spiral into goofy and/or cruel arguments about healthcare policy down in the comments section. I believe such conversations are best had on Facebook.
This post is about healthcare, though. As in, the care a gal gets with her health and how sometimes it’s frustrating in certain small ways.
Because of my cancelled policy — which, by the way, kept me and my family from going bankrupt over the years of so many hospitalizations and surgeries — I have to find all new doctors. None of the doctors who saved my life are in my new network. There’s really no way around it. Either I find an entirely new team who accept my insurance or I keep my doctors and pay completely out of pocket. Paying out of pocket is not something I can do unless I suddenly become a millionaire. I’ll let you know.
Doctors I am currently shopping for include: Anesthesiologist; Gastroenterologist; Family Medicine/General Practitioner; Gynecologist; Psychiatrist. And a phlebotomist, though they’re slightly easier to find.
It’s daunting. I’m haunted by the fact that the new docs don’t know me the way my other doctors at Northwestern have known me for so long. All my records are at Northwestern. For everything. All my docs, until now, were all on the same campus, using phones with the same first six digits. Until now, all my docs knew each other — or at least knew of each other or could get to know each other in the cafeteria or whatever. I feel like I had a medical home and I got evicted. And I didn’t even do anything. I was paying my rent every month. I was doing what I’m supposed to do. I was being responsible.
But this is how it goes, I guess. Whining won’t help. So I’m making appointments, doing my research. I don’t have time for this huge job, but what’s more important than to have a team in place in case/when my body revolts? When you have my health history, getting this stuff in place is important.
It stinks when you meet with someone who definitely won’t work out. It happened recently. It’s happened before, too, this particular thing, but it was harder this time because of my feelings of being in hospital/doctor limbo.
The gal who was entering the stuff into the computer was a nurse practitioner, I think. I’m not totally sure, but she wasn’t the first person who took me into the room to do the pulse-ox and blood pressure stuff. But she wasn’t the M.D. I was about to see, either, so I’m thinking she was a nurse practitioner, which is fine; I’ve worked with and been helped by many.
Unfortunately, after I went through the short version of the long story, this person did the thing that makes me feel bad, small, unseen, and empty. She did the thing that made me feel some hideous blend of despair and anger. After telling her about my j-pouch, my ostomy, my takedown, my second ostomy, my second takedown, my anemia, my fissure, and my fistula, she asked:
“So when was your last colonoscopy?”
My breath caught. I squeezed my eyes shut. I made sure my voice was steady before I used it.
“I … don’t have a colon.”
Pause.
“Okay,” she said. “So …”
“I don’t have a colon,” I said, “so I don’t have colonoscopies. Anymore.”
“Okay, when was your last one, though?”
I’m no medical professional, but this question is irrelevant. As in, it has zero relevance to me, my situation, and my needs. But — if the lady insists — the last colonoscopy I had was the one in 2008, at Mayo Clinic, when I was admitted within five minutes of my arrival; the one they couldn’t complete due to the state of my large intestine being “totally gone on the left side,” suppurating and bleeding, bleeding and in tatters, hours away from bursting open and ending mademoiselle in a rather agonizing and undignified way, thank you very much.
Yes, I’m upset.
Because when you’ve got a doozy of a story like I do, going through it again (and again, and again) is hard. Bad memories come back. I do not use words like “trauma” or “flashback” lightly. When I say I have trauma from the lowest points of my illness story, when I say I have flashbacks when I go through the timeline, I mean it. But it’s 10 times harder when you’re going through it with someone new — because you’ve just lost all of your doctors — and you get through it only find you were not heard or understood. Because that feels like the person who was supposed to be listening doesn’t care. She might! She might care! But it doesn’t feel like it. And when you’re me, alone in a doctor’s office, talking about your belly, feelings are everything. Feelings are in charge.
Asking a girl nine years out from a total colectomy when her last colonoscopy was is like asking an amputee if she’s had any ingrown toenails lately. It’s like asking a blind person to look up at the chart and read the smallest line she can make out.
I don’t have a colon. It was removed. In its place, a bag. With the bag, the end of innocence. Please listen when I tell you these things, doc. Please don’t ask me about the organ they took out of my pelvis and threw into the hazmat bin before I woke up. I don’t have that piece of myself. I don’t know her anymore.
What I do know is that people are just doing their jobs. I know that. I owe my very life to the doctors and nurses who have cared for me. I’ve praised them often here on the ol’ PG. My new team may have the opportunity to save it again, we don’t know. I hope not?
So I forgive the gal with the computer and the long day, I really do. Who knows what was on her mind? And I’ve asked plenty of questions in my own life that showed I wasn’t listening or that I didn’t understand. No one does it right all the time. Not her, not me. Not the people who run insurance companies or governments, either, but I think those people should all try way, way harder.
My latest Quilt Scout column (v. briefly) traces the history of the iron. Truly, I say unto thee: There has never been a better time to make a quilt. So, after you read column No. 58 of the ol’ Scout, start sewing!
Strange bedfellows? Nah. The Calvin Klein ad campaign featuring the Kardashian sisters, 2018.
Speeding home in a taxi this evening, I gave in and opened the news app on my phone. Reading the news more than once a day is bad for a person’s health and I checked the blasted thing this morning already.
But if I hadn’t looked, I might not have seen the hot-off-the-fashion-presses story about Kim Kardashian West and her latest ad campaign for Calvin Klein. Kim is evidently now selling jeans for the company, and the ad campaign features Kim hanging out with her sisters, all of them in jeans and looking dewy/rich, talking about babies or boys or themselves, which is fine. It’s the Kardashian Way.
