31 Dec 2017

New York City / New Year’s Eve: A Quick Fiction

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Fiction | 30
East Village, New York City. Photo: Wikipedia.

 

Chapter 1

It was early November when her sister asked.

For the first time in months, Mary was talking to Hannah over the phone. They texted each other, and there were emails here and there. But phone calls in the past few years, not so much.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hannah said, “I’m having a party on New Year’s Eve. You should come!”

Mary’s heart sank. Her sister loved to throw parties and her parties were great. The two of them badly needed more quality time — actual, IRL, face time — and going to Hannah’s New Year’s Eve party would show her sister just how much Mary loved her, how she was willing to make the effort for the relationship.

But it would mean she would have to go to New York City for New Year’s Eve. It meant she’d have to go to New York City in winter. It meant she’d have to go to New York City, period.

“I’m in,” Mary said, “absolutely.” She rubbed her eyes and logged onto Southwest.com.

Chapter 2

As the taxi inched its way toward the hotel, Mary’s friend Nick pressed his face up to the window, steaming it with his breath, then wiping off the condensation so as to clear his view. This was his first time in the city and it was nice to see him take it all in. The best way to be in New York City is to be there the first time ever or to have been there for over 10 years. Anywhere in between, Mary thought, and it’s too hard.

She would know; she tried living in New York City once. Love and curiosity were her reasons for trying it on. But when love went all wrong and she realized she had no feeling for the impossible, endless city, living in New York was excruciating. The cards were stacked against her from the start, though; a person shouldn’t move to New York at age 36. It’s a young man’s town.

“It looks like Chicago,” Nick said. “I mean, I see a lot of similarities.”

“That true, there are,” Mary said, and glanced out the window herself. “But it’s nearly dark out. It’ll look different to you in the daytime, I bet.”

As Nick took in the scene and laughed at just how close the taxi was coming to the delivery trucks and the pedestrians, Mary pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and pressed her back into the seat. She let her head fall back a little, though she would be careful not to let Nick see her so weary. When the man you’re dating is a decade your junior, you’re forced to remain peppy and energized at all times. It’s a good thing, on balance — and most of the time, Mary didn’t need to fake it — but New York took it out of her.

Young man’s town.

Chapter 3

In the morning, she crept out of bed so as not to disturb Nick, angelic and gorgeous nestled under the down comforter and hotel linen. The outrageously expensive Peninsula for two nights was her Christmas gift to the two of them and she forced herself to forget just how much she spent. When the credit card bill arrived, she would not look. Standing on the heated floor in the generous bathroom, though, as she gave her hair a quick brush, Mary knew the room was worth every penny. All 96 billion of them.

She pulled on a jumpsuit and threw a sweater around her shoulders. Flip-flops would be fine; she was only after coffee and some writing time down in the lounge. Without turning on any more lights, she grabbed her briefcase and her phone and slipped out the door. Nick hadn’t even stirred.

Down in the lounge, she was alone and so, so glad. It would be the only time all day — and all night — that would happen.

She felt sad. It’s hard to know so much, hard to have failures and be reminded of them. The New York chapter, and Washington D.C. after that, was tough. No doubt about that, now, looking back. Oh, she kept her chin up through it all. And there were small victories. But overall, it cost her dearly in energy and innocence. It was death by a thousand papercuts, that era.

Mary looked out the tall window at the dusting of snow on the street. The news said tonight would be New York’s coldest New Year’s Eve since the 1960s. The dress and heels she brought were more suited for a spring night, even if she stayed inside the party most of the evening. Mary sighed and decided she’d have to go in search of a jacket before tonight. As usual, New York would insist she spend more money before she left.

It was getting late. She needed to pack up and get up to the room so that she and Nick could get a reasonable start to the day. He wanted to see Central Park and there was a quilt exhibit at the Folk Art Museum for her, thank God. Quilts would surely help.

A loud group entered the lounge, laughing and talking about work. Mary gathered her things, grateful again for the peace she was afforded this morning. She smiled at the group as she left, and as she threw her coffee cup in the trash near the bar, two more couples came in.

It’s so hard to be in place where you know you don’t belong, she thought, especially when the place is considered the center of the world. Guess I don’t belong in the center of the world, Mary thought, and made her way to the elevators.

[Maybe to be continued? I don’t know. I don’t write fiction.]

 

 

29 Dec 2017

My Cell Phone Phobia, Part Two: 1986 Saves the Day

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 19
Now that’s a telephone! Image: Wikipedia.

 

This post is the second of two. If you haven’t yet read what I posted yesterday, you should do that before continuing. If you don’t get caught up, the super weird thing I’m about to tell you will be even weirder and if you’re new around here … I’m just not sure our relationship can take that much stress, so maybe  click here and then come back when you feel prepared.

So I’m going along in my cell phone angst for years and then I get a job at the student newspaper at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC.) In keeping with the standards of any self-respecting media outlet, there’s a telephone in the F Newsmagazine office: a crappy, beat-up, yellowing beige-colored phone that was surely considered cutting-edge telephone technology in 1986. Maybe 1985. Well, it just so happens that the un-ironically retro phone is next to my computer, which makes me the one who answers it when it rings. The office phone doesn’t ring terribly often; when it does, it’s usually good ol’ Paul, the paper’s crusty-but-loveable student advisor. Paul calls from his office down the hall and barks at me to do the timesheets or ask if we’ve ordered toner. (I will, we haven’t.) But there are other calls, too, e.g., various SAIC offices, advertising people, etc.

Here’s what’s crazy: I love answering the F News phone.

Me! Phone-phobic me! The girl who puts her phone on silent and intentionally forgets to turn it back on because if she forgets to turn it back on, she can legitimately miss calls and not have to fib and say she “didn’t hear the phone” when she did hear (and see!) the phone but just couldn’t pick it up for the life of her. This girl who avoids voicemail for weeks doesn’t even let a voicemail happen at F News because it’s just so much fun to answer the phone when it rings! I know!

But there’s more. What could possibly be crazier than the fact that I love to answer the office phone?

I love to make calls on it. 

Making calls on that phone is literally my favorite thing to do in the office. I look for reasons to call people and places because the whole process is so much fun. I love it all. I love the click of the receiver as it comes off the base. I love to cradle the phone to my ear, there in the crook of my neck. I love the dial tone. I love to punch the buttons and if one hand is doing that while I’m looking at my computer to get the number, even better. And if I’m dialing with one hand, looking at my computer, telling someone in the office something like, “I’m calling right now” and if I happen to be wearing my glasses that day, I enter some kind of blissful fugue state. I’m not kidding.

So what’s the deal?

It’s the phone. You guys, it’s the old school phone. It does it for me. It’s the key to all my phone issues. The phone is the solution. And I told you this was gonna be super weird, but hear me out.

My theory is that when I use the old office phone from the 1980s, it feels like I’m playing office and how can I be anxious if I’m playing? Somehow, using a phone that is not super cool, super sleek, super advanced, etc., kind of puts things in perspective for me, somehow, and I don’t take myself so seriously.

The other theory is that using the old phone is me channelling my mother and every other awesome 1980s “working girl” I loved from the movies, e.g., “Working Girl”; “Baby Boom”; “9 to 5,” etc. My mother and those women in those big glasses and that long phone cord and their high-waisted skirts and feathered bangs??? That’s my jam! Those are my role models, my heroes! If answering the phone makes me like them, I got two words for you: Call me. Because then I can live out my phone fantasies.

FOR EXAMPLE: MARY’S PHONE FANTASY No. 21817

Someone leaves the office and I roll my eyes because they’re sweet but they’re so much work and I have so much to do for Lord’s sake. I sigh and put my pencil between my teeth for a second and glance at my computer to check the phone number for Mr. Carlyle — I’ve left two messages already and I need to get him on the line today. My fingers fly over the buttons and I turn away from my monitor in my spinny chair, re-cross my legs and admiring my pumps. A co-worker — I need her name to be Sally — says she’s running out for a minute.

“Need anything, Mar?” Sally says as she puts on her scarf and gets her purse. Sally’s seeing someone new. A waiter of all things! That girl.

