Mary Fons, Author at Mary Fons

8 Oct 2013

Love, Thyself.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life | 0

Recently I skimmed a book passage in which the author encouraged single people to practice “self-love.” In lieu of being actively shown love by a partner, in other words, the singles were encouraged to actively show love to themselves. You’ve surely come across this idea, single or not. But in a culture that by and large looks at the intentionally single person as suspicious, damaged, and inexcusably narcissistic, it’s downright dangerous to seriously talk about loving yourself, much less actively practice it. Are you serious? I mean, could you get any more selfish?

I have chosen to remain single since my divorce. I have had several opportunities to “couple up” and I have declined to do so. This has come with some pain for both me and the fellow in question, but I remain resolute: I am single, and I like it that way.

At this point, there is surely the reader who thinks, not without kindness, “Well, that’s easy enough when you’re young enough to change your mind — and you will.” Others are a bit gloomier: “You’ll be sorry when you’re old and alone.” And still others will resent that I proclaim my choice to be single with such unabashed satisfaction and confidence. “People are meant to be married. Who does she think she is?”

I’m quite sure that being single is, for me, the only way to really find out.

There’s much to say about my decisions to go stag, but for the purposes of this post I’m going to corral my thoughts back to the “self-love” article. The concept itself calls to mind sappy scenes: should I run a bubble bath in a candlelit bathroom and float rose petals in the tub? Should I wrap myself up like a burrito and listen to nature sounds? Perhaps self-love is something rather, uh, too private to write about here.

Many of the suggestions for self-love I find are based on suggestions for acts of love between a couple, and those are often sappy and unimaginative. (To wit: rose petals in a bathtub are gross. They turn into blood-colored spitballs that stick all over your wet, naked body. Romance fail.) I pride myself on being a pretty creative lover of people, so when it comes to loving myself, I’m creative about that, too. Because it’s true that if there’s no one to be sweet on and no one to be consistently sweet on me, I’ve got to do something about it.

I’m naked a lot. One of the first things I do when I come home is take off all my clothes. The naked body is so great! We all have one. Being naked and putting the dishes away is one of life’s greatest pleasures, as long as you don’t drop a glass, of course. Being nekkid as a jay-bird is kinda silly, and it’s very important when you’re single to not get too serious about it. Besides, my poor body has been through a lot and it’s a loving thing to let it be visibly more healthy today than it’s been in awhile.

I keep my house quite tidy. If I lived with my best friend, I would keep the house very tidy and clean because I love my best friend and that is the right thing to do. Well, it’s the right thing to do for me, too. An organized house = an organized mind. This is a fundamental belief I hold. Get me my Windex!

Admittedly, buying myself flowers is not the most creative act of love, but boy does it work. I have fresh flowers in my home, always. Always. I love the gladiolus and I have fresh glads as long as I can throughout the seasons. They are tall and sumptuous, intelligent. The flowers go from these tight little fingerlings to these papery, sashaying blooms and I buy the green ones, the red ones, the white ones. I love them and they love me right back.

And whenever I come home from a trip, whenever I’m gone all day and I put the key in the door, whenever I feel like I’ve been away physically or mentally for too long, I enter the hallway and greet my condo with a, “Well, hello! Hello, my darling! Welcome home! Yes, you are lovely, lovely, lovely!” or some variation on that theme.

Who can I miss? What could be wrong with it? And who could ever regret these days?

7 Oct 2013

You’re a Fons, I’m a Fons, Let’s Do Lunch.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Chicago, Family | 2

You are so freakin' pretty! Holy cannoli! — I look out of windows THE SAME WAY.

Dear Emily Fons:

We have never met. Would you like to have lunch? A salad and a latte? A slice? What do you like? It’s my treat, I know lots of good places, and yes, we should definitely have dessert.

Ms. Fons, I am Mary Fons, and that’s weird. It’s weird to be me, yes, but it’s also weird that we share a last name. You are a Fons! There aren’t that many of us in the big scary world. In fact, I only know of six others and their phone numbers are in my speed dial. Are we related by blood, Emily Fons? If we aren’t, please pretend that we are. Because here’s what I know about you:

1. You’re an opera singer
2. You’re a very good opera singer
3. You’re super pretty (see photo)
4. Your website is lovely

These are all good signs. Here’s what you should know about me:

1. I am not a stalker
2. but I am coming to see you when you perform at the Lyric next month!
3. that does sound creepy
4. seriously, I’m cool

What do you say, Fons?

God, that feels good! I never call anyone “Fons” except my sisters and it’s boring by now — we’re all adults! We’ve been doing this for years! We need fresh Fons! Be that new Fons smell, Emily. We’re really fun — the whole family! We’re educated, we like word games, we store top-shelf liquor, we support the endeavors of one another (a few boyfriends have gotten the stink-eye, but they probably deserved it) and we are almost dangerously creative. You’d fit right in, maybe? A little?

Email me. Comment. Tweet. You can find me. I’m 100% serious about all this. I’m pretty sure you’re in my town and I think we should have lunch. And the only thing you’ll need to worry about in terms of creep factor is that you might catch me staring at you like a weirdo a couple times. Just a couple. But I’ve never known a real, live opera singer — or a Fons I didn’t know.

5 Oct 2013

The Maine Camper’s Slug Song

by Mary Fons | posted in: Poetry | 1

I wrote “The Maine Camper’s Slug Song” a few years ago when I was doing a play up in Maine. This was an ode (ode?) to the truly enormous slugs that emerged at night and also an exercise in meter: the inspiration for the piece was John Betjeman’s “A Subaltern’s Love Song.” Yes, I know that the creatures I saw aren’t actually sea slugs — sea slugs live in the sea — but it paints the correct picture of the Atlantic Oceanic monsters that made me lose sleep many a night. Enjoy!

The Maine Camper’s Slug Song
by Mary Fons

The sea slugs of Maine, the sea slugs of Maine,
Lengthened and strengthened by Northeastern rain,
What frightening sizes you all seem to be,
There in damp grasses, too close to me!

Like hot dogs or cowcumbers – oh, how to describe?
The long, skinny, tube-like shapes that do hide
In grasses in yards of Tom, Dick, and Jane,
We are weak from your grossness, oh sea slugs of Maine.

Oh sea slugs of Maine, oh sea slugs of Maine!
How could I possibly sleep once again
Without nightmarish visions of slimy long necks
And trails of your travels and nocturnal treks.

For an encounter occurred tonight in the fog,
While islanders slept, sawing log by large log,
I met with a sea slug and had to then log,
My experience in this internet blog.

Nearby the front door, after some time away,
I found one of you, smack dead in my way–
Dead, yes indeed, I’d prefer you remain,
You foul gastropod! you mollusk of Maine!

But lo the courage I found I had not
Sufficient enough to kill on the spot–
What would I use? My shoe or my fist?
How might one murder a foe such as this?