What is rather surprising, however, is that the girls are spread out on or coquettishly clutching … patchwork quilts.
Red and white quilts, specifically, and the quilts are theonly visual cue on set. The girls are in a barn-like space (as evidenced by the wooden beams overhead, sort of) but this is way-in-the-back-backdrop.
In this ad, the quilts are very, very much the thing. Well, the quilts and the boobs.
Much will be said about this ad campaign. The fashion people will freak out about how daring and koo-koo bananas fabulous it is for Kim & Co. to use quilts of all things to sell tight jeans. How anachronistic! How gauche/glam! Old/new! Gag, gag, gag. (“Gag” is a good thing in this context.) Some fashion people will think it’s a misfire, I suppose, but haters will hate and the Kardashians are used to it.
I’d wager that way, way more quilters are going to be talking about this campaign than the fashion world people, though. And to offer the second surprise of the evening: I’ll bet most quilters will be excited about it.
Seriously. Quilters love quilts. We’re excited when we see them featured in mainstream media. Ken Burns was just interviewed in the New York Times about his exhibition at the International Quilt Study Center & Museum, in Lincoln, Nebraska, and whatever you think about the New York Times, that was awesome. That article got shared like crazy among quilters. We like it when the other half notices what we know all day: Quilts matter, they are great, they have never gone anywhere, and they aren’t going anywhere, either.
And when a major celebrity puts a quilt in her photo shoot, we’re down. Sure, some ladies will tsk-tsk about Kim’s underpants and someone(s) somewhere will get their applique twisted that the quilts are on the floor. The haters will hate. People have different opinions about how we do all this. Quilters are used to it.
The Kim Kardashian/Calvin Klein quilt ad campaign is a good thing. Quilts are indelible, enduring symbols of domesticity and comfort, of home and care. They’re also kind of associated with women, if you haven’t noticed. And while you might not approve of the Kardashian cult of celebrity, or the annual monies spent by their empire on manicures/private jets, etc., you gotta admit: These folks are all about family and home. They’re about kids. Legacy. Tradition. Sounds like a quilt family to me. What do their extensions have to do with anything?
It’s a heck of a thing when a celebrity on the Kim Kardashian scale puts a quilt front and center in an ad campaign or a photo shoot. In fact, the Kim ads are so surprising precisely because thisnever really happens. Madonna has never done a quilt thing. Julia Roberts was never photographed for InStyle magazine with a quilt on her lap. Oprah hasn’t taken up sewing hexies at her ranch house. The only other big-time celebrity I can think of who really pushed the quilt into pop culture was Gloria Vanderbilt, and that was 40 years ago! In the 1980s! She was super into crazy quilts and had fashion designer Adolfo make robes for her to wear around her Log Cabin-decorated house.
But Gloria doesn’t have a reality show, y’all, and she ain’t married to Kanye West. This is probably a good move on Gloria’s part, no disrespect to Kanye. I’m thinking of the age difference.
Anyway, this post has been dashed off pretty fast; maybe too fast. I try to ruminate on things before I start typing. But by the time the taxi dropped me off at my building, I had gone through a (hopefully) robust thought process on all this and I’m okay if there’s more to say later. For now, I feel confident that quilters, on balance, are going to cheer about Kim and the red-and-whites.
Dawn, someplace. Photo: Susanne Nilsson, via Wikipedia.
“The mornings are for thinking; the evenings are for feeling.”
Gertrude Stein said that. The mornings are for thinking, the evenings are for feeling. Don’t you love that? And isn’t it that just the way?
Though I’ve always been a morning person, a few months ago I started waking up earlier. I started waking up at four — and I’m pretty sure that’s gonna be the way it is from here on out because I love getting up that early.
It’s true. When I get up at 4 a.m., I don’t wake up in despair. Oh, I’m a little daunted when the alarm goes off, but it’s exciting for me to know that I have hours to think before the rest of the world gets up and need things from me and I need things from the world.
It started because I had no choice. Between school, Quiltfolk, lecture gigs, and the rest of my life, waking up in the almost-middle-of-the-night and getting to work became the only way out, as far as I could see. And sure enough, day after day, the mornings were for thinking. I saw that I could mountains of work between 4 a.m. and noon, all of it necessary — necessary, of course, if you agree that reading assignments are necessary; that responding to fellow students’ work is necessary; that turning in magazine articles and columns a least within a day or two of their respective deadlines is necessary; if working on my essay collection is necessary.
I think all that’s very necessary. I think those things create what my life looks like and I feel pretty necessary, if only to myself.
So I get up at 4 a.m. and make tea. I take my vitamins and my meds. I stare into space for awhile. If you were to see me there in my reclining chair, holding a hot mug of tea and staring into space at 4:17 a.m., it might not look like I’m doing much. But make no mistake, I am very busy.
My alma mater: The Art Institute of Chicago, 2014. Photo by Nicholas Hartmann via Wikipedia.
Y’all.
It’s happening. I’ve got one semester left of graduate school before I becomeamaster. Can you stand it??
Classes for spring term, my final term at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) start this Thursday. Exactly how I’m going to wedge school back into my ever-busy schedule is a puzzle, I won’t lie. But I will make it work. I must. I don’t have a choice if I want to bea master, which I do. I mean, I want to get this degree just so I can walk around in Total Mastery and just always know how to do everything and never make mistakes and live in this constant state of having arrived. That’s what I’ve been writing huge tuition checks for, isn’t it? That’s what happens when you get your master’s, right? Total Mastery with Perpetual Arrival?