I tell her I’d love a coffee, and just when she asks me if I take anything in it, Mr. Carlyle’s ornery old secretary picks phone and says, “Mr. Carlyle’s office,” and I say, “Yes, this is Mary Fons for Mr. Carlyle, I’ve called twice this we —,” and that mean old hen says, “Yes, Miss Fons, just a minute,” and she patches me through. I cover the receiver with my other palm and whisper to Sally, “I’ll take two creams and two Sweet n’ Lows, you’re a dream,” and then Sally’s out the door.

“This is Bob Carlyle.”

It’s him, the stinker. I sit up a little straighter.

“Yes, Mr. Carlyle? Yes, this is Mary Fons. I’m glad to finally get you on the line. You haven’t been avoiding me, have you?”

[END OF FANTASY EXAMPLE.]

See what I mean? Anyway, the guy from RCN came yesterday and installed a landline in my house. Really. I now have a landline in defiance of every advance of technology in the past 20 years. And do you suppose I ordered a crappy old beige phone? You bet I did. It’s delivered tomorrow and I cannot wait to take calls and make them. It’s a new day, people.

Hey! It’s a new year!

 

28 Dec 2017

My Cell Phone Phobia, Part One: ‘The Problem’

by | posted in: Tips | 6
Girls on phones — are they as anxious as I am? Image: Wikipedia.

 

How was Christmas?? Was everything okay? Did you eat cookies? I got a hairdryer! It’s the only thing I asked for, so I’m batting 1000. Now, onto a serious matter:

I have terrible cell phone anxiety.

The first cell phone I ever had I got the summer after college, right before I moved to Chicago. It was a Samsung flip phone, the pre-iPhone era. I remember being excited to have a number with a Chicago area code. I remember thinking the flip thing was cool. But I’m pretty sure that right away, I started to not like answering my phone when it rang. And when texting became a thing, I remember being extremely resistant to responding to texts in a timely fashion, most of the time.

But why?

To answer that question, I’m going to get a little armchair-psychologist on you; just bear with me.

When we don’t do something we’re supposed to do — or when there’s something we shouldn’t do but we keep doing it, anyway — it’s worth asking what deeper reasons might causing the detrimental behavior.

For example, if a kid is told over and over again that he shouldn’t hit his little brother but he keeps doing it, at a certain point it becomes more important (and far more effective) to ask lil’ dude what’s going on with his emotions and his heart. Is he frustrated with something? Is he sad? Maybe he needs attention. Maybe he doesn’t feel like anyone’s listening to him and he hits his brother so someone will look at him for once. The point here is that human beings have exquisite reasons for doing the things we do, even if the things we do are lame/weird/not helpful. Such as hitting your kid brother.

Or being “terrible” at cell phones.

I’m starting to understand something big about my cell phone problem because I’ve been looking at the whole situation with compassion instead of guilt and shame. (Amazing when you turn the tables on yourself with love, eh?)

The truth is, I hate that I have to have a telephone-computer-homing device with me at all times and that I will have said device, in whatever incarnation it takes, from now until I die. I deeply resent the tyranny of this small, plastic and metal box which pings and dings at me incessantly. It startles me. It breaks my concentration. And for the priviledge of all this, I pay an awful lot of money, just like you do.

I know I sound like a real luddite jerk. I’m not! I love GPS and being able to look up definitions of words while I’m waiting for an elevator. I love being able to check my email while I’m on the bus. I love Instagram! I love the Southwest app! And the other apps! Most of them!

In fact, part of the reason I hate cell phones so much is precisely because they allow for these kinds of things. My cell phone sucks me in when there are other things that could suck me in (e.g., the landscape, the beautiful woman sitting near me on the train speaking Swahili to her son, etc.), but other, real-life things are usually no match for flashing, beeping screen pictures, because people are like crows and crows are easily distracted by shiny objects. I am a person. I like shiny objects. I’m a crow, too. I get it.

So my friends and family get hurt because I turn my phone off a lot. I have missed important calls. I’ve played games of phone tag so long it approached being an Olympic sport. If you leave a voicemail for me … Woe, woe unto you. Checking my voicemail is like dental work for me; ergo, I don’t get around to checking it very often. This is bad. This is not good. Something has to change. I have to make peace with the phone thing.

Guess what? Peace is being delivered tomorrow — as in, UPS is bringing peace and will leave it in the receiving room.

I’ll explain everything tomorrow — and this time, I won’t leave you hanging. Hey! That’s kind of a phone joke. “Hanging”? Get it? Like a phone? Hanging up? Like …

Let’s just talk tomorrow.

25 Dec 2017

Marianne Fons Says ‘Eat The Cheesecake’

by | posted in: Family, Tips | 17
Marianne Fons says, “Eat the cheesecake!” Photo: Wikipedia.

 

A few years ago, a rule in our family changed. First, let me explain what rule I’m talking about.

Most families have a version of this rule. It could be called the “Do Not Touch That Pie Until After Dinner Or You Will Sorely Regret It, Now Get Out Of My Kitchen” rule. Other versions of the rule may include: “If You Eat One Cooky Off That Tray Before We Sit Down To Eat, So Help Me God”; “If You Have Any Sense In That Head Of Yours You’ll Step Away From the Fudge; “You Are About To Meet Your Maker If You So Much As Breathe On Those Scotcharoos”; or the simple-but-effective, “Getcher Mitts Off That Cake” rule.

Right? Right.

Well, a few years back, on either Thanksgiving or Christmas, at some time in the day that was not appropriate pie-eating time (e.g., 9 a.m. or 12:30 p.m.), I was in the kitchen trying to pick off a gooey, sugary, perfectly toasted pecan off the top of Mom’s famous pecan pie without being noticed — and I was failing spectacularly. But that day was remarkable, because there was a time when I would’ve gotten caught sneakin’ pie and gotten slapped with the ol’ “Getcher Mitts Off That Pie” rule. But on this day, the opposite happened.

“You know,” my mom said, “just have a piece of pie if you want it. It’s okay.”

A pecan that was halfway to my mouth fell onto my blouse and stuck there. My mother is not a sarcastic woman, nor does she tease her children or have fun at our expense. If she was saying I should “just have a piece of pie” if I wanted to, she was saying … that I should have a piece of pie. A piece of the pie she baked for a special occasion. The pie we were planning to eat after Thanksgiving dinner in like, six hours.

“Mom, are you serious? You’re joking.”

My mom shook her head and threw up her hands. “I mean, why not? Eat it! That’s what it’s for!”

“Yeah, but — ”

“You know,” Mom said, “I had a friend whose mother-in-law was a wonderful candymaker. She was great at making it. She’d make candies for the holidays every year and put it all out on doilies on these beautiful milk glass plates: caramels, toffees, fudge, brickle. Just gorgeous.

“When you came over to the house, you’d be drawn, as if by magnetic force, toward all the candies. But she’d see you get within 10 feet of it all and she’d say, “Nooooooo! That’s for later! Don’t eat it! Don’t you dare eat it!”

I nodded and eyed a ragged piece of crust on the side of the pie, begging to be broken off and eaten. I liked where this story was going.

“Childed, you would back away from the candy plates,” Mom continued. “And then, of course, everyone would eat dinner. You’d eat the turkey and the dressing and the yams and the cranberry and the rolls and the butter and the ham.”

“And you’d drink the wine,” I said, and popped the crust into my mouth.

“Oh, this lady didn’t serve wine. But you get the idea. All that food, and then pie and ice cream! And then, once you had wiped up your piece of pumpkin pie or pecan pie and you had patted your mouth with your napkin, she’d come around with these heavy candy plates and practically force you to eat the candies. If you said, ‘No, no, I’ve had enough,’ she’d be offended. I ask you: Does this make any sense?”

“No, mother,” I said, “no, it does not.” It looked very possible that I was going to have pecan pie for breakfast in front of God and everybody.

“In my opinion, do it. Look, it’s the holidays. If you’re lucky, there’s all this beautiful food! Why save and save these things for some point in the future when everyone’s too full, anyway? We’re adults! No one cares if there’s a piece taken out of a pie when it’s time to eat it, do they? Do they really? If you’re hungry for it, eat it.”