For your body was tensile; gooey and brown,
And I had no stomach for stooping way down
To meet at the ground with the whites of my eyes
A creature’s existence which logic belies.

And so with a shrug and a shiver of spine,
And a curse for a world that created its kind,
I sidestepped and wide-leapt its long, curvy line,
Dignity shattered but otherwise fine.

Oh sea slug of Maine, oh sea slug of Maine,
I am bested tonight – and this is quite plain,
But sleep with eyes open – all four of them,
For one night we’ll duel and you’ll not find luck then!

It’s not that I hate them or wish them great pain,
But g-ddamn they’re disgusting, the sea slugs of Maine.

3 Oct 2013

You Can’t Wrap a Baby In an iPad: Why Quilts (Still) Matter

by Mary Fons | posted in: Art, Quilting | 9

My Little Churn Dash. Designed and pieced by Mary Fons, quilted by LuAnn Downs. — My Little Churn Dash. Made by Mary Fons, quilted by LuAnn Downs.

Unless I’m at a cocktail party hosted by quilters, I am usually the only quilter at a cocktail party.

When I talk about what I do for work, someone will invariably say, “Sorry — did you say you’re a…quilter?” I nod and say yes and then two things happen: first, the person cocks their head and goes “Huh!” and then, “My auntie used to knit, too.” Sometimes I gently explain the difference between quilting and knitting, sometimes I just ask about the auntie.

If you’re not a quilter, you probably don’t think about quilts very often. You know what they are. You maybe had one in your house as a kid. You don’t know that we take umbrage when you to refer to a quilt as a blanket (please!) and you have no idea that the business of quilting kicks up $3.6 billion dollars annually — that’s just in the States. But that’s all perfectly okay. I don’t know about programming in Ruby, nothing about the Blue-Footed Booby (okay, that rhymed), or how to fix the sink. We all have our work and stuff we geek out on. Quilts, for me, are both. I traffic in them; you don’t.

But then…

Then a quilt comes into your field of vision and I can tell you exactly when it happens: when there’s a baby coming. When there’s a marriage. When someone is real, real sick. Unlike the Blue-Footed Booby, quilts arrive when they are needed and what I insist upon, what I know is true, what I make sure to say at any cocktail party, be-quilted or otherwise, is that quilts are still needed, still relevant by virtue of what they are. Quilts are love, manifested. Put another way:

You can’t wrap a baby in an iPad.

Technology is galloping away with us all and I’m riding bareback with all my quilter friends who, you could argue, are more digitally connected than other hobbyists — we have pictures of quilts to share, online bees; the entire Modern Quilt Guild “movement” was born online. But all the binary code on the planet can’t comfort a baby like wrapping it up in a quilt. Another example? Give a newlywed couple a handmade quilt and watch death rays emit from the eyes of everyone else at the shower — the crystal fruit bowl from Tiffany’s and the Kitchen-Aid mixer might as well be crap from the Dollar Store. You can’t beat a quilt with a stick. They’re magic. They’re irreplaceable. They’re also positively American, at least when we speak specifically of patchwork quilts (as opposed to whole cloth or fancy boutis stuff from Europe, and they can keep all that.)

Hey, I want my own MakerBot. My smartphone, myself. In the Venn diagram of “Nerdy,” “Creative,” and “Friendly,” “Quilter” is smack in the middle. Besides, we like buttons and stuff. But what gadget — and while we’re at it, what work of art — can you wrap up in, sit on, barf on, wash, cry under, make a tent out of, mop up stuff with, hug, throw, wad, rip, repair, and then give as an heirloom? I’d guess there’s probably just one answer to that question.

And so we still make quilts. We still do. And we will for a long time because try as we might to wriggle out of it, we’re still human. Humans need comfort and joy and to me and my fellow grieving, joyous, aging, newborn, and just plain chilly humans, a quilt is just the thing.

2 Oct 2013

Drinking & Sewing.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life, Quilting | 3

I cut my finger pretty good last night. I was drinking and sewing, so you are forbidden to have any sympathy for me. It’s okay.

I don’t drink much alcohol these days. I’m just not into it. I realized awhile ago that the increasingly obligatory evening glass of wine was suddenly two obligatory evening glasses of wine and about the time that it became that, I stopped getting a good night’s sleep. I would wake up at 3am and if there’s one thing I do not do, it’s toss and turn. So I’d wake up and read books and try to attack my day — and by noon I was a shell of a woman. When I didn’t drink wine in the evenings, this did not happen. Eureka!

But last night I decided to enjoy a vodka tonic. It’s been months since I indulged in a little evening refreshment and it just sounded nice. A little Tito’s, a little diet Schweppe’s, a little ice. Clink, clink, ahhh. And then, because I am brilliant, I picked up my rotary cutter, which is essentially a razor blade on a wheel. The rotary cutter is to a quilter as the hammer is to the carpenter: an indispensable tool used constantly that can really mess up a finger.

I was slicing around my fan template, zipping to and fro, enjoying some tunes. Sip. Zip. Zip. Sip. “La-la-la,” I sang, and I was so excited about the vodka and the scrap quilt forming on my design wall that I zipped my way right across my index finger and pam! a great flap of skin was now dangling off of me, ruby red blood welling up in astonishing quantity.

“Ah!” I exclaimed and jumped back. I raised my hand over my head and grabbed the first thing I saw to wrap around my wound. What do you suppose I grabbed? Fabric, of course! You see, quilters are very smart. We have bandages at the ready at all times. Carpenters can’t say that (though you could argue they can make a splint pretty quick — or a stretcher.) I hopped up and down and whistled; this thing could be bad, I thought, and I stole a peek. Oh yes! Pretty bad. But there was no tingle, no numbness, so I don’t think I hit a nerve.

The lesson: do not drink and sew. I am not the first to do it, certainly not the first to advise against it, and I know for a fact that I’m not the first to do it anyway and then injure myself. But “the fool who persists in his folly will become wise,” said William Blake, and he actually died while singing, so we should listen to him.

Can I get anyone a drink?

1 Oct 2013

Hi-Low, No.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Art, Tips | 0

Hi, low, or otherwise, it's just awful. — Oh, for heaven’s sake.

We’ve all made sartorial mistakes.

In case I should forget mine, there are plenty of pictures and videos of me that prove I’ve made misdirected fashion choices. I’m thinking of the belted baby doll dress in the second season of Quilty, the “are-those-cornrows?” hairstyle in the third season, the yellow nail polish on the first Love of Quilting series I un-officially co-hosted. These were all mistakes.

But we learn — not in spite of these misfires, but because of them — to internalize the truth: just because something is trendy does not mean you should wear it. Ballet flats give me piano legs. Cap sleeves cut me across the widest part of my arm. Most bluejeans add ten pounds to my frame. (Until very recently, when I actually found a great pair by accident, I had not owned a pair of bluejeans in over six years. There are other things one can put on one’s bottom half, you know.)