While we’re waiting for that to happen, wanna know what classes I’m taking??
Sharing my schedule might not sound interesting to everyone, but I’ve personally always loved to hear what courses people select for their school experience. It’s like, “Woah, you got into Advanced Trigonometry for Mid-Oceanic Systems Design? That’s amazing!” or “Wow, they added a section of Shakespeare IV: Advanced Tragedy from 1-4 p.m. on Tuesdays?? I’m in the Elemental Architectural Practicum Seminar on Tuesdays … I wonder if I can switch …”
(No? Anyone? Just me?)
My spring term looks amazing — and zero trig. Aside from having the pleasure of weekly advising sessions with the mighty Jill Riddell and my personal hero (and friend), Jim McManus, I will be taking three delicious courses. Here they are, the beauts, with an excerpt from the SAIC course descriptions:
Writing: Systems of Writing Seminar This course examines writing formulated and structured according to systems of thought and expression, derived from various disciplines and technologies including alphabets, calendars, palimpsests, experiments, collections, and translations.
Art History: Continuing Histories in Fiber This course locates current practice and discourse in fiber and material studies within a contemporary history of the field. Focusing primarily on the period from the 1950s onward, the first part of the course will emphasize important moments in the emergence of Fiber as a field of practice and theory during the 1960s and 1970s, through the presentation of seminal texts, exhibitions, and artist works. We will study the field as it formed in a relationship to related movements in art and politics, and in particular, to craft, minimalism and conceptual art, and feminism.
Writing: ‘What It Wants’ (Workshop) This workshop explores the notion that each piece of writing has its own needs. The writer’s role, then, is to get out of the way and let the piece emerge. As memoirist and poet Patricia Hampl notes, it’s a matter of paying attention to “what it wants, not what I want.” With this in mind, writers/artists … will have an opportunity to investigate not only the genesis of their work but also the choices made along the way to completion.
I’m so stoked.
I’m less stoked to apprehend the fact that this semester requires that I put my thesis together. I’m thinking of printing out the entirety of the ol’ PG and turning her in. This blog is basically a thesis, right? And SAIC is an art school. They might actually let me get away with that.
Maybe if I printed out all the thousands of entries and then all of you wrote something, too, I could put everything in a huge, inflatable binder and then we’d all be famous.
Look at the chipmunks in this crazy quilt! They’re CRAZY! Photo: Wikipedia.
Hey, gang! The Quilt Scout is IN!
And guess what else? The column has been renewed for another year, so all throughout 2018, I’ll be buzzing around twice a month with my friends over at Quilts, Inc. to bring you sparkly content that benefits your brain, your quilting practice, your life!
Yeah! Your whole life!
I’ve been writing the Scout for four years, now. Isn’t that something? It’s one of my very favorite things to do.
Here’s the first of three columns for January. (January has a bonus column this year, since the Scout drops every two weeks and January is kind of long. Long and cold.) This column is about history and love, essentially, and I think it turned out pretty good.
Yeah, that looks familiar. Harbor and skyline as seen from the Planetarium. Photo by Charles Weever Cushman (1896-1972); image via Wikipedia.
I am not a jogger.
I don’t do 5k runs. I don’t have one of those Garmin things, whatever those things are. I don’t dream of running a marathon. Actually, I did dream of running a marathon once: I woke up in a cold sweat and had to get a glass of water to calm my nerves.
However.
There have been periods in my life when I actually was a Running Person, when I did feel the need to cross long distances moving my legs at a faster rate than they would be going if I were walking. Sometimes, putting on sneakers and taking off has struck me as a thing — even the thing — to do.
For example, one of the best memories I have of my relationship with my ex-husband was the day we ran from our apartment in Edgewater all the way to Navy Pier … and back. It was 15 miles! And we just did it. Neither of us were regular joggers. But we were in love and we felt like it and we could. Marvelous. It was less marvelous when my big toenail turned black — and I didn’t run much for the rest of the year — but I’ll never forget that and how good it felt, start to finish.
And before that, back when I was a waitress at an Uptown brunch joint, I would wake up at 5 a.m. and go jogging before I had to clock in two hours later for the truly insane Saturday shift. That is fairly remarkable, but then, I was 23 years old. What else did I have to do, really?
After some years of zero jogs, I have been going out and getting a few. I’ve been gathering jogs, you could say. And what do you know? Jogging feels really good. I’m diggin’ it. I’m almost — not totally, but almost — looking forward to doing it tomorrow morning.
“Oh, Mary,” you chuckle, and tenderly pat my hand. “You’re so sweet. You mean that you liked jogging a few months ago and you were too busy to tell us about it so you’re telling us now.”
“No,” I say, but I let you pat me because I have never refused a tender pat. “No, I mean I’ve been jogging lately. Like, now, lately.”
“Mary,” you say slowly, “it’s winter. It was nine degrees in Chicago today.”
Yeah, I know, I know. But the thing about me and jogging is that doing it in the winter is when I like to do it. Jogging in the heat, under the glare of the sun, dodging a zillion people who do not think it necessary to wear clothes that cover large parts of their bodies? No bueno. Winter jogging is where it’s at, my sisters.