“Yeah!” I said, already dislodging an entire sticky slice of what is truly my favorite food on the Earth. I had to do this before she changed her mind.

But my mother didn’t change her mind that day, nor any day thereafter. If there are Santa cookies in the kitchen or an apple pie cooling on the counter, this stuff is available for the snacking. Mom will say, “That’s what it’s for!” and we are all willing to oblige.

I obliged today, in fact, when I had cheesecake for lunch. Here’s hoping everyone had a sweet Christmas today or, at the very least, a good Monday. I love Mondays. More on that later.

22 Dec 2017

A Very Good Joke: ‘I’m Afraid I Have Bad News About Your Husband, Ma’am.’

by | posted in: Joke | 7
Ah, love. A wedding in Barcelona someplace — because the language of love is universal. Image: Wikipedia.

 

For you, tonight, a joke:

A wife and husband are at the doctor’s office. The doctor finishes the check-up on the husband and looks concerned.

“How’d I do, Doc?” the husband asks.

“Sir,” the doctor says, “I’d like to ask if you would give me a few minutes to speak to your wife privately. Please have a seat in the waiting room and we’ll call you in just a minute.”

The husband says sure, and he gets up and heads out of the exam room, closing the door behind him. His wife looks at the doctor.

“What is it, doctor?” she asks. “Is … Is my husband going to die?”

The doctor looks pained. He takes a deep breath. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I have very bad news for you. Your husband is terribly ill. It’s one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. He’s … He’s on his way out.”

The woman gasps; her hand flies to her mouth. “Is there anything to be done, Doctor??”

An intense look comes over the doctor’s face and he takes the wife’s hand. Very gravely, he says, “Yes, ma’am. There is one thing you can do to save your husband.”

“Tell me, please!”

The doctor takes a deep breath and says, “You must treat him like a king among men.”

The wife is confused. “What?”

“You must cook and serve him his very favorite foods. Any movie he wants to see, any sporting event — grab the keys, get in the car. You drive. He gets to play on his phone. If he wants to golf, go with him. Buy him presents. If he wants sex, you must have sex with him. You must have more sex with your husband than you’ve had in the past 35 years of marriage! And if he wants you to read to him, rub his feet, or scratch his back, you must do it. If you do all this, ma’am, your husband can expect a full recovery.”

The woman thanks the doctor and leaves the office to find her husband in the waiting room reading a magazine.

“What’d he say?” the husband asks.

“You’re gonna die.”

20 Dec 2017

Make Mine Wite-Out

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Work | 9
Liquid Paper display, Women's Museum, Dallas, Texas. Photo: Wikipedia.
Liquid Paper display, Women’s Museum, Dallas, Texas. Did you know Liquid Paper was invented by a lady? Photo: Wikipedia.

 

Before I discuss my love of White-Out, Liquid Paper, and other corrective fluids*, I would like to remind you that it’s not all Wite-Out and dryer lint around here. I write about serious things, too.

I’ve been thinking about Wite-Out because I have been dipping often (and dippin’ hard) into my 2017 paper planner, aka, my “papecal.” Nothing new, of course: My paper planner has long been an extension of my brain, more vital, I feel, to my life and mental health than my dumb ol’ phone. Yes, if I had to lose either my phone or my papecal, I’d hand over my phone without a second thought. Phones can be replaced. But papecals, with all their small notes, non-deleteable content, and margin doodles? Papecals are unique and special. Just like my family, each of whom holds his or her papecal close.

At any rate, it’s the end of the year, and because there is a lot going on in work and life, there has been more papecal’in around in my life lately. Which means there is more Wite-Out. Why? Because there are corrections to be made. There are adjustments to incorporate. Things shift. Appointments change. Meetings are moved.

“But Mary,” you say, taking a chocolate from the festively-decorated box of chocolates on the table between us, “Why do you need Wite-Out for changes in your papecal? Just write things in pencil and erase them like a normal person.”

“I don’t do pencil,” I say, and I realize I have just taken a bite of a chocolate-covered cherry. I don’t do chocolate-covered cherries, either. I put the half-eaten chocolate on my napkin and then I try a different chocolate and this time it’s a caramel, thank goodness. I continue:

“I only do pen. I’m a pen-to-papecal kind of gal.”

You don’t really get it, but you have spotted a mellowcreme-shaped chocolate (milk, not dark) in the box and you’re going for it, so you don’t press me. Have I mentioned you have a few bits of stray tinsel in your hair? It’s really adorable.

I don’t know, there’s just something about Wite-Out. I love its chalky ways. I love its opaqueness. I love that it erases in white. Like, it’s a color, but it deletes. This is zen stuff, this correction fluid.* And I recently discovered there is off-white Wite-Out, for legal documents or illuminated manuscripts or something. The shade is the exact shade of the paper in my papecal! I bought three bottles, one for my purse, one for my desk. One for my other desk.

Back to work.

 

p.s. Wait! Did you know a lady invented Liquid Paper? Yes, Ms. Bettie Nesmith Graham is who we have to thank! I think there must be a Part II to this post all about Bettie.

*gross

19 Dec 2017

The Quilt Scout is IN: On Pictorial Quilts and a Woman Who Loves Them

by | posted in: The Quilt Scout | 4
Pictorial Quilt with American Flag, unknown maker, Ohio, cottons, c. 1930. Image: Wikipedia.

Gang, it’s Quilt Scout time.

“Mary, it’s always Quilt Scout time,” you say, looking ravishing in your Christmas sweater.

I beam at you and open up my arms and, in a loud, Southern-accented voice in the style of my quilter friend Margaret down in Baker, Florida, “Honey, git in these arms! Git! C’mon and just git in these arms, sugar! You ’bout as sweet as they come.”

Anywhoo, the second December Quilt Scout column focuses on pictorial quilts; specifically, how I am (v. slowly) making one of my own, and how much I love them and have always loved them. I can’t be the only person around here who feels this way, can I? Surely not, except that a person doesn’t see them a lot being made these days, does a person? This person doesn’t, but maybe I’m not looking hard enough.

Enough of the lead up. You can read the column right here and thank you, everyone, for seeming to give a lick* about the things I write.

*another Margaret-ism

18 Dec 2017

The Best Kind of Christmas Shopping

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 9
Child’s drawing, 2012. Image: Wikipedia.

 

We did it, gang.

My last class for the fall term was today. I am officially one semester away from completing my Master of Fine Arts in Writing (MFAW) at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC.) I feel really good. I know the ol’ PG takes a hit sometimes, with the coursework, but you know and I know: I’m never far. I won’t ever be far away.

When I left the newspaper office this afternoon and I realized the term really was actually complete, I thought, “Hey, I should celebrate.” I considered going for some Netflix, maybe picking up a fancy bottle of wine (by which I mean a $20-bottle of wine.) And if Netflix n’ drinkin alone strikes you as being kind of a sad way to celebrate something, you must understand that I am very, very tired.

But I didn’t get the bottle of wine (too many calories) and I won’t poke around on Netflix, either (too many choices.) The good news is that I found a better way to celebrate on the way home: I bought a Christmas present for a kid!

My friends S. and Z. have the most incredible daughter. Let’s call her Squirt. Squirt is around five, though I’m terrible at gauging/remembering the ages of anyone over about one week. What I do know about the child is that she is almost too smart and adorable to be believed. The kid bats her eyes and twirls around and you’re toast, just totally in love with her and her Squirt Way. But then she opens her mouth to say something genius and you think, “Please, please Lord, let this person use her powers for good.” Because she’s scary advanced, human-wise.

For example, about a year-and-a-half ago, I was hanging out at the pool with Squirt and her mom and Squirt fell and got a bad scrape on her knee. Of course, Squirt was really, really upset and crying; it hurt! We were all doing the boo-boo kiss thing and trying to make her feel better, but it was a tough one. At one point, between sobs, Squirt wailed to us, “I’m n-not d-doing very well … !”

I‘m not doing very well??

The kid was three. This is what I’m talking about.

Anyway, Squirt loves to make art. The last time I saw her and her, we made art together, and that was a blast. Drawing and coloring with this kid made me remember just how very, very much I loved “doing art” when I was wee. Oh, man. It’s really in the blood, you know, the art stuff. Some kids are just art kids. As Squirt and I scribbled together that day, I made a mental note that when Christmastime came, I was gonna blow that kid’s mind with a big haul of art supplies from Chicago.