If you are sixteen, you can pretty much wear whatever you please as long as you can get out of the house before your mother throws her body against the door to keep you inside. But I have spotted the “hi-low” skirt trend and it is so bad, I don’t believe even a nymphy, achingly pretty sixteen-year-old could pull it off.

The hi-low skirt is a short skirt with a long, sheer skirt over it. What can the designers be thinking? It doesn’t make sense. It is not aesthetically harmonious. The short skirt is not cut in a remarkable way to begin with and then there’s this long, gauzy afterthought, this sheer mistake wafting all over the place. I think it makes a gal look like she’s fallen from a great height and has hit tree after tree on her way down, leaving ripped bits of her real skirt on the craggy branches. Now she’s just got one bit of dress left — a bit of dress and a slip underneath.

Sub-optimal.

Oh, but I see it! I see the “hi-low” on the streets of Chicago. Not all over town, but some. And I look with wonder and I put on a black turtleneck. Turtleneck loves me, hi-low loves me not.

29 Sep 2013

Notes on The Walk of Shame.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life, Tips | 1

"Shoe." McClurg Court, Chicago, IL. 8:45am, September 29, 2013. — “Shoe.” McClurg Court, Chicago, IL. 8:45am, September 29, 2013.

“Look at that!” my friend said, pointing across the street. “That’s a shoe.”

I looked over. It was a shoe. Just one. Nice, too. Pretty sexy. We crossed the street to investigate and I took a picture for you. My friend and I were full of breakfast.

Because you, gentle reader, are so gentle (and chaste and respectable and pious) I shall ‘splain to you something called “the walk of shame” because the shoe this morning was perhaps the best evidence of the WOS that I have ever encountered. The walk of shame happens when you spend the night at the home/apartment/dorm room of a paramour/booty call/random dude* and you have to leave and go outside. Sometimes you have to walk a fair piece because there are no cabs or bus stops nearby. A walk of shame can happen just to where you parked your car the night before; that definitely counts. Sometimes, you can’t find your purse/wallet and you have to walk the whole way. That’s gonna be the worst right there, because the only thing worse than the walk of shame is the long walk of shame.

The shame happens for the following reasons:

a) you have baggage about extra-marital sex (and you had some)
b) you are hungover (again)
c) you are dressed in the clothes you wore last night, as evidenced by the fact you are in a cocktail dress at nine in the morning, barefoot, your high heels wedged into your purse because your feet hurt
d) you’re being honked at (people not on the WOS love the WOS)

I did the walk of shame exactly once. I was in college. I was so far from home that morning that it makes me cry just thinking about it; there was no bus. There was no car. There was me, a sparkly blouse, and about a mile-and-a-half of questionable sidewalk between me and my sweet, sweet coffeemaker and bunny slippers. I got the honks. I got the cramp in my foot. I got the vodka headache and I definitely got the message.

But I had both my shoes.

*guys can do the WOS but because most dudes’ day clothes look similar enough to their goin’ out clothes, it’s less obvious. Also women + sex = societal shame, men + sex = “sowing oats”

28 Sep 2013

“I Came Here To Win.”

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life | 0

I make quilts. While I sew, I enjoy various media. Sometimes it’s radio, sometimes it’s a podcast. A lot of the time it’s junky television via the Internet.

There is lots of great, game-changing television out there. I don’t watch it. It takes too much focus. (I can’t watch Mad Men and sew patchwork; it’s unfair to Don Draper and unfair to my quarter-inch seam.) Instead, I watch gameshows. Reality gameshows. Biggest Loser, America’s Next Top Model, and Master Chef are totally — like, totally — my favorite shows. They’re just engaging enough to keep me company but utterly devoid of real substance. Perfect.

So I fire up the HuluPlus and I let entire seasons play. The downside to this is that any mystery or magic used in putting the shows together is gone. I know the template now. The challenges, the editing, the hosts’ indignation and the tear-jerker stories behind the contestants — every show, every game, it’s all die-cut. What’s really hard to listen to after hour eight are the interviews. I’ve figured how they do them. I’ve never experienced an actual reality show interview, but I am 99% certain they play sections of the already taped show for the player and ask him/her leading questions about what they were thinking at the time. And I picture the interviewer being extremely bored because these players, they say the same thing every single time.

Interviewer: “What does this competition mean to you?”
Player: “This competition…it means everything to me.”

Interviewer: “When Heidi walks out, what are you thinking?”
Player: “I’m just thinking, ‘What is going to happen next?'”

Interviewer: “What are you thinking right now, when Susan put the shrimp on the plate?”
Player: “Right now, I’m just hoping I don’t go home.”

Interviewer: “What did you come here to do? Is this just a game to you?”
Player: “I came here to win. This competition is not just a game for me.”

And on and on. And every once in awhile, something actually dramatic or surprising will happen (doesn’t happen often) and I’ll whoop or holler while I’m pressing my fabric and if anyone saw into my condo, they would see that I am a nerd.

26 Sep 2013

Your List, Please, Part I.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Art | 0

I do not expect to be a Mother, Tracy Emin. 2002. Private collection, courtesy Art Gallery of New South Wales, Australia © the artist — I do not expect to be a Mother, Tracy Emin. 2002. Private collection, courtesy Art Gallery of New South Wales, Australia
© the artist

La MaMa Experimental Theatre Club was founded in 1961 in New York City by Ellen Stewart. The website says: La MaMa is a world renowned cultural institution recognized as the seed bed of new work by artists of all nations and cultures, and that it true, I have seen it with my own eyes.

Each year, La MaMa takes a handful of folks to a renovated convent in central Italy for a playwright’s retreat. The retreat is ten days, you must apply and be admitted, and the facilitator changes from year to year but is always a decorated, critically-acclaimed, commercially successful writer. The year that I was accepted into the program (yo, 2010!) I had the good fortune to study with Lynn Nottage, a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright whose play Intimate Apparel is currently being adapted into an opera at the Met. I know.

Of all the provocative, creative moments Nottage encouraged and fostered in our group that year, I think back again and again to her List.

“Write down your five favorite authors of fiction who are no longer living,” she said. Sure, I thought, and breezily put down Woolf, Maugham, etc. “Now list your five favorite living fiction writers.” Everyone was scribbling on their legal pads. We did the same for non-fiction. Though this was fun, I was surprised at how many numbers there are in the number five. Maybe I didn’t have enough espresso at breakfast.

“Okay, favorite dead poets,” said Lynn. I know poetry better than the average bear, so I wasn’t daunted by this so much, except… Did I have five favorite dead poets? The world is spilling over with devastatingly beautiful poetry and choosing my five favorite poets should be extremely hard: hard because one could not possibly winnow it down to five. I got stuck at four. I was starting to dislike this exercise.