Everyone’s first fear is that you’ll freeze out there or worse, that you’ll sweat and freeze, and that does sound pretty awful. But with the proper clothing, you’re fine. You need leggings, an undershirt, and a pullover. You need a hat, gloves, and a neck-thingy. And your shoes and socks. Why, in that getup, you’re downright toasty! And everything “wicks” now. All your winter running gear is going to “wick” moisture, so you won’t be cold or wet, I promise. You’ll just be a big wick.
Of course, one of the major benefits of winter jogging is that you’ve got the world to yourself. Most joggers are on treadmills this time of year, which means you’ve got wide open spaces to explore and all the trails and bike lanes are your private roads. Nice. And you’re out there, out in the clear, bright white world. The air is crystal clear. The sun glints off the snow/lake/rooftops and then you blow your nose on your sleeve and no one sees. I’m telling you, it’s terrific.
I’m not getting kookoo bananas with this “jogging” thing; going out a few times a week feels about right. It doesn’t mean I’m leaping out of bed to go out there, though; not at all. Some days, as it gets closer to the time I told myself I’d go for a jog, I resist. I look out the window and I think, “No, no. It’s too cold today …”
But then I suit up and I get out there. And this version of me shows up and she’s pretty cool.
But there is woe in my life. This woe is real and comes from the fact that I do not speak another language. Though I do feel English is a boss language to know, I read somewhere that “speaking a second language is like having a second soul” and I want one!
I wanna second soul! I wanna second soul!
:: kicks feet, flops on floor of supermarket, wailing ::
Yes, I did take a few Spanish classes two summers ago; remember how I was, however briefly, “Chica de Papel“? It was fun, but look: If I’m going to learn a language I need to take a year off my life (or large chunks of it) and learn a language. One class a week for eight weeks, working in a workbook at Instituto Cervantes just didn’t take. Maybe I was a bad student, but I have lots of credit hours that would prove otherwise. I fear it’s immersion or nothing for me if I want a second soul.
So I make do. One way I make do is to continuously improve my working vocabulary, annexing both English and non-English terms. Which brings me to several untranslatable words that I would now like to share. These have been pulled from a couple different sources, one of them being The School of Life, which I have crowed about before.
Here are a few words from other languages/times with their definitions. See if you aren’t charmed, moved, and thoughtful as you read through them.
saudade (Portuguese)
A bittersweet, melancholic yearning for something beautiful which is now gone: a friendship from childhood; a great apartment; a successful business, etc. With this pain comes an attendant pleasure that we had such pleasure in the first place.
schilderwald (German)
A street that has so many street signs, you get lost.
pochemuchka (Russian)
A person who asks too many questions.
vademecum (Latin) A valued, even precious, book or guide that is kept constantly at hand for consultation; literally translates to “go with me.” [I see my diary as a vade mecum, for example!]
litost (Czech)
The kind of humiliated despair we feel when someone accidentally reminds us, through their accomplishments, of everything that has gone wrong in our own lives.
Hm.
Perhaps I don’t need a second soul. There’s an awful lot to do with the one I already have.
Every once in awhile, I allow myself to dip into the past and see what was what when the Earth was last in this exact(ish) spot in relation to the Sun.
That is how it works, right? If that’s wrong, my Earth-to-Sun relationship comment, then we know absolutely nothing has changed since last year, as I am forever getting things like that wrong. I know I’m supposed to be horribly embarrassed but somehow never am!
As I thought about doing a dip into the ol’ PG archives, which you should know are kept here on the internet and not in the Library of Congress YET, it dawned on me what I’d find: Germany.
This time last year, I was in Germany. I went to Berlin last winter, during my break from grad school to visit my friend Claus and the trip was … Wow. But not like, Vegas-wow. More like Band-Aid-rip-off-wow-that-hurt-wow. Ow-wow, in other words.
If you’re reading this right now, there are three possibilities regarding the unfolding of The Germany Trip here on the ol’ PG:
You’ve been reading me for at least a year and you totally remember The Germany Trip and you’re making this wince face. I am making a tired face, but I was wincing a second ago.
You’ve been reading me for a long time but have a selective memory, so you’ve selected to forget how I traveled thousands of miles and found myself touring a Stasi prison in January, in Berlin, as fat, wet snowflakes fell on my head … for love.
You’re new! And you’re interested now for sure.
If that last one is you, boy, are you in luck! I happen to have a veritable bouquet of links for you.
Perhaps begin with this post, wherein I announced my plans for the trip. Oh, what a happy lass I was, playing in the fields of low-cost international airfares. Then read this, where I’m a week out from leaving and full of anticipation and curiosity. Then move to this post, which finds me physically safe in Germany … but emotionally perilous.
After that, it’s a domino, really; this post is pretty pathetic, tone-wise. Content-wise. Heartwise. (Or not-so-wise, I guess? Hard to say.) And this one, yikes.
Anyway, that was pretty much exactly right now, a year ago, the Germany trip. My word but it was cold over there. Good hot chocolate, though, and I rode the bus all by myself. By the way, if either of us get too melancholy reaching into the mists of yesteryear, there’s always this post from a year ago next week, which is a script in which a woman (me) has a fight with her vacuum.
Also, what’s up with mid-January bringing “ow” to me two years in a row?
Right now, this very moment, in Chicago. Home. But I’m not in home. I’m in Detroit.
After two days teaching patchwork and lecturing on the Great American Quilt Revival for the Great Lakes Heritage Quilters, I was all set to scoot to the airport and get back to Chicago by 7:00 p.m. The days were great (that’s the good news) and home was important because getting home is important, but there was this one particular reason I wanted to get home as soon as I could, faster than ever, even.