So there I am, headed away from the office, trying to figure out how to mark this not-insubstantial milestone in my grad school existence, when it hit me: Go to Dick Blick! Of course! I could go into Dick Blick and buy Squirt her art supplies!

And indeed, I went into the art superstore there on State Street and knew it was just right. I looked over papers, markers, glitters. I picked up pens, cardstock, poster paper. My eyes loved the colors everywhere; I let the smell of canvas and glue and paint carry me away.

That kid is gonna freak out. I got her some good stuff, and I’m not even sure I’m done, yet. At the heart, I suppose I did retail therapy tonight, except I got the therapy and Squirt’s gettin’ the retail.

Christmas is working!

15 Dec 2017

Start Smiling: I’m Teaching Humor Writing in January

by | posted in: Word Nerd, Work | 3
Dog with a pipe, c. 1933. Photo: P.B. Avery via Wikipedia.

 

As most of you know, I have been teaching writing workshops and short-term classes at the University of Chicago’s Writers’ Studio for a couple years, now. My popular 4-week course in blogging wrapped up a few weeks ago and a group of my students are taking me out to lunch next week, which I take as a sign that they enjoyed themselves and learned stuff!

About a year ago, I was asked to pitch a new class for the winter term and I knew just what I wanted to teach. Here’s what I pitched and, indeed, what I’ll be teaching in a matter of weeks:

Humor Writing Survey — 6 weeks
Mondays, 10:00 – 12:30 p.m.
Jan. 8 – Feb. 19, 2018

Q: What do SNL writers, standups, New Yorker cartoonists, Thurber, Lebowitz, and Freud all have in common?
A: They’ve all spent a lot of time thinking about what makes people laugh. Now it’s our turn.

In this seminar/survey course, we will read humorous writing and respond to it: everything from TV scripts to stage monologues, from essays to short stories (and much more) in order to better understand the how of humor. You needn’t be a comedy-writing hopeful to take this class! This is a survey for anyone wishing to better appreciate — or emulate — the greats.

Expect guests: Chicago improv artists, standups, and other humorists with experience. You’ll generate work, too, and we may take a field trip.

Would someone pinch me? I get to hang out with a classroom of people interested in reading funny writing and talking about that writing? I get to assign homework to people willing to try and write, say, a piece of satire or burlesque? Yes! I do! I get to do that! And I also get to share all I’ve been learning about the history of humor writing over the ages. There’s a lot to say about it, I won’t be able to get to absolutely everything (and it is a new class, after all) but my interest and excitement is hard to measure.

The good news is that the class is already half full; the bad news is that the slots will go quickly. What if you miss it??

If you’re in Chicago and you can manage a six-week course on Monday mornings for a couple hours, you will not regret it. Because it’s going to be amazing. What a way to start the year, right?? Reading P.G. Wodehouse and excerpts from The American Bystander and talking about the difference between parody and irony?? Sounds like a good idea to me.

You can find info about the course right here.

I’ll see you downtown.

13 Dec 2017

My Hair Struggles, or: ‘The Best Things In Life are at Walgreens’ (Part II)

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 20
It’s clay, it’s clay!! Image: Wikipedia.

 

I told you on Saturday about my shameful hair/scalp secret and I told you I’d share about my big breakthrough solution the very next day.

Lies!

First, I was eaten by arduous tasks. Then it was urgent to implore us all to be good citizen consumers (there is still time to be one, by the way!) These things had to be done. I had no idea when I posted that first post that it would all go down like this and I truly apologize for leaving you in the lurch. But it’s time to get down to business and I feel that the second part of this post ought to begin like the first one did. With a confession.

Over the past 18 months or so, I have spent an embarrassing amount of money in the pursuit of remedying my wimpier-than-ever hair. I don’t know how much I’ve spent, exactly; that’s a good thing. Consider that the last shampy I bought at Sephora cost 40 dollars. Forty dollars. For a shampoo! Not all of the products I’ve tried cost that much but … a lot of them did. I’m telling you, I was desperate.

And one of them should’ve worked! The fancy salt scrub that promised to rebalance and restore? Yeah, right. I looked like a frizzball and the big chunks of salt fell on my toes in the shower and hurt me. The bee pollen-whatever that was supposed to balance and bring my natural pH whatever to the whatever? Perhaps no bees were hurt in the making of the product, but no Mary Fons hair was improved, either. Thanks a lot, bees.

Some of you are thinking I should try a dry shampoo, maybe a decent hairspray. Oh, I tried ’em, all right. And they seemed to make things worse. Even fance brand dry shampoos would inevitably leave some crazy film on my hair that I felt put me back a few steps overall.

What a nightmare, all of it. I even bought a vitamin supplement! To take with my iron and my calcium! I took it for almost two months! No change. Zero. I was a wimp as wimpy-haired as ever.

So then the other night I’m at Walgreens waiting for a prescription. Out the window, fat, wet snowflakes were coming down. I saw my reflection. Sure enough, my hair was dying — it was 6 o’clock, after all, and I can’t have hair that lasts more than seven freakin’ hours or so without looking pathetic. I sighed audibly and thought, “Aw, hell, maybe there’s a shampoo at dumb Walgreen’s that’ll help me. Might as well look.”

I was at a big Walgreen’s in the Loop (State Street and Monroe, I believe), so there was a lot of shampoo on offer. Too many to navigate without help, I decided, so I pulled out my phone to and tapped in, “good shampoo oily scalp walgreen’s.”

And that’s when my life in hair changed.

That night, I discovered L’Oreal’s “Extraordinary Clay” line of haircare products, specifically made “for oily roots and dry ends.” The bottles were a bilious green, but I did not care that night, nor do I care now. I bought each of the components: the shampoo, the conditioner, the hair mask. I got home, put it all near the shower, and went to bed.

The next day, I grumpily went about my morning ablutions. Honestly, I had zero faith that the stuff would work. (Why would it? The super-fance stuff sure didn’t.) But I did the hair mask, anyway. It felt weird. I looked like a Kewpie doll. Whatever. I grumbled through my mask time, though I had to admit … I had never tried a hair mask. Maybe it would do something. Hm. Then I did my shower thing and used the shampoo and conditioner.

And after I combed and blow-dried my head, my hair was silky. It was not limp. Friends, my hair was better.

Like, way, way better. I hated taking so long to get back to you on all this, but really, it’s good thing; I’ve been able to use the Extraordinary Clay stuff for a few more days and now can give you a better review.* I’ve used the stuff twice, now — the mask just once — and I’m telling you:  My hair is fluffy. Let me repeat that:

MY HAIR IS FLUFFY.

That’s pretty exciting. I’ve got the fluff!

Maybe the Extraordinary Clay “system” will cease to fluff me after awhile. But for now, I’m telling you: This stuff is awesome. And it sure ain’t 40 dollars a bottle. So I’m in a good mood. I’m smiling like a dork. The best things in life are at Walgreen’s.

*NOTE: L’Oreal is not paying me in money, products, or anything else to say any of this, but THEY ABSOLUTELY SHOULD. 

12 Dec 2017

PaperGirl Readers Unite: We Gotta Save Net Neutrality, People

by | posted in: Work | 14
This is not from Wikipedia. This is from the open internet and it’s looking at you.

 

My friends, you have a task today. So do I.

We have to, have to call our members of congress and tell them to save Net Neutrality. As your favorite blogger, as your buddy, as Pendennis’s mom, I beg you to read this and make that call.

Right away, you must understand that saving Net Neutrality is not a political issue. Saving Net Neutrality has nothing to do with who you voted for for president. It’s got nothing to do with tax cuts, gun control, or the election in Alabama today.

Saving Net Neutrality is about saving ourselves from very, very big businesses that do not care about us. They do not care about me. They do not care about you. The only thing these fat cats care about is making money — all the money — and we have to stop them. At least on this, at least today.

“Mary,” you say — and you’re so annoyed because I promised to talk about the shampoo I found for my wimpy hair — “I’ve heard about this Net Neutrality thing but I’m sorry, I don’t totally get what it is or why it’s a big deal.”