“Now, list your five favorite living poets.”

Full stop. Me no likey. The truth was, I didn’t know current poetry well enough to have one or two favorite living poets, let alone five. I was ashamed to admit that aside from a slam friend who I genuinely admire, only Billy Collins came to mind. Billy Collins!? I don’t even like Billy Collins, but I froze. I had one space out of four filled in and all my blathering about being an artist, being culturally hip was dissolving before my eyes. I was embarrassed.

“Now,” said Nottage, “Five favorite dead painters.” We were all fidgety at this point — we knew what was coming. “Now list your five favorite painters painting today.”

I had one: Chuck Close. But he’s just one of the few living painters I know of.

There were a few other prompts. When we were done, Nottage said, “Look at this list. Where are there holes? Those holes are your homework. And not just while you’re here, but from now on. Read what poets are doing today — how are they writing? How are painters painting today? Where is art going? These are your fellow artists. Explore their work, too, not exclusively the work of dead people. Living artists are important to us and to the world we live in. You should know them, find your favorites, and follow their work.”

And you? Do you know poetry? Who is painting today? It’s a big world out there and the ancient work, the vetted classics, they are classic for a reason; they stand the test of time. But this is our time.

Look around, investigate. Google. Visit new museums. Find the artists next door, not just the ones on the shelf.

25 Sep 2013

The Horror of Autumn.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life | 0

Fall has come.

When I got back to Chicago after my balmy — and surprisingly rainy — trip to Atlanta last weekend, the slightest little chill in the air wafted under to my nose and it was unmistakable. Even if it hasn’t come all the way in the house, fall has a toe in the door.

Just like you can’t be a little bit pregnant, it can’t be “a little bit autumn.” When that chilled, sharp-edged air slices through the sky, you know what time of year it is and that you can’t go back. Maybe — and I’m serious about this — it’s death. Perhaps our human senses are tuned to the decay of the trees; after all, as leaves change color, they’re dying, getting ready to fall and hibernate and regenerate later. Maybe our spidey-sense is still intact all these millennia later and when we know it’s autumn, we are scientifically right.

Like so many of my white, middle-class, Midwestern brethren, I love fall. Marketed as it is as to us a time of pumpkin-spice lattes, fireplace make-out sessions, holiday plans, etc., how could we not love this season?

But there’s a disturbing ring to fall for me, as well. It is impossible to describe. When the chill comes, at least twice and sometimes as many as thrice, I will experience a palpable sense of dread. My throat feels like it’s falling. My heart aches. All the bad days, the late nights, the homework, the housework, the breakups. It’s ineffable, inexplicable; it’s all the in- words rolled up into a second’s worth of time when I’m walking on State Street, say, or stepping into a taxi.

I think it’s called melancholy. Or ennui. Or just surprise. Surprise that every year, fall slips in with pointy teeth for two seconds before it beams with a genuinely beautiful smile.

24 Sep 2013

Waxing Poorgahtory.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life | 4

In a big city like Chicago, you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a great salon. When you finally do, you wrestle with wanting to tell every woman you know and wanting to keep your delicious little secret forever and ever. The rest of the time you’re just hoping they won’t go out of business.

I found a killer waxing spot two years ago. It’s the place. They do unbelievable work, you can always get an appointment, they’re open from 8am to 8pm, and the prices are fair. I’m clearly a devoted customer, but only now does the receptionist call me by name. You gotta earn it over there. They know what they’ve got.

When I went in yesterday for detailing I was told I’d be with Julianna and I did a little mental air-guitar. Julianna is the best of the whole crew. A 50-something Polish lady who I swear wears a girdle, Julianna could rip every last hair off your body in under 10 minutes. It wouldn’t hurt any less, but it would be over quickly, and that is the mercy of Julianna. But she doesn’t come without strings. Julianna likes to visit while you’re on her slab, and there’s only one thing she’ll talk about: Jesus Christ.

“You know, sveetie, I say to all ze girls: you must open yoor heart, give to Christ Jeezoos. He is way to happiness, He is way to evverlasting trooth. We are all seeners; I am seener, you are seener. Dis is truth.”

Rip!

“We must believe in ze Bible as true word of God. So many people, so, so many people lost in ze world and they don’t care! They say, ‘Oh, I am fine, I am leader of my own life, dis and dat, whatever.’ But when they burn in evverlasting fire, they see the error of their wayz. Eet’s too late. That’s it.”

Rip!

It’s possible to reach an ecstatic state over the course of a bikini wax. The whole thing is absurd, for one thing. You’re putting hot wax where? On purpose? And then ripping the — oh, sweet mother! You’re naked from the waist down — also absurd. And it hurts so much. There you are, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the next strip of agony, and you go into a happy headspace where nothing can harm you. There are bunnies and stars there. Add to all this a large, 50-something Polish woman delivering a constant stream of Catholic admonishment and salvation, and I’m telling you, it’s downright trippy. Six minutes into my appointment yesterday, I connected to victims of the Spanish Inquisition on a kind of time warp mental plane:

INQUISITOR: Is there a God?
MARY: No!
INQUISITOR: Hot wax!
MARY: No!
INQUISITIOR: Yes!

(Rip, rip, rip. MARY hollers, thrashes.)

INQUISITOR: Ha!
MARY: Bastards!
INQUISITOR: Will that be cash or check?
MARY: (pause.) What?
INQUISITOR: It’s $85 today. Cash or check?
MARY: Oh, sorry. Cash.

Julianna, we have ideological differences. But we’re good. We both agree on the importance of grooming. You like tips, I like to give tips. You call me “sveetie,” you usually tell me you like my hair, and you always make time to do my eyebrows, even if you’ve got an appointment right after me. In the city, these are true gifts.

23 Sep 2013

Go-Go-Gadget Grad School!

by Mary Fons | posted in: Chicago, School | 0

Penny, from Inspector Gadget. She had the first tablet computer, you know. — Penny, from Inspector Gadget. She had the first tablet computer.

I’m in grad school.

The Master’s of Liberal Arts at the University of Chicago is a degree tailed for professionals who need classes at night/on the weekends. It provides a curated buffet of (magnificent) everything rather than focusing on just one discipline, e.g., aeronautics or French philosophy. Candidates take biology classes, humanities courses, physical science courses, etc. I applied and was accepted earlier this year. When I had my interview, I realized just how different grad school at the University of Chicago would be compared to my previous college experience. That experience was great (B.A.,Theater Arts, University of Iowa, ’01) but this seemed instantly to be a world apart.

The program’s director, upon welcoming me into his office, offered me a chair and then looked out the window. Then back at me. Then back to the window.

“It’s a lovely day. Let’s take a walk.” My heart sank. Surely I hadn’t gotten in.