You see, my friend Nick was going to make me dinner. He was going to make me dinner so that when I came home, there would be this … dinner.
Like, a dinner that was there. Made. For me. For us. A meal. A meal that was there. When I came back from a business trip. Like, a homemade dinner. When I walked in the door.
I can hardly get my mind around this concept. That there would be a meal for me when I came home from a trip … It just sounds really nice, you know? It sounds like the nicest thing I’ve ever heard of. I’m not sure when … I’m not sure I can remember the last time … Anyway, I was looking forward to that, you know? Especially after a four-day Quiltfolk trip last week and these two days of work in Michigan.
But my flight was cancelled. Not delayed; cancelled. The first time that happened — yeah, I said the first time — was this afternoon. I was in the workshop, helping Dee match her points, when Sue, my host, came toward me. She was looking at her phone with a furrowed brow.
“Mar,” she said, “it’s telling me your flight’s been cancelled.”
My stomach dropped, curled, flipped. I stopped breathing but I finished helping Dee with her points. As soon as Dee was sewing again, I dashed to the hallway with my phone and scrambled. It was weather. Snow. Ice. Flying monkeys. What did it matter, now? No getting home at 7:00 p.m. My eyes filled with tears and I felt so, so sad. That homemade dinner.
My only option was to get on a flight through Nashville. I would arrive in Chicago at 10:40 p.m., and even in Europe, that is not dinnertime. But when you really, really want to have dinner with someone, you make it work. I made a tearful call to Nick and let him know.
The reason I spend time with this person is because he says things like, “Nothing’s changed except the time you’re coming home.”
Sue gets me to the airport. I check my bags. As I’m walking to the gate, I get a work-related text and it is bad. It is bad news. It is really bad news. I can’t go into the bad news. Even if I could go into the bad news, I wouldn’t. You just have to believe me that the text I got, as I’m dragging myself through the Detroit airport, sad because the first home-cooked meal I’d be having in years was not going to happen — this work thing was terrible and I couldn’t breathe very well.
And as I am trying not to hyperventilate, Southwest announces that no one on the planet (or at least in Detroit) is going to Nashville or Chicago before tomorrow morning. Including me. There is no voucher. There is no shuttle. There might be luggage. Either way, I’d be in EST again tonight.
Hot tears spilled down my face and I felt tired. I felt overwhelmed. All the bad things that I think about myself when I do something wrong came crashing down on me and I thought, “You are a failure, you are a mess.”
The need to find a hotel room* stunned me into a numbness that at least got my feet moving toward baggage claim. My bags were the last to be put on the conveyor belt. Would they even come?? Right before I truly lost it, they came up on the belt. I collected them, looking for all the world like someone had just stolen my birthday. I took a taxi to the hotel I booked; the taxi and the hotel pretty much wiped out what I made in book sales; whatever. I was so despondent I didn’t even care. I texted Nick that I’d call him later, after I stopped crying. (My mom doesn’t like it when I cry on the phone so now, I don’t like to cry on the phone.)
I took a bath. I ate something. I tried to breathe, to chill. It was a good day, but then it just went so bad.
My flight is at 6:50 a.m., so I should try to sleep, but come on. I won’t be able to. There’s too much anxiety in me, too much worry. And I shouldn’t be here. I should be there. With …
With Chicago. I should be with Chicago.
This is how it is. Sometimes, you are on top of the world. Sometimes, the world is so on top of you, you are at least a Great Lake away from feeling good.
*My hosts would have totally come back to the airport, collected me, and put me up for the night at one of their homes, without question. I was so wiped out and bummed, though, I just couldn’t make the call.
My friend Soph asked me awhile back how I shop for clothes.
I really liked the question because I like my clothes and hadn’t ever really been asked about how I pull everything together. I told Soph that I get my clothes mostly at designer discount outlets like Nordstrom Rack (my sister Rebecca is with me on this), or I buy things at fancy department stores when they’re 70 percent off.
But beyond the “where,” I thought about the “what.” What do I wear? What don’t I wear? Thinking it through, I realized I have a firm set of rules in mind when I’m purchasing clothing. Sometimes, gals like to swap this sort of information, so here we are.
After roughly 25 years of dressing myself, there’s stuff I wear and stuff I do not,full stop. I might be at a killer sale rack and see a dress that’s just my size, but if it features one of my “no’s,” I bounce. Who needs a closet full of clothing that only slightly works? Worse than that: Who wants to have a closet full of clothing you don’t actually like?
And I’m happy to say that at this stage in life, I know what does and does not work on my body. This saves a lot of time when I’m out amongst the racks, believe me. Note: Please do not take my “doesn’t work” list to mean the items are bad; they might be perfect for you, just as what clothing works for me might be disastrous on you. Oh, fashion! You fickle so-and-so.
Here’s what doesn’t work on me/for me/anywhere near me:
Bows
Chinese collars
T-shirts
Ruffles
Chiffon
Anything that gives me cleavage
Drop-waist dresses
Cap sleeve anything
Sleeveless shirts/dresses (with rare exceptions)
Ninety-percent of denim clothing (this includes jeans)
Here’s what does work:
Black
Tailored pants
White dress shirts
Gold hoops
Pumps (black, usually, but I make my forays)
Black cardigan
Layers
A red accent somewhere (often this is my lipstick)
Jackets
A great coat
To be honest with you, I kind of like the girl who wears all the things on my “no” list. I mean, chiffon and t-shirts?? Sounds fabulous! But for me, the simple thing is best, the well-made pants and the “crisp white shirt,” as Sophie put it — that’s the way for me. And I feel good.