I know. I totally know. This stuff is so complicated. I didn’t get it at first, either. Let me try to break it down in my own words.

Net Neutrality (sometimes called “network neutrality” or “net equality”) is the principle that internet service providers like Verizon or AT&T — governments, too — should treat all data on the internet equally. It means that pages/content won’t load faster or slower because someone decides it should. The neutrality of the net also means that if you want to find information, you’ll find it eventually. No one is blocking you from seeking and finding things if you really want to find them. We all take this access for granted because it’s always just been like this. The internet was designed to be free to roam. Think buffalo.

Let me make it practical. You don’t have to pay more to load Facebook than you do to load PaperGirl. Me n’ Zuckerberg, we load at the same speed. That’s important. All websites, like people, are created equal — or they should be.

Let’s get more detailed, though, with a different example. Let’s say BigCrafty decides to offer longarming services. Well, right now, BigCrafty can’t pay Verizon to load faster than your friend’s longarming website, because — wait for it — the net is neutral like that. It’s a level playing field. Yeah, BigCrafty can buy ads and do pop-ups, but you know you’re being advertised to and you know how big BigCraffty is, that they can afford to get all up in your bidness. A neutral, level playing field means is that your friend can, in theory, compete with BigCrafty because this is a great country. This freedom your friend has to make her longarming business a success (from her freakin’ basement!) is what makes this country great, again and again, every day.

Last week, the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) announced plans to dismantle Net Neutrality. What that means is that powerful, huge, “too big to fail” internet providers like Comcast, Verizon, AT&T will have free reign to slow down sites they don’t like. Just because. They will be able to totally and completely block stuff out of your google searches, just like that. Zap. It means that these icky-poo companies that do not care about us will be able to slice and dice the internet into slow and fast lanes. Why? Because that would make them so, so, so much money. Because we would then have to pay to play, like we do with cable. And your friend’s longarming business? Forget it. It’ll load slower and slower and people will just go with BigCrafty because BigCrafty loads instantly. Because BigCrafty’s in bed with Verizon. Because a guy knows a guy at the FCC. Because the more little guys they squish, the more people see BigCraftsy, faster, and then the fat cats get their bonuses because the bottom line starts looking terrific. Better than ever.

You and I won’t make that money. Verizon will make it all. They will not share. Do not, under any circumstances, get that twisted. Not now. The stakes are too high on this.

I hope I explained it okay. There’s a lot more to it, I know, in terms of ramifications and how it all works. But these are the basics and you know — you know — I have come to you with “issues” so rarely. So this must be really important, right? Right. It is. I care about the internet because the internet is how you and I know each other, day in, day out on the ol’ PG. It’s just a blog. But it’s us. I don’t want Comcast’s grubby fingers all over my monkey, you guys, and I don’t want them getting in the way of what we have.

Find out who your representative is with this great little website: https://callyourrep.co and get their phone number. Then call them. Today. They’re supposed to vote on this thing on Thursday. We gotta get ahead of it. When the office of your rep picks up the phone, just tell them “Save Net Neutrality” or “stop the FCC from dismantling Net Neutrality,” or, “Save Net Neutrality or the monkey dies.”

Anything. Say anything. Whatever you do, save the internet — now.

 

11 Dec 2017

My Hair Struggle: Back In 5 Minutes!

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 4
Graffiti in Shoreditch, London, c. 2014. Image: Wikipedia.

 

Peeps!

I haven’t forgotten about the all-important follow-up to my last post. Believe me, this is knowledge I am excited to share and many of you said you’re looking forward to the intel. But yesterday got kookoo-bananas and today is the same; it’s maybe even double kookoo-bananas. I don’t often do a “sorry I can’t post” post — it’s like, just do it or don’t, Fons — but I really left you hanging last time and I feel bad. Saying I’m gonna write something straight away and then not doing it is no bueno. Pendennis let me know in no uncertain terms.

So it looks like I can get back here to write Part II tonight or I create blog magic tomorrow. Either way, you shall not be kept in suspense much longer, I promise. I know you’re arranging your entire day around the ol’ PG. (Just kidding. Unless … Are you?? I love it.)

Yours In Bananas,
Mary + Pendennis

9 Dec 2017

My Hair Struggles, or: ‘The Best Things In Life are at Walgreens’ (Part I)

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 17
My sentiments exactly. Image: Wikipedia.

 

I really deliberated about whether or not to share what I’m about to share. Because it’s embarrassing.

But the trouble is, it’s also good content. I mean, I know you’ll like this tale about my hair because ultimately, I like this tale about my hair. In this way, it’s inevitable: I have to tell you. This is the plight of the gal who has a blog about her life and who cares about being open with the readers who read her blog about her life. Sometimes, stuff gets real. Things are divulged.

Okay, here goes: I have a rather oily scalp.

Have you ever seen two words put together that were more unattractive than “oily” and “scalp”? I mean, “oily” ain’t ever good. It ain’t good in a puddle, it ain’t good in a pasta dish, and it sure as oil ain’t good when you’re talking about scalps.

And “scalp” has a hard, hard life. As a verb, it’s nightmarish; as a noun, it’s never not gross. No lover, ever in the history of the world, complimented his/her lover’s scalp. Scalps. Scalps! Just say it and you get the oogs. Scalps can be flaky. They can itch. They are differently toned than the rest of the body, oftentimes, and they feel chickeny. Most scalps involve hair, and hair is objectively weird.

Which brings me to my objectively weird hair. My hair, and yes, my oily scalp.

(It’s very hard to type when I’m groaning in shame with my eyes squeezed shut. I gotta get it together, here.)

So I have wimpy hair. My aunt Leesa used the term a couple years ago when I was visiting her in Sacramento. We were lamenting our hair issues and she said that it was a thing for Fonses, that wimpy hair runs in the family. (Thanks a lot, Gramma!) What “wimpy” means is that our hair is really, really fine. And while it doesn’t thin, it sort of is thin? If that makes sense? I’m telling you: It’s just wimpy. It doesn’t hold a curl well. It does not “volumize.” It might get “tousled” but it doesn’t stay “tousled.” It’s wimpy!

Well, over the past year or so, my hair has become more wimpy than ever because my scalp seems to be increasingly … you know, rhymes-with-foily. I don’t know much about hair, but wimpy hair like mine probably should stay away from, say, moisture; viscous substances; salves; pomades; goopy things; and, oh, I don’t know, maybe oil.

I used to be able to wash my hair every other day and that was good because of like nine reasons, one of which is that’s a lot of dough for shampoo, y’all, and another is that I do not have time to be washing my hair all the time for Lord’s sake. Yeah, well, these days, my hair is wimped out by the end of the day. Sometimes, it’s a matter of hours before I feel self-conscious about it. Please don’t picture me with Canola dripping off my head: It’s not like that. But whatever adorable poofiness I had going on when I left the house is so far gone by the time I get home in the evening, I’m baffled. And woe to me I run out of time to take a shower and wash my hair the next morning. Oh-ho, but I am a gross greaseball and I just want to put a hat on my head or cut the stuff off and be done with it.

And while I’m kind of making light of it, and “wimpy” is a funny word and it’s just hair, after all, we all know how tough the hair thing is, right?

One of the worst moments in my health crisis was the day my hair started coming out in clumps in the shower. And how inconsolable we become when we get a truly terrible haircut! And are “bad hair days” not a thing? They are. And the guys in our lives who lose their hair are often deeply shaken by the experience. Hair is complicated thing for a lot of people, including me. I want to feel attractive like anyone else. I want to feel cute, to feel sexy. And when the hair thing isn’t right, it feels really bad.

Tomorrow, I shall tell you how I have been battling all this, how I have spent a painful amount of money to remedy the situation, how many futile attempts I’ve made, and how I just might have found a solution in the most unlikely of places …

Okay, I found the solution in Walgreen’s. And a drugstore is not an unlikely place at all to find a solution to this problem. I just wanted to write, “in the most unlikely of places …” with the ellipsis after it, so you’d hear it like a line from a movie trailer or something.

Does anyone else have this problem, by the way?

See you tomorrow — with the good news.