Mr. Ciaccia put on a hat and a trench coat and I collected my purse. We walked across the beautiful Hyde Park campus; he pointed out buildings and houses of note. The sun was shining after a rainstorm, and we skirted puddles as we talked about architecture, the gods, music. It was so grad school-y, I almost giggled about six times. I think he used the word “epoch” a couple times.

Turns out I did get in. By the time we rounded the corner to the building where we began, I had to ask. “So… Mr. Ciaccia, did I get in?” He looked at me with a warm smile.

“Yes, you did.”

I squealed and jumped up and down. (I’m a nitwit like that.)

Last semester I took a class called “The New Cosmology,” which was all about space, particle physics, dark matter, etc. It was so mind-blowing, so awe-inspiring, I got misty a couple times in class. This semester, I’ll be in a class called “The Problem of Evil.” Check it:

“This course will consider the theological problem of evil, starting with the Book of Job. We will next investigate the problem from the perspectives of St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas, for whom evil was the major, stumbling block in the proof of God’s existence. At issue will be the question of whether the view of evil initiated by Augustine as the “privation of good” represents an adequate explanation of evil. This pursuit will lead into the problem of theodicy: can–or should–God’s ways be justified to human beings? We will look at theodicy in selections from the works of Hume, Bayle, Voltaire, Leibniz, and Kant. We will then study several fictional treatments of the problem of evil, including Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, Melville’s Billy Budd, and the Coen Brothers’ movie No Country for Old Men, based on the novel by Cormac McCarthy.”

For a geek like me, the prospect of starting this class in a couple weeks is like sitting in a mink coat on a generous tuffet as someone brings me an entire pecan pie a la mode, a spoon, and a note from a doctor who has ordered me to put on a few pounds. I’m excited.

19 Sep 2013

Welcome to The Internet.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life, Work | 20

To encounter one or two people in your life who don’t like your face, just get out of bed in the morning. To have a sizable number of those people, you’ll need to be on television.

Sipping my coffee this morning, feeling fantastic about wrapping the latest 2-week taping of Fons & Porter’s Love of Quilting, I accidentally found a gnarled thread on the Fons & Porter Facebook page. The venerable, incredible teacher and company founder, Liz Porter, visited the set to film two (excellent) episodes the other day and a picture was taken of us at work. I love working with Liz and felt quite chipper about it all until this morning.

“If they would just film with MaryAnn [sic] Fons instead of that nitwit daughter.. all would be good,” commented one Cora McDivitt Darrin, upon viewing the photo. Virginia Anne Lewis felt similarly, adding, “I wish mary [sic] would stop making faces and nodding and shaking her head.” Four people Liked that. And from the lady so irresistible she has not one but four last names, Pat Stubo Erickson Sullivan lamented, “I’m almost ready to stop watching….Mary drives me nuts. She talks WAY too much and her waving hands are so distracting. I’d rather have MaryAnn on alone with guests if we can’t have Liz back!” Various other folks digitally nodded their heads (not so vigorously they might’ve strained their necks, I hope) in agreement.

I took another sip of coffee. The cream was curdled.

Every well-intentioned mother in the world, including mine, would advise me to “just ignore it.” Just ignore it, the well-intentioned mothers say, shaking their collective heads, “some people are just negative.” This is the part that catches in my throat along with the hot tears in my eyes: Why do negative people get a pass for being wretched? I’m not negative. I’m all good. I’d never call a well-intentioned human a nitwit. Look:

nitwit |ˈnitˌwit|
noun informal
a silly or foolish person (often as a general term of abuse).

I’ll claim silly. I wear silly with pride. And perhaps in affairs of the heart, I am at my core, a fool. But you don’t know that, Cora darling, and since I don’t speak of my love life on Public Television, and since I know my job pretty well, I’d say that makes the word “fool” off limits. Besides, once the word “abuse” pops into the mix, you have wronged your fellow man. Ask around; it’s unanimous.

But hey, if you don’t want know strangers’ opinions of you, Mary Fons, stay inside your house. Strangers will still have opinions about you (you’ll be the crazy person who never comes out of your house) but you’ll never know what they’re saying, which is good if you’re a sensitive gal. But I did leave the house. I’m on a show that broadcasts to 93% of the PBS markets in America. I chose to approach this circumstance and I’ll lay in it. If I spent time whining about how a stranger in Montana (or hundreds of strangers in Texas) don’t adore me, I’d actually be the nitwit Cora believes me to be.

I can’t complain about negative comments happening. They’ll keep happening. But I can call people out for being simple and mean to me. Your name is as public as mine when you write on walls in binary code.

So: Does it feel weird to be talked about so intimately by someone you don’t know? It’s crazy, right, ladies?! Feels kinda crappy. Makes you sorta mad. But who should you get mad at? It’s hard to know! I know!! Such an impotent, helpless feeling. Just do what I do: try not to let this webpage ruin your day; instantly fail. Clench your jaw a few times, click over to Amazon and try to forget about it. Click back. Read your name again. Feel like a failure. Burn. Get paralyzed for about an hour. Literally, physically shake “it” off and set about your day. Eventually forget whatever nasty thing Person XYZ said about you, but not completely; no not completely, because they did say it and a bunch of people saw it. You mustn’t cry, though, even if you feel like you got punched in the face. If you cry, you’ll really feel dumb because people will say that if you don’t like it, don’t work.

As for all the strangers who said lovely things, I’d like to thank you individually for your your charm, your intelligence, your flawless skin, your timeless elegance, and those swan-like necks! Ms. Susan Parrish admitted to missing my mom and Liz but managed a sincere tally-ho: “[Liz and Marianne] made such a good team,” Parrish said, “But I like Mary as well; she is doing a great job. Keep up the good work.” The incomparable Leslie Fitzgerald went to bat for me, wading into the fetid comment stream to say, “For those of you who have been bashing Mary, what happened to the old adage, “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.” Sheesh!”

Ah, but Leslie. This is the Internet. Welcome to the Internet. Leave your face at the door.

p.s. Enjoy.

17 Sep 2013

Washerwoman.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life | 2

You can bathe a baby in it, too. — You could bathe a baby in it, too.

The washing machine is broken here at my mom’s house. It just stopped working. Unfortunately, it stopped working when it had a full tub of water and it’s a front-loader. To get the serial number to order the part, Mom had to open the door. She jumped back and the water gushed out. I so wish a goldfish would’ve sailed out, too.

When I film the TV show I go through a lot of clothes. There’s a different outfit for every episode and I do a little side project show at the same time, in the same studio, so we’re talking about sixteen different ensembles, plus several Plan B choices in case certain items don’t work (e.g., too low-cut, too stripey, cigarette burns, etc.) Some laundry is required, therefore; having no washing machine is not ideal. Yesterday night I needed laundry done and I was going to have to do it myself.