I had not been to the PaperGirl mailbox since … Well, for a few months. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a lot going on around here. It’s like Grand Central Station. It’s like a busy restaurant at Grand Central Station. It’s like the kitchen of a busy restaurant in Grand Central Station. Let’s keep that metaphor going.
Sometimes, things that are not filed as “On Fire” get put on the “Back Burner.” I put the checking of the PaperGirl mailbox on the “Back Burner.”
What’s interesting about putting things that are not “On Fire” on the “Back Burner” is that the burner is on, Mary Fons, and sooner or later, what was on the “Back Burner” skips the state of being “On Fire” and goes directly to “Engulfed In Flames.”
The post office called me last week to tell me that I needed to come get the mail out of my mailbox. They didn’t say what they would do to my mailbox (or me) if I didn’t, but if you’ve ever been to a post office in the city of Chicago, you know it is unwise to make those people mad. They’re already mad. All the time. Even when no one has done anything bad. In any event, just do what they tell you to do and get out as quickly as possible. So I went up to the Merchandise Mart with my key today and I got the mail.
You guys. You guys.
The mail. The mail!
Oh, my. Beckie; Ann; Mr. Stofer; Ms. Hoof; Susan; Annabelle; Ms. Masal; Ms. Fix; The Gain Family … and others that sent gifts and notes and cards … I need to read all the rest of the letters and there’s nothing more I want to do tonight than do that.
A special shout-out to two people who made me yelp and then burble up with tears of joy/longing/gratitude: Leah and Mark.
Mark created the drawing of Philip Larkin. Mark, you are my friend and I value you so dearly. And you and Netta sent fudge again this Christmas. We’ll talk soon.
As for Leah — and I do not pick favorite readers, gifts, or letters, I love them/you all — Leah sent me a little tab dispenser than dispenses sticky tabs with puppies on the tabs. They are … I am literally tearing up when I look at these tabs. Every puppy looks like my dream puppy. I love these tabs and three of them are already stuck on my life, viz. my laptop, bookshelf, etc.
Thank you all for these wonderful envelopes. They are full of stories; they contain your very heart and soul. I will read everything. I love you all very much and you can print that. You can tack that up behind your eyes, knowing that it’s true. I’ve loved people for less than this, this bounty of letters from people out there who read, and write, and connect, and long to connect. Me, too.
Here: Mary Fons / Papergirl, PO Box 3957, Chicago, IL 60654-8777
I vow to you this day (!) to check the box every month. Every single month. Send me your letters, send me your thoughts. And you can send gifts, too, because I know about gifts. Gifts are my love language, and that means I feel love when I get gifts, absolutely, but I also show love when I give gifts. And I give a lot of gifts because I love a lot! (This blog is arguably one big, extended gift of like, life.) Anyway, if you’re a Gift love language person like me, you want to send me gifts because that’s how you show love.* Follow that impulse!
Whatever you do, and no matter if you send anything to me or not, keep writing. Keep connecting. I will if you will.
A Dollar Tree store in Commerce, Texas. Photo: Wikipedia.
It wouldn’t be PaperGirl if I didn’t make a confession every few weeks, so here goes the latest:
I’ve been watching — in fact, I’ve been listening to — what are called YouTube “haul” videos.
Do you know about this haul video phenomenon? If so, are you about to tell me that haul videos have been happening since YouTube began and where have I been living? And are you telling me that you have a problem with the rock under which I live? Well, missy, I like my rock — but I am also glad to peek out of it, sometimes, so I can discover things like haul videos.
In case you are an under-rock-dweller, yourself, a “haul” video is a video made for the internet wherein a person goes shopping and then shows you, item by item, what they bought. Sometimes the haul video includes the actual shopping trip, which means the shopper/vlogger has their phone out as they go through the store and thereby records the whole experience. But for the most part, the recording of the shopping trip itself doesn’t have much more than bouncy, jerky video of the aisles and of the person’s hand reaching at things to check the price on this or that item and saying, “Ooh, this is so cute, look at this!” Often, there’s no talking at all and the trip is set to goofy music. My point is that I’m not super into those videos.
But when the shopper sits down in her house (I have only ever seen female haul videos but I’m sure there are guys who do them) and she says something like, “Okay, guys! I’m just back from [insert store here] and I’m ready to take you through the haul! Let’s open the first bag” — when that happens, I’m hooked.
Again, I don’t watch the videos so much as listen to them. I open a browser window, hit “play” on some hauling vlogger channel, and turn the sound down so that I can work on other things.
In fact … Yes, there’s a video playing on my laptop right now.
This is weird, right? Or is it not weird? It can’t be weirder than this. Or this. But maybe if I try to explain why I do this, it’ll make sense. Let’s hope.
While I have friends and loved ones aplenty; while I feel largely satisfied with the life I am making; while I do very much enjoy living alone, I would be misrepresenting myself if I said there were not times when I wished for a little company around here. (My sweet Philip Larkin; someday soon, dearest puppy, but not today.)
Part of what I like about playing these videos in the background is that they provide a lovely white noise. It’s comforting to hear a nice lady chatting about nothing — and mind you, that’s not a dig. I’m not saying what she’s doing is “nothing” or has no value; I’m saying that going through six bags of discounted craft supplies from The Dollar Tree is not anything that I need to focus on. Particularly.