7 Dec 2017

The Deep Pleasures of Dryer Lint

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Tips | 47
It’s even got the peel going on at the lower righthand corner! Unbelieveable. Image: Wikipedia.

 

You know how I use Wikipedia for 99 percent of all the images used on the ol’ PG?

If you missed it, that’s the deal around here. I use Wiki images because they’re fair use on account of being in the public domain. I also use them because they’re often suuuuper weird, and therefore funny. I also like to be consistent.

The drawback of using a free-for-all like Wikipedia Images, however (and I’ve mentioned before), is that slick stock photos these ain’t. I’ll be looking for an image of something normal, like a bowl of cereal or a windmill or what have you, and all Wikipedia offers me are bizarre pictures of like, German bundt cakes or medical diagrams.

So this morning, I thought about how I wanted to write about dryer lint. And I thought about it all day. And then I sit down at this coffee shop to blog about dryer lint, but I pause. Because I think, “Aw, man! There’s not going to be any picture of dryer lint on Wikipedia.”

[I have never before wanted to use an emoticon in my blog so much as I do right now: I would use the face with the straight, horizonal line as the mouth.]

Because I go and look in Wikipedia and there are no fewer than nine pictures of different dryer lint situations. Like the one above. This is the world we live in! At least, it’s the world I live in. It’s very strange here.

Anywhoo, I keep meaning to write about dryer lint because I am compelled by it. Specifically, I am compelled to engage with dryer lint. When I do laundry in my building’s laundry room and it’s time to open the numerous dryers in the wall and put my clothes inside them, I get to take out the lint screen and pull the lint off — and I enjoy this a great deal. Especially if it’s real thick on there.

Wait, wait: I’m being very reserved. You need to know that I love pulling thick lint off a dryer screen. It’s so felty! And it just peeeeeeels off! In one … pad! And the slice o’ fuzz is so squinky, like you could just squink it between your fingers and it would be a ball. But then, when you let go, it would squanch back out. I like to scoop out the lint on all 10 dryer screens up there, even if I only need to use two or three to dry my clothes.

Do you know what I’m talking about? Do you feel me on this? It’s weird, maybe. But who does it hurt? No one!

If anyone else likes to scrape the lint off the lint screen, I’d like to know. If you don’t, I have one question for you — no, I have two:

  1. Do you realize what you’re missing?
  2. Did you know that, according to the experts, you really should clean your lint screen regularly to prevent … something bad? Does this make you want to try out cleaning your lint screen this very second? Go ahead. We’ll wait.

See?? And all those pictures on Wikipedia … Other people are part of this club. Now you are, too.

5 Dec 2017

A Monkey ‘Jote’ Because It’s Essentially Finals Week

by | posted in: Joke | 4
Wikipedia has offered me this picture of a “salt dough monkey,” and darn if the thing doesn’t look like it fell out of a tree. Thanks, Wikipedia.

 

And now, a joke.

Or, as my friend Irena would say, “a jote.”

It’s funnier, right? Jotes?

The reason that I am going to post this jote, which is very silly and slightly weird — okay, very weird — is that it’s finals week, I’ve got a deadline for the magazine and a deadline for the other magazine and intricately woven narratives are my favorite kinds of posts but I have to eat something for Lord’s sake and who’s gonna finish these captions? But there’s another reason why I want to post this jote: I like the jote. The jote is interesting. So we tell the jote.

Ahem:

Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?
A: Because it was dead.

Goodnight!

:: drops mic ::

4 Dec 2017

New Philosopher Magazine Calling, or, ‘Pinch Me, I’m Dreaming’

by | posted in: Art, Day In The Life, Paean, Tips | 5
The Summer 2017 issue of my second-favorite magazine. Image: The New Philosopher.

 

A dream hath come true. Except I didn’t even dream it. I didn’t apply for it, I didn’t suggest it. I didn’t flat out campaign for this dream fulfillment: It just happened.

The New Philosopher asked me to be in their magazine!

Warning: I have to crow about the magazine for a minute before I tell you how I get to be in it. I just have to, and you should know that the magazine is not paying me to say any of this, nor are they paying me to be in the magazine. This is just pure love, right here.

This magazine, The New Philosopher, is my favorite magazine in the entire world  — after this one, of course. It’s quarterly, out of Australia, and it’s invaluable to me as a person who loves to think about and read about philosophy and philosophical questions but definitely can’t just haul out a copy of Heidegger’s “Being and Time” and have at it. Lucky for me/us, The New Philosopher breaks down huge, scary topics (e.g., property, fame, technology, etc.) in visual ways across its thick, glossy pages. Each issue provides the best aphorisms, thought-provoking art, amazing interviews, compelling tidbits, infographics — I could go on. The content manages to be fun while being thought-provoking, it’s beautifully rendered, and issue after issue deftly communicates big philosophical thoughts to non-academics like me. I’m amazed and delighted at the whole operation. Each issue is themed (e.g., Food, Growth, Fake News, etc.) and it’s just Christmas every time it arrives in my mailbox. If this magazine were a person, I would marry it.

I think I have made my point.

Now, in each issue, there’s a two-page spread called “Living Philosophy.” This feature spotlights five people — some fancy philosophy people, some just folks — who answer a short questionnaire. I have often thought how utterly, incredibly cool it would be to be included in that section, to be one of the “Living Philosophy” people. I never in a million, zillion years thought about even thinking it could ever, ever be a thing that would be real.

Well, it’s happening. A few days ago, I got an email from one of the editors: The New Philosopher has invited me to answer the questionnaire and be in the magazine. Me! In the New Philosopher! Answering the questions that I am about to share with you! Can you even stand it??

I swear, I didn’t not hint that I wanted to do this. There is no application process to be in the “Living Philosophy” spread. The New Philosopher just finds you. And the only way they could’ve found me is because a) I ordered a ton of back issues this summer and I sent my order with a pithy/praise-y note, and/or b) they enjoyed my one email to them a couple months ago which contained a copyediting suggestion. But … Then what?? Did they google me? What did the process look like?? Are they reading this blog??

[New Philosopher. Are you reading this blog.]

I need to lay back on a fainting couch or something. Before I do, I thought I’d share with you the incredible questions I get to answer. The questions are certainly no secret: This is a recurring feature in the magazine, remember. How would you answer these questions? Have you ever thought about some of them? Good luck! My answers and my headshot are due on Friday …

  • Top five books (fiction or non-fiction, they don’t have to relate to philosophy)
  • Favourite philosopher
  • Favourite quote
  • Documentary to recommend
  • Favourite artwork
  • Favourite piece of classical music
  • What is philosophy for you?
  • Why is philosophy important?
  • What is the biggest problem we face in contemporary society?
  • What do you hope to achieve from “doing” philosophy?
  • What is the meaning of life?

p.s. How am I going to tell Claus???

2 Dec 2017

The Quilt Scout Is IN: ‘Raining On My Parade’

by | posted in: Quilting, The Quilt Scout | 4
She’s reading a book about quilts. Image: Wikipedia.

 

We interrupt the trotting out of holiday traditions for a special announcement: My latest Quilt Scout column is up! And I really do need to let you know that because I forgot to do it last week.

You’ll soon see that the column is sober in tone; that’s by design. In the piece, I examine how hard it is to learn things that challenge what we think — even what we love. It happened to me recently while I was doing quilt history research and writing it out for the ol’ Scout helped me cope. Maybe it’ll get you thinking, too.

Anywhoop, I’ll be back tomorrow with Holiday Tradition No. 2.

(It involves ‘tockins.)

1 Dec 2017

Mary’s Holiday Traditions, Part I: ‘Happy Holidays’ and ‘Merry Christmas’

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Paean | 11
I like that lil’ snowman. Photo: Nevit Dilmen via Wikipedia.

 

It’s the first day of December, y’all. I’m fairly sure that means it’s the holidays.

The holidays mean different things to different people. Some folks take ’em, some leave ’em. Some of the folks who take ’em take ’em real far; some folks who leave ’em get super grumpy about it and “Humbug!” their way through the entire deal. The grinches aren’t much fun to be around, but they have their reasons. The holidays can be hard. For so many of us, the holiday season is soaked in memories — many of them triggered by seasonal smells and sounds — that feel particularly intense. Those feelings have something to do with childhood; they’ve got something to do with time. I get it.