Down to the basement I trudged, nearly falling and cracking my neck on the stairs, as usual. I pulled a string and the lights came on. There’s a big wash sink down there, so I set about hand washing my clothes. Here are the three greatest modern inventions of all time:

– washing machines

I couldn’t come up with two others that are better.

Though there was something vaguely meditative and prehistoric about sloshing my skivvies through the tub of warm water, I refused to get romantic about it. The last time I hand washed two loads of laundry was never, and the mere thought of doing so every day or even every other day was enough to begin to break my back. Oh, women! How we have toiled. And I had soap! For the majority of human history, we just had sticks and stones! Of course, we didn’t have cashmere, either, but I still don’t see how a stick can get mascara and cabernet out of a garment.

Ohhh… Right.

16 Sep 2013

Word Nerd: Quaintrelle

by Mary Fons | posted in: Word Nerd | 0

Lempicka's "The Blue Scarf," dahhhhling. — Lempicka’s “The Blue Scarf,” dahhhhling.

Just when language pleases me from the top of my capo to the tip of my tarsals, it goes and does it all over again. Ladies and germs, I present “quaintrelle,” a word I discovered yesterday when I wasn’t looking for it.

Quaintrelle
(n.)
A woman who emphasizes a life of passion, expressed through personal style, leisurely pastimes, and cultivation of life’s pleasures.

I’m signed up for that one. The leisurely pastimes part is the only part that I can’t get 100% on board with. In my head, “leisurely pastimes” translates to “strolling” or “a spot of tea with Freddy and the Rumsfordshire sisters after a pleasant game of squash on the lawn.” I’m a long way from squash on the lawn.

The rest of it, though, has pretty much been my M.O. since ’95. They say relationships take work. It’s true; but we have a relationship with ourselves, as well. This relationship takes just as much work, maybe more. Today, I shall set a goal: I will take a pleasure in life and cultivate it one step further than usual. I will be a quaintrelle I can be proud of.

15 Sep 2013

Word Nerd: “Loaded For Bear”

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life, Word Nerd | 0

Oh, misconceptions. You crazy little guys! I can think of a few:

– when you fall in love, it will be forever
– “He’s got the whole world/in his pants”
– black licorice doesn’t taste good
– the expression “loaded for bear” comes to us from the nautical world

Let’s look at that last one. Last night, I was set straight by a comrade. We were in conversation at an almost handicappingly dim restaurant, nibbling on burrata and tomatoes so fresh they were still mooing.

“Well, there I was, and let me tell you, I was loaded for bear!” my dinnermate said. I stopped him in his tale to ask about the provenance of that expression. It was a nautical term, wasn’t it? I knew what it meant, that a person was ready for a fight, ready for a major event, equipped and prepared to do serious business. But I have operated my entire life (at least since I could read or whatever) that “loaded for bear” referred to the maximum level of cargo or freight a big ship could carry at one time. I was using “bear” as in “bearing weight.” To me, “loaded for bear” meant that a massive ship was packed to the hilt, loaded up “for bear,” perhaps a sailor’s way of saying, “the full weight.” Don’t know where I picked it up, don’t know who might’ve misled me or if I just made it up, but I’ve used the expression properly for a long time and never thought to question it.

“No, no,” said he. “No, it means you’ve loaded your gun for big game. Like a bear.”

I smacked his shoulder. “Get! Out! Really?? A bear?? It means an actual bear??”

“Yes,” he said, and smiled in that way that men smile when a girl in a dress swats them on the shoulder. Happy girl, silly hitting. Lovely hitting.

What a revelation. A bear. I like animals a lot — in the abstract — and when an idiom has been employing one right in front of my face without my knowledge, well, my day is made upon discovery of that.

Loaded for bear! For bear! Of all the things.

11 Sep 2013

How The Mighty Amish Quilts Have Fallen

by Mary Fons | posted in: Art | 3

If you want to feel like you’ve accidentally taken expired cold medicine, I recommend the Discovery Channel’s Amish Mafia.

When I’m home in Iowa, I watch a bit of television. I refuse to be a no-TV snob, but the truth is, I don’t have a television in Chicago and I haven’t owned a TV since I left home for college. I’ve just never wanted one very much, mostly because I am an enormous nerd who would rather read a book than do just about anything. And besides, commercials are tiny rapes.

Last night, I was clicking channels and found this Amish Mafia show. Have you heard of it? Seen it? Been as dumbfounded as I was by it? For the most part, a person can watch 30-seconds of any show on television and get the gist of it. “Oh, this is a cop drama,” you think, or “Oh, this is a sitcom where the guy is a lump and the smart wife loves the knucklehead anyway,” or, at the very least, “This is a reality show vs. a show with actors playing parts.” The producers of any show want you to do this. They want their shows to be instantly recognizable so you don’t have to think terribly hard and you can just be entertained. There’s nothing wrong with that; and the best shows actually mess with the formulas and create great, dynamic television. Consider The Sopranos; violent and humane, dramatic but often hilarious, too. Good stuff.

I watched Amish Mafia for a full 30 minutes last night and I still had no idea what was happening to me. The show follows…Amish people. Mostly men. Who have…guns. These Amish men with guns…collect money from other Amish men? With guns? Everyone is very…angry. These angry Amish men with guns talk to the camera like it’s a reality show, but I’ll bet you two bonnets and a straw boater that THERE IS NO AMISH MAFIA so it simply could not be real. Amish people don’t allow girls to play with any doll that has a face! That’s considered a “graven image” and creates idolatry; how does an HD camera filming Amish in their kitchens avoid the whole “graven image” thing? Even for a Mennonite, this seems as plausible as a fish saying, “I prefer living out of the water.”

The whole show was so confusing and lame and slightly disturbing that I had to look it up. It’s not real. It’s scripted. They’re all actors. It’s fake, fake, fake, and the reality show “feel” is calculated, calculated, calculated. The actual Amish are horrified. The actual Mafia is probably horrified, come to think of it. But Amish Mafia just got picked up for a second season, so we’ll all be horrified together for at least another 6 months or so.

The thing that makes me mad is that I even believed for one second that it was real. I did! I thought, “Gee whiz, the Amish community has heavies that break kneecaps for community funding?? That’s nuts!” And then I realized I had been suckered. I don’t like being suckered by an inanimate object, which brings us full-circle as to why I don’t have a television.

The thing that steams me the most? There are quilts all over that show and I can’t decide if this is good or bad. Should I be happy a Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt is shown five different times on a major cable television show? Or should I cringe because the guy sitting on it has a gold tooth and bad attitude?

10 Sep 2013

21 Reasons To Love Des Moines, Courtesy LIFE Magazine.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life | 1

I was going to write a list for you today.