And that craft things is part of this. I’ve got a specific haul video beat, you see: I’m into the crafters. Not the quilters — do quilters do haul videos?? — and not the makeup girls or the clothes shopping girls. I’m sure there are haul videos for shoe stores and things. Nah. It’s the 50-something ladies who haul from Hobby Lobby, At Home, Michael’s, and whatever those other stores are, that really make me feel … better.
Better?
We all know that I can tell you anything. But when I told my friend Nick about this, I was a little nervous. Would he think I was a total freak? Would he think … What would he think?
One morning not long ago, Nick came over to me while I was working. I had just turned on a video, namely “Arlynn’s Country Craft Corner,” which is a favorite of mine (though I really wish she had spelled everything with a ‘K’ instead of a ‘C.’) He looked over my shoulder at Arlynn as she demonstrated her signature “funky bow,” which is very nice, though for the life of me I cannot figure out why it is considered “funky.”
“I get it,” Nick said. “It’s calming. She’s just a nice lady, doing a simple thing. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”
“You really don’t think it’s weird that I love it so much?” I asked. I noticed how handsome he looked in his lounge-y pants and his t-shirt. He looks handsome in everything, though.
“No, I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s sweet.”
And that’s how you go from writing a post about watching/not-watching YouTube “haul” videos to getting all dreamy about someone who has now appeared in this blog twice.
A still shot from Jack C. Newell’s feature-length documentary, “42 Grams.” Image courtesy Zaxie Films.
Remember Quilty? Like, original, vintage Quilty? Good times, my friends.
Jack C. Newell, my brother-in-law, directed Quilty for the five glorious years we made the ol’ girl If you loved the show — how it was lit, the pace of it, the edits, the music, the mise en scene, the sound — that was Jack’s work you loved because Jack called the shots on Quilty, literally. It was an honor and a pleasure to make that project with my sister Rebecca and Jack, who were dating at the time but not yet married.
Well, I’m thrilled to tell you that my brother-in-law is becoming kind of a big deal in the world of motion pictures. He’s running the Harold Ramis Film School at Second City, which is like, seriously huge. He’s winning awards for his films: feature-length; short; documentary — he does them all so well, these crazy opportunities keep coming his way. He’s being screened at major film festivals, and though Jack said I can’t spill the exact beans about a big thing that is coming soon for him/the world, he gave me permission to say “big things are coming.”
The “big things are coming” comment may or may not have to do with his latest doc, “42 Grams,” which is now available to watch on Amazon, iTunes, Vimeo, and Google Play. All of those links will take you to a page where you can watch the trailer and then the film, however each site handles that. (You know I only link to outside things when it’s really worth it to me/you. It’s worth it.)
The movie follows the meteoric rise of Jake and Alexa, two Chicagoans who started a restaurant out of their apartment a couple years back. The restaurant, “Sous Rising,” had critics and diners in Chicago and beyond freaking out all over the place. I actually remember hearing about this “underground restaurant” that was the best place to eat in the entire city. Well, that was just the beginning of this truly entertaining, truly suspenseful, truly heartwarming story …
… that my brother-in-law got on film. Jack was there with Jake and Alexa for years, documenting one of the most exciting, stressful, you-can’t-write-this-stuff time of their lives. That’s what “42 Grams” is all about and it is a gorgeous movie. You don’t have to be a “foodie” to love it, but if you’re into food, you’re going to love Jack’s movie even more.
And now you can watch it on real-life screens! Like, right now, after you read this interview! Yes, we’re so proud of Jack around here, Pendennis and I interviewed him for you. It has to be done! How often do you get to talk to a real-life director about making a real-life movie? I mean, Pendennis has that kind of access. But he’s family.
Interview With Jack C. Newell, a Big-Time Movie Director Who Is Also My Brother-In-Law
PG: I have to know … You made a documentary about an incredibly talented Chicago chef: Did you eat amazing food all the time?
JN: Yeah, I got to eat stuff pretty regularly. The way that this level of cuisine works, when [the kitchen] makes meals for, let’s say, 10 people, they’ll have enough components for 12. If the color isn’t right or something’s a weird shape, it’ll go onto a little plate and thrown in back.
PG: And it was Jake’s food that started the whole thing off, right?
JN: Yes, Rebecca and I went to eat at Sous Rising.
PG: You guys were dating at the time and now you’re married!
JN: That is true, yes.
PG: I just thought I’d point it out. Tell me more about how the documentary project began.
JN: I was just wrapping up a feature film — a fictional story — titled “Open Tables.”
PG: Which is also available on iTunes, Amazon, and Vimeo.
JN: That’s right. “Open Tables” took place in the food/restaurant worlds of Chicago and Paris. Because of that project, I had eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world. Then Rebecca and I went to Sous Rising and this guy was turning out better food out of his apartment kitchen than some Michelin starred restaurants I had been to. I thought: There’s something here.
PG: Was it ever awkward? Was Jake ever looking at you guys with like, dagger eyes to get out of his way?
JN: The point of documentary is that it captures humanity, and not all of life is sunshine and flowers. You have to be there for all of it. You can’t look away when it gets hard/bad/weird/awkward.
PG: Pendennis is very sad that life is not all sunshine and flowers.
JN: Sorry, Pendennis.
PG: You told me that from the time you had the idea till now, when the movie is debuting everywhere, it’s taken three years to make.
JN: Documentaries. Take. Forever.
PG: Feature-length films, like talky-picture-movies are faster, right?
JN: That’s fair, yes. Talky-picture-movies?
PG: Jack, I’m wondering … Why make a documentary? Why not turn this into one of your feature films? It sure is a great story.