When I turned the page of calendar at my desk this morning, after I got over the shock of seeing the end of 2017, I decided to very intentionally ask myself how I felt about the holidays at this point in my life. Guess what?

I like ’em!

Yeah, I really like the holidays. There are specific reasons for this and I thought I’d share them in a series of posts here on the ol’ PG. It’ll get me in the holiday spirit and besides: Socrates famously said “the unexamined life is not worth living” and Socrates sure looked a lot like Santa. Ever think about that?

Tradition No. 1:
Saying ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays’ to Absolutely Everyone I Encounter

I wonder if anyone has ever studied how many times in a year the average person says “Have a great day,” “Take care,” or any of the dozens of variations on such phrases. I’m sure the number is in the thousands: Consider that if you use one of these sayings even just twice a day, that’s almost 800 times in one year. But if you work with the public — especially in retail, customer service, or food service — you say it way more. Beyond that, most of us are (rightly) programmed to use, even rely upon, standard-issue human decency when someone hands us our change or our bag of groceries. “Have a good one” is just what you say when you interact with someone in the public square, unless they step on your foot. (If you’re me, you might say it then, too.)

Now, I’m a big, fat, word nerd, so maybe it’s just me, but I think it’s huge that there’s something else we can say to each other 1.5 months out of the year!

Getting to say “Happy Holidays!” to my fellow townspeople as I come and go from shops and cafes and such is one of my favorite things in the world. I love to say it. For one thing, “Happy Holidays” is just stylistically a better choice, what with the H-H alliteration. It’s also v. chipper. Structurally, “Happy Holidays” is more economic at two words than “Have a nice day” is at four. It’s better writing, people. 

I love saying “Merry Christmas” every bit as much. It’s yet another economic, evocative alternative to “enjoy your day” or whatever. Besides, saying “Merry Christmas” to my brothers and sisters as we hustle and bustle through the city makes me feel like I’m a character in a Dickens novel, i.e., “A Christmas Carol.” (If only the weather were chillier, I could wear a muff!)

It’s okay if you don’t celebrate Christmas or if you don’t care about the holidays. Like I said, you surely have good reasons for it — and by the way, I have a big problem with the consumer frenzy stuff, believe me. There’s plenty to criticize about the holiday season in our culture, but trilling out a less-used salutation or farewell isn’t hurting anyone.

And it’s free!

 

28 Nov 2017

Blogging Class: You’re Soaking In It

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Food | 15
They brought me an apple last week! Really! Image: Abhijit Tembhekar via Wikipedia.

Hello!

Remember that blogging class I talked about?

We’re in it right now!

I’m showing the class — which is made up of attractive, attentive, excellent people, I’ll have you know — how to publish a post. And this is that post.

Any questions?

26 Nov 2017

Patchwork: It’s Not Happening Right Now

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Quilting | 17
The “RMI Deluxe Tailor Super Model” sewing machine! I think it’s Chinese. Image: Wikipedia.

 

Ever had times in your life when you looked longingly at your sewing machine and sighed a deep sigh because you knew there wasn’t a bobbin’s chance in you-know-where that you were going to sit down and sew anytime soon?

Ever unplugged your machine so that you could vacuum real good around the table only to realize, two weeks later, you never plugged it back in because you have not even been over to that side of the room in two weeks?

Yeah, me, same.

Hey, man. There are seasons in our lives. There are seasons when we reap, and there are seasons when we — wait for it — sew. For me, it’s just not a “sewing” season and I have to be okay with that.*

Sometimes, when I don’t get any exercise for awhile, I get very dramatic about it in my mind and think, “That’s it! It’s over! I’ll never have what I used to have, which was a somewhat regular exercise regimen!” The same goes with quiltmaking. I look back at my output over the past six or nine months and, if it looks like it looks now, which is bad, I feel like, “Whelp! That’s it! I’m a phony! How can I even call myself a quilter?? I’m all talk!”

But of course, this is ridiculous.

Sometimes, I just can’t exercise because I’m flying all over the country, for Lord’s sake. Sometimes, I can’t make a big quilt (or five) because I’m in grad school and more or less working full time. It’s okay, I tell myself. It’ll smooth out because I like exercising. I like making quilts. These things are going to be there for me when I get done with this other stuff — and I’ll be there for them, too, ready and excited to pick up where I left off, hopefully.

Yes, the “I’ll get to it when I have more time” mentality can be a problem. It can lead to inertia and self-sabotage.

But sometimes, it’s just true that you’ll do it later. Sometimes, when you have to choose between sleep and a round of cardio boxing, you gotta go with sleep. When you have to choose between getting the reading done and working on something that does not currently have a deadline attached to it (aka, your latest-greatest quilt), the reading has to win. For you, you might have to choose the kids, the needs of the spouse, the upcoming move, the divorce, the second job — any of that, over the other stuff. For now.

When school is over in May, I swear, the rest of my life is going to feel like a vacation. I’m going be in very good shape and I will make two quilts every single week.

 

*You get the joke, right? Sow/sew? I had to make sure! 

25 Nov 2017

Miracle on John Wayne Drive: Happy Holidays to The Iowa Theater!

by | posted in: Art, Family, Paean, The Iowa Theater Winterset | 7
Viva la Iowa! (None of my pictures from last night are quite right, so I am gratefully using this one taken by the talented Todd Scott, when the Iowa’s marquee neon was first turned on.) Image courtesy the Iowa Theater website.

 

When my mom and my sister Rebecca Fons embarked on the project of the movie theater renovation in our hometown, I knew a few things for sure.

I knew they would do it “right,” aesthetically-speaking. I knew they would deal fairly in all business matters. I knew they would work hard. And I knew they would complete the project. None of this was ever in question.

And though I anticipated that, due to their approach, this non-profit movie theater/performance space would be financially viable, and though I hoped the whole project would be a success, I couldn’t know for sure if those things would come to pass. Well, the theater has only been open since late May and it’ll take at least a calendar year or two to understand how all this is rolling along, but so far, The Iowa Theater appears to have wind in its sails. The reason for this brings me to the third thing I didn’t anticipate:

The power of a well-run movie house in a small town.

To drive this point home, I need to tell you about Winterset’s annual “Festival of Lights” up on the town square.

The Festival of Lights is a kind of pop-up holiday fest that takes place the day after Thanksgiving around 7 p.m. A few shops stay open for business; vendors sell kettle corn and cider on the courthouse lawn (though you can be sure some grownups have something stronger in their cups); Christmas music is piped through the speakers; a horse-drawn trailer takes kids around the square; and various businesses, veterans groups, school groups, and cityfolk participate in a parade where candy is tossed to the crowd. The parade culminates in the appearance of … Santa, of course! And then Santa lights the Christmas lights on the square. It’s wonderful.

I was present at last year’s Festival of Lights when my sister and mother were neck-deep in theater renovations and plans, driving hundreds of miles back and forth from Chicago to Winterset and beyond, sourcing popcorn oil and dealing with studio screening contracts. The monetary and time investment was big. The work was intense. It was all happening.

My two sisters and I stood up on the square during the 2016 Festival of Lights last year, cheering for the parade floats as they went by, huddled together in the cold. Last year, The Iowa, which is smack on the square, was dark.

“This time next year,” my sister Rebecca said, shaking her head. “This time next year, we’ll be open. It’s gonna be awesome.” Then, in typical Rebecca fashion, she added, “I really hope there’s not some alien invasion before then or a global flood or something.”

No aliens, sis.

Last night, at the 2017 Festival of Lights, the cider was there, the kettle corn was there. Santa was there. And now, at the party, the Iowa Theater’s marquee blinkled and twinkled* and that beaut’ was there, too, open for business. Well, open for charity: If you brought a canned good or personal item, you got to see the 8 p.m. movie for free. Once Santa lit the lights, the theater was flooded, so many people on the square pouring into the Iowa with their food drive items and holiday spirits high. (I was working the door: I saw it, myself.) We ran out of seats way before we ran out of merry townspeople.