I planned to title this post, “10 Reasons To Love Des Moines” and I was going to include things like, “The capitol building is pretty” and “The cost of living is low” and “Two words: BUTTER COW.” But when I searched for a vintage postcard-style picture of Des Moines online, I found a LIFE photojournalism piece featuring Des Moines teenagers in 1947. And my plan went out the window.

Because. Well.

That raaht thur's a kissin' party. — That ruht thur’s a kissin’ party.

And:

I know them. They live in Wicker Park. — I know them. (They actually live in Wicker Park. Shh!)

And of course:

"Joyriding" = "Cruising" = "Rollin'" There is nothing new under the sun. — “Joyriding” = “Cruising” = “Rollin'” …There is nothing new under the sun.

My list was cut because nothing I could say about Des Moines could be better than looking at these photographs. There are twenty-one of them, and they depict the late 1940s, and they depict teenagers, and they communicate heterosexuality and good grooming, sure; they capture all these things and more.

They sure show Iowa. Des Moines. It does kinda look like that, like cars and boys and high schools and kissing parties; it looks like staring off into space, it looks like hiding something, it looks like black and white, sometimes, too. It stopped looking like home to me awhile ago, but it will always look familiar.

Visit scenic Des Moines, courtesy of LIFE, right here.

8 Sep 2013

Agreeing To Disagree With Mr. Brooks Brothers.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life | 2

I would honestly purchase either one of these outfits.

So a girl walks into a Brooks Brothers store in Des Moines, IA.

I was looking for a black turtleneck. I’m here filming the PBS show and I needed a black turtleneck. I wanted it to be thin enough to wear under a jacket and nothing that would look like poo after two washes. Des Moines is many things; fashion mecca is not one of them. But there’s a serviceable Brooks Brothers store in a mall on the west side of town, so I paid it a visit yesterday.

Wouldn’t you know it, bam, right there on a table, the exact item I was after. A lucky day. To congratulate myself on something I had nothing to do with and to pay my respects to the Msrs. Brooks, I thought I’d try on the darling jumper I saw in the window. A kind, 50-something fellow with a sibilant “s” helped me to the dressing room.

I came out to examine things in the three-way mirror; I liked the dress very much, but I had an undergarment issue. The brassiere I had on yesterday was not proper for it, but I could see with the right one, the outfit was positively dishy. The clerk came into the fitting room area and gave me an encouraging nod.

“Oh, that’s nice!”

“Well, thanks,” I said, eyeing the shoulders. “I like it, too. I do need a different bra with it, but it’s great.”

“Woah!” he said, “TMI!”

In case you are reading this post from your home under a rock, “TMI” is short for “too much information.” It’s become a noun. Example: your officemate tells you his hemorrhoids are flaring. This is “a TMI.” Another example: your mother tells you, “Your dad was all over me last night, honey! What a naughty boy he is, sometimes!” This is a TMI.

But I ask you: Is a fitting room attendant or retail clerk in a clothing store receiving too much information when a customer remarks that with the right foundation garment, the item of clothing she’s considering will be fabulous? For your consideration, I offer what I believe would have been TMI’s in the fitting room of Brooks Brothers yesterday:

TMI No. 1: “My breasts are swollen, but when they aren’t, this jumper will be great.”
TMI No. 2: “I’m a pig. I’m a pig and I hate myself. I ate an entire cheesecake last night. God! My husband is such a [redacted]! I hate him. I hate him and I hate myself. This is cute, though.”
TMI No. 3: “Is this eczema or something else?”

Thoughts? Anyone? Did I go to far?

7 Sep 2013

Summer Ain’t Over Till The Cicadas Knock It Off.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life, Tips | 0

"I ate the rest of the Chunky Monkey." — “Yes. I ate the rest of the Chunky Monkey.”

I have a friend whose favorite food group is ice cream. It’s no use pointing out to him that ice cream is not considered a real food group. He has no need for guidelines he had nothing to do with. In the world of my friend, ice cream is a food group and that, he would say with a mouthful of rum raisin, is that.

Iowa is hot today. Earlier in the week, it was hotter still; the temperature reached to triple digits. Whenever the temperature hits that high anywhere, I feel intensely depressed. I picture stifling attics, air conditioners that blow engine block heat, and days that don’t end when the sun goes down. It’s not that hot now, but I walked around the town square today and the word “scorched earth” kept pounding in my temple. When your skin is mad at you, the weather sucks.

Ice cream helps.

Summer is over — another guideline none of us had anything to do with — but it ain’t autumn for awhile. Pull out some ice cream. It’s Friday night! Smooth some mint chip on your tongue. Lick a twist cone. Suck melting vanilla off a pralined pecan. Take out a pint of strawberry — pure, simple strawberry — and go sit outside somewhere. Focus on it.

If you’re eating with a metal spoon, when you’re done with your ice cream, lick your spoon clean and press the back of it right between your eyes. It’ll feel cool on your skin. A little sticky, sure, but no stickier than the day itself.

I’ll bet you did three things well this summer, big or small, at home, at work, or out in the world. Think about those things while the cicadas or the skyscraper air units whirr. Ice cream is a food group and summer isn’t over till you say so.

Hot, cold. Hot. Cold.

5 Sep 2013

I’m a Divvy Girl, Chicago.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life | 1

Chicago has me in her teeth.

It’s been this way for awhile. Now the city has a bike-sharing program and I’m more hopelessly in love than ever. Meet le Divvy.

I’ve tried to write a poem, a paean, to my town many times. I’ve started poem after poem — entitled, of course, “Chicago” — and I fail horribly every time. It’s simply too difficult to express my feelings on the greatness of this city. I mean, Nelson Algren and Simone de Beauvoir went on dates here. Together. And she was cheating on Sartre with him! They like, had a beer at the Green Mill. I’m paralyzed. Every line I attempt is a fart in the wind. I know my place. I’ll just keep reading books, maybe.

Let’s get back to that bike up there.

Chicago has implemented a bike-sharing system. There are banks of bikes all around the city. You pay a yearly membership ($75) to get a fancy square key and then you can ride the bikes. All the bikes. Whenever. You punch in a code to unlock a bike at Street A. You ride your bike (a gorgeous and hearty and smooth bike) to Street B, find a dock where you can lock it back up, and bam. Welcome to your life.

I didn’t jump on a Divvy right away. After all, I have a bike of my own, and what if I looked dorky or something? (I told you — my brain is full of farts.) But the moment I got on my first Divvy, I was hooked. More than that. I was mega-hooked. Let me tell you what freedom is, comrades: walking to a bike, unlocking a bike, riding a bike, getting off a bike, walking to your door and NEVER THINKING OF THAT BIKE AGAIN. It’s like I was taken to my destination by angels. It’s as though I had wee winged feet.

Anyway, thanks Chicago. I love you. I will ride your bikes. I will still love my favorite bus lines and you can’t be the Brown Line on a rainy day in the Loop. But those blue bikes are the best idea you’ve had since Millennium Park and we all know how that turned out.