JN: No one would believe this story if you made into a fiction film.
PG: Let’s see: “Young, struggling couple in love start restaurant out of their tiny apartment and become the toast of Chicago …” Yeah, it’s too perfect to be true. Except that it is true. That really is amazing. Were you just marveling that you had this tale unfolding before your eyes? And it was real?
JN: I have to say that I’ve fallen in love with making documentaries. It takes so long and is so hard because you’re totally out of control. But when you capture a real human moment, or bear witness to something amazing, or you can illustrate an idea and you can deliver that to an audience I think that’s really special.
PG: Pendennis would like to know how many people it takes to make a film like this. I think he’s interested in working with you again. [Pendennis was a fixture on the Quilty set bookshelves, as fans will recall.]
JN: Our crew was myself, my director of photography, editor, and sound [engineer.] Nick “Takénobu” Ogawa did the score. For this particular film, shooting in close quarters like this, small is sort of mandatory. And I don’t like having a large crew when it comes to documentary, because I want to try to be as invisible as possible when filming so people feel comfortable. If there’s all these people standing around and taking up space, that becomes hard.
PG: I have to ask you about Alexa. Jake is the superstar chef, but man, Alexa is amazing.
JN: Without Alexa the film wouldn’t work. She acts as a foil to Jake as a normal, non-culinary genius entry point for the audience member who is not a world class chef. She also provides a lot of the pathos.
PG: On opening night of the “real restaurant,” it’s seriously tense. As a viewer, I was really on the edge of your seat.
JN: It’s a roller coaster ride. We really take you on a journey. I think the first 30 minutes, when Jake and Alexa are “underground,” you’re like, “Wow, this guy is sorta … crazy.” Then we see him create a menu and it’s like, “Wow, this guy is crazy talented!” But then the cracks start to appear and it looks like, yeah, he’s got the skills but can he keep it together?
PG: Exactly! You did such a great job with this whole film, Jack. “42 Grams” is so cool.
JN: It’s incredible we were able to document this story. When you watch the film you get to go on this journey with these two passionate people who have a dream and you enter the film at the dream state and it goes from there all the way to the end. I can’t really spoil the ending here, but it’s a very special thing to see something full circle, I’ll say that.
The Golden Circle ladies, c. 1973. Image: Wikipedia.
Hello, beautiful.
I know you’re just dying for sparkling prose and/or investigative journalism, but today’s post will be simply a quilt moment of zen. Here’s why:
I’m on a super-secret business trip, which means I can’t write about what I did today. Or yesterday. Or what I’ll do tomorrow. I will, but I can’t right now.
I keep falling asleep while I’m typing.
The above picture is incredible and you just need to see it.
This picture was found where all my pictures are found, Wikipedia. But it came by way of the gov’ment; The image officially belongs to the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA). I tell you this because NARA has a lot of interesting photographs and you should go look through all 90 billion of them (or however many there are) on a rainy day. I mean it!
Anyway, this picture was taken in 1973 by one Charles O’Rear near Lincoln, Nebraska, and the glowing, generous spirits in the picture are listed as “members of the Golden Circle Senior Citizens Club of Fairmont.”
Don’t you love them? Don’t you just love them all down to bits?
Quilts are good for calming spirits; quilters can do the same. Well, not all of them. That lady in the way back looks a little grumpy.
Is that Philip Larkin down there?? (“Gipsy Fortune Teller,” by Taras Shevchenko, c. 1840. Image: Wikipedia.)
Thank you for being kind about my mini-story the other day; I was weirdly seized with the desire to talk about what was going on with me without actually talking about what was going on with me and it was a really interesting exercise. Several of you asked for more chapters and you know, I might just write them. Thanks, as always, for reading the ol’ PG.
Thank you also for sensing that I have needed a little rest. I am getting a modest portion.
Now, then.
This time of year, you see a lot of “Best/Worst” year-end lists and various wrap-up features (e.g., The Year In Pictures; The Year In Memes, etc.). It’s certainly important to reflect. But it seems there’s way more retrospecting than there is futurecasting. Instead of me doing a year-end wrap up of all the things that happened on this blog in the past year — it was all a blur, anyway — how about some predictions for the coming one?
Here is a list of people, places, events, and other stuff I predict you’ll be reading a lot more about in the ol’ PG in 2018. It’s stuff I’m hoping I’ll be able to write about, anyway. I used a special machine to generate the contents, as you can see:
The PaperGirl Predictor Machine-o-Gram Predictions for 2018
Quiltfolk Magazine (my dream magazine)
Philip Larkin (my dream dog)
Travel (to distant lands??)
A move to a new apartment?? (in Chicago, don’t worry)
Love?? (possible … )
Soaring income (look, this is my predictor machine! I’m going for it)
Completion of my master’s in May (it’s gonna happen!!!)
The return of a certain podcast project??? (who can say??)
Other Wonderful Things
Great clothes, baby
Hottest year ever (not weather)
Now, the PaperGirl Predictor Machine-o-Gram can tell no lies. So it also predicted things that I might not want but that must come to pass because hey, man. Life. So the following things will probably come up as you read along with me, but it’s okay:
Woe
Illness (but nothing serious, hopefully — Thanks Machine-o-Gram!)
Melancholy
Wistfullness
Despondency
General malaise
Crushing fear
Why are you looking at me like that? Them’s the breaks, gang. If I try to land a year with only good things and no bad things, I don’t think it would make for a very interesting reading experience for you. And I live for you.