“We’ll do it again next year,” I said to the folks who got there too late. “Promise.”

So yeah, the Iowa is real. The community is responding to what they helped build. The theater couldn’t exist — nor can it continue to thrive — without all the support the community has given and continues to give, whether that’s approving grant proposals, buying pre-show ads, or simply showing up to watch the live performances or the movies.

“Wayback Wednesdays” are super popular; I went to see “Grease” the last time I was home and the place was packed, many attendees dressed up in Pink Ladies jackets and poodle skirts. At the screening of “Gone With the Wind,” a lady in her nineties stood up and said that she used to work at the Iowa as a teenager and when “Gone With the Wind” came out, she’d sneak in and watch it night after night, then go home and sob with love for Rhett Butler.

The “regular” movie nights are popular too, though some movies play better than others. Whatever the movie, with the Iowa Theater open again, Date Night is back in Winterset. Girls Night Out is back, too. Families come out together. Folks who need to get out of the house can get out of the house and come see a movie instead of … whatever else they had to do when the Iowa was dark.

This holiday season, there are a lot of good reasons to visit the Iowa; last night was just the beginning. The ballet group is doing “The Nutcracker.” The community players will present “The Gift of the Magi” later this month. You can see “Miracle on 34th Street” and “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.” And since the theater will be on this year’s Winterset Tour of Homes, Rebecca’s planned to have”A Christmas Story” playing on a continual loop from 11:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. — just drop in and out at your leisure, Ralphie.

Seeing my mom and Rebecca — and Steve and Marla and all the board members and the Chamber folks and everyone who has purchased a ticket or will in the years to come — seeing these people build this thing has taught me a lot. Namely, that it really is what you do locally that makes a difference in the world. It really is about our neighbors, about our backyards, about our communities.

Well, all that and lots of butter.

 

 

*blinkled and twinkled = a term I have just coined

24 Nov 2017

Puzzling … With the Family

by | posted in: Family | 9
I like that in this picture, listed under “puzzle” in WikiCommons, the cookie and milk are the stars of the show. Image: Wikipedia.

 

And now, an interview I conducted this evening while sitting on the hardwood floor in the hallway, a few feet away from where serious jigsaw puzzling was taking place. Present and puzzling were my mother, my step-dad Mark, and my brother-in-law, Jack; my sister Rebecca sat on a bench nearby. There were glasses of wine on the table, as well as a bowl of Cheetos. My questions in boldface.

Note: In my family, we have a reception desk bell we put out when we do a puzzle. Every time someone finds a piece, they get to ring the bell.

So, gang: What do you like about puzzles?

MARK: Everything.

JACK: For me, a puzzle is appealing because it’s a closed system. It has an answer. Most things in the world move toward entropy and chaos. Puzzles are the opposite. They’re one of the few things in the world that start off as chaos and become whole.

MOM: With a puzzle, you get immediate gratification with every little piece, every bite — and zero calories!

JACK: Well, if you’re eating Cheetos, it’s different. (Ding!)

Do you have a particular method or approach to beginning a puzzle?

MARK: Well, sure. (Ding!) Most people approach a puzzle the same way: Do the frame first. Because the straight edge pieces are easy to find and fit together. And having the outside edge then gives you a structure. After you get your edge in place, you move to your subassembly: Pick a color or shape within the puzzle and take it one bite at a time.

JACK: “Subassembly.” I like that.

MOM: I pick up a piece and find the location on the picture, then I place it in that general vicinity. If it can’t fit anywhere … Well, then, sometimes I put it back down.

Mother, you said earlier today you didn’t like puzzles. 

MOM: I think they’re a waste of time.

JACK: The plot thickens. (Ding!)

MOM: One could be making something useful, like a quilt. Putting a puzzle together is the antithesis of making quilt. But I will admit, it’s nice for a little relaxation during the holidays. You sit together and eat salty snacks and drink alcoholic beverages. It works.

REBECCA: I hate puzzles.

You hate them?

REBECCA: Make ’em and break ’em. That’s all they are!

Can you say more about that?

REBECCA: Puzzles are boring, for one thing. And the satisfaction of finding a piece is never enough, it never lasts long enough. Besides, there’s this weird … Like, everyone’s searching all the time. (Ding!) Then, when you finish a puzzle, you’re like “Cool, we made something that looks exactly like the picture on this box. Now let’s break it.” And if you’re doing a puzzle on the dining room table, it’s like, “Oh, we can’t eat at this table because there’s a puzzle here.” And then there’s the horror of finishing a puzzle and seeing there’s a missing piece.

MOM: I found a puzzle piece up at Sunrise Cottage. I couldn’t figure out which puzzle it went to, so I taped it to the puzzle cupboard with a sticky note. One day when I’m dead and gone, a grandchild of mine, maybe a great-grandchild will find where it goes and they’ll say, “Oh, Gramma Fons. She was so caring, so thoughtful! Just think, she cared about where this little puzzle piece would end up.”

JACK: Yeah, like, “Gather ’round, kids. Do you know what OCD is?”

(Everyone laughs. Ding!)

Last question: How many puzzles do you think we have in our family?

MOM: Oh, we give them away. We never do a puzzle twice.

But like, over time. 

MARK: Probably a hundred. Probably more. (Takes sip of beer and then almost spits it out.) Geez, what’s a puzzle cost? Twenty bucks? Think of that money! My grandfather thought puzzles were the devil’s work. He just couldn’t stand them.

MOM: That was his mother’s side of the family. His father’s side of the family — what a bunch of no-counts!

MARK: Honey, that side of the family was no good. Horse traders, every one of ’em.

Can I put that in the interview? 

MARK: (Ding!) I don’t care.

MOM: Mark’s the first to say it!

I’m glad we had this talk, you guys. 

MARK: Yeah, puzzles. It doesn’t make much sense. But it gets in your blood.

[end of interview]
23 Nov 2017

Bounty

by | posted in: Family | 7
Women getting ready to serve the barbeque dinner at the Pie Town, New Mexico Fair, c. 1940. Image: Wikipedia.

 

We had a good Thanksgiving Day here in Iowa.

It started this morning. Each Thanksgiving, my family helps prepare the free holiday meal at the Methodist Church. We’ve done this for a few years, now, and I love it. It feels good to be around other people, it feels good to help those less fortunate, it feels good to work in a kitchen. (I know my way around one, remember?)

This big holiday meal, which includes all the staples (i.e., turkey, pie, cran sauce, etc.), is served at noon in the basement of the church. But the food is also available for delivery for those who are homebound for medical reasons or who can’t drive for one reason or another. With the exception of Jack, who often helps with the gravy in the kitchen — and my step-dad, Mark, who makes the deviled eggs, grody — my family is usually put on delivery meals. We post up in the back room and get our little assembly line going: pie, roll, broccoli salad, cran sauce, egg, close the box. Stack. Repeat dozens and dozens of times.

Last year, I was on baked apple duty and even though it was a very sticky job, scooping all those hundreds of baked apples into cupcake foils, I secretly loved it. I really perfected my wrist maneuver by the end of the shift, made sure the cups didn’t squish and each apple had a good amount of sauce. The church organizers didn’t put baked apples on the menu this year, but I’d like to think I did a pretty good job with the rolls. I go with the flow.

My sister Rebecca and my cousin Greg and I went out to deliver some meals as it got closer to noon. The doors we knocked on were shabby, worn. One lady opened the door and frightened us: She had some serious sores all over her face and arms, and the apartment absolutely reeked of cigarette smoke. But she was so nice.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” we said to her, and she said, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

We went to another house where a lady sat watching TV all alone. A large doll had been placed on a chair in her living room, facing the TV, with a tea set spread out next to her. Yeah, it was spooky. It was also sad. Everyone needs friends.

Last year, there were more meals to box and more deliveries to make. I’m not sure why this year was lighter. But even if one hungry person was fed today by that church, I reckon that’s a victory for humanity, and I was glad to be there for it.

After our time with the meal, we came back home to get our own underway. My brother-in-law Jack outdid himself with the turkey this year; that is high praise, indeed.

We did the whole “go around the dinner table and say what you’re grateful for” thing.

When it got to me, I didn’t know where to start.

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