31 Aug 2013

Saint Laurent Boots + Bakelite = Congruent

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life | 0

These boots arrived as I was leaving Thursday. As I walked out the front door of my building, the UPS gal walked in. She had a large box with my name on it. I knew what it was.

“Thankyouveddymuch,” I said, and signed for it.

I set the box in the back seat and hit the road. As I sped north to Door County, I periodically looked at the box over my shoulder, the way a mother checks up on a baby in a car seat. I adjusted the rearview mirror a few times over the course of my five-hour trip, looking back to beam at the box. I had been anticipating these boots for many moons.

My final destination would be our family’s cottage, but I wouldn’t be able to make it there that night, so I had a reservation at the Holiday Music Motel, my favorite place to spend the night outside of the Ritz Carlton in Paris (I’ve never been there.) The Holiday Music is clean, adorable, and affordable, and they have great coffee, cozy linens, and have somehow managed to do retro decor well. Not easy.

When I got to the motel, I checked in and like a badger with a sandwich, I tore into the box. Tissue paper went flying. Plastic was tossed. The black Saint Laurent box nearly glowed. I pulled the boots from the pretty cloth bag and sighed a deeply contented sigh. They’re better than I even hoped and they fit perfectly.

The word “incongruous” means “not in harmony or keeping with the surroundings or other aspects of something.” Those boots looked so out of place in the Holiday Music Motel that they entered into a kind of zen belonging. Delicious.

I was traveling alone, but that night, I had two bedfellows: the right shoe and the left one.

30 Aug 2013

Let’s Cry: “Surrey With The Fringe On Top” from “Oklahoma!”

by Mary Fons | posted in: Art | 4

They considered "Delaware!" but it just didn't... It didn't go. — Rogers & Hammerstein considered “Rhode Island!” initially. Little known fact that I just made up.

I saw Oklahoma! a few months ago. First time. The Lyric Opera in Chicago had put up a critically-acclaimed production of it, so one rainy night in May I slapped on a raincoat and braved the downpour in the name of art. I was quite wet when I arrived. Could I have possibly cared less about my wet feet when the lights went down and the story began?

The critics were right to be acclaiming all over themselves. The Lyric’s production was lush and bright; it clipped right along but allowed space for the moments that needed it. Aside from one actor that I remember not caring for particularly (one I cannot even recall now, so it must not’ve been that bad) the casting was pitch perfect — for a musical, obviously, this is especially important. But what delighted me the most was the musical itself — the melodies, the lyrics, the heart of the thing. Indeed, that is the highest compliment one can pay a production: that the presentation allowed the work to be seen at its most honest, in its purest state. The show got out of the way of the show, if that makes sense.

Have you heard “Surrey With The Fringe On Top” lately? Allow me, please, to share a few lyrics. A surrey, by the way, is a horse-drawn two-seater carriage, and the circumstances here are simple: Curly is trying to woo Laurey into going to a dance with him, so he’s boasting about his tricked-out ride. Now, you tell me if this don’t melt your heart:

“All the world’ll fly in a flurry
When I take you out in the surrey,
When I take you out in the surrey with the fringe on top!
When we hit that road, hell fer leather,
Cats and dogs’ll dance in the heather,
Birds and frogs’ll sing all together and the toads will hop!
The wind’ll whistle as we rattle along,
The cows’ll moo in the clover,
The river will ripple out a whispered song,
And whisper it over and over:”

You gotta be kiddin’ me. Cats and dogs dancing in the heather? Have you ever heard anything more darling in your entire life? Oh, right, you have. In the next line of the song when the birds and frogs start singing together and toads are hopping everywhere. And then the cows in the clover are mooing and lowing and everyone’s in love and good heavens! I was a goner, crying about the damned cats and dogs in the heather and then Rodgers & Hammerstein go and hit me with the last verse, all ritardando and legato and sotto voce :

“I can feel the day gettin’ older,
Feel a sleepy head near my shoulder,
Noddin’, droopin’ close to my shoulder, till it falls — kerplop!
The sun is swimmin’ on the rim of a hill;
The moon is takin’ a header,
And jist as I’m thinkin’ all the earth is still,
A lark’ll wake up in the medder.
Hush, you bird, my baby’s a-sleepin’!
Maybe got a dream worth a-keepin’
Whoa! you team, and jist keep a-creepin’ at a slow clip-clop.
Don’t you hurry…with the surrey…with the fringe on the top!

I’ll tell ya this much: if I ever find myself riding through a meadow, resting my head on my man’s shoulder and he starts telling birds to “hush” ’cause his baby might be having a nice dream, well, that man will get a big, fat, blue ribbon from me. He’ll get a big ol’ kiss, too. Why, he’ll get all kinds of nice things.

Thank you, Lyric Opera of Chicago. Thank you Messieurs Rodgers and Hammerstein. If you have a moment, I beseech you:

Oklahoma! “The Surrey With The Fringe On the Top” — Shirley Jones and Gordon MacRae

29 Aug 2013

So Many Microphones.

by Mary Fons | posted in: Uncategorized | 1

From my one-woman show, "Performing Tonight: Liza Minnelli's Daughter" in 2011. — From my one-woman show, “Performing Tonight: Liza Minnelli’s Daughter” in 2011.

I’ve stepped to a few mics in my day. I suspect I’ll step to a few more. I consider myself a writer and performer working in the quilt industry. Today, I write plenty, but most of it is within the sphere of the American quilt industry. And I perform in the same industry, as well; being in front of the camera is performing, even as you try hard to just be natural.

But in Mary B.Q. (“Before Quilts”) I wrote scripts for media companies, education companies, syndicated content. I wrote marketing plans and white board papers. Those were less fun than the tons of book content I wrote for a publishing company that makes books on things like dog facts, the United States, and The Top Ten Haunted Houses in America. It was a decent gig; I learned an astonishing number of random facts that slipped into the slurry of factoids sloshing around in my head, likely never to be retrieved again. What do bloodhounds and poodles have in common? Ask someone else because I have no idea.

The performance part of my life before quilting took over involved slam poetry in the beginning and evolved into performance art eventually, mostly with the Neo-Futurists here in Chicago. The Neo-Futurists are an ensemble of rare creative types who are slightly weird and head-slappingly talented; if you know Chicago, you know of the Neos. I was extremely fortunate to win a place in the ensemble and perform and tour with the Neos for nearly six years. (I’ll tell you more about the Neos someday.) I have been grateful to be invited to share work at many “live lit” events in Chicago and that still happens with fair frequency. So yeah, I’m a performer.

Clearly, I’m still writing — and the ol’ PG is outside of the quilt world, even with a post here and there regarding quilt-related work. I write all the time on my own, too. But I don’t get to step to an actual microphone as often as I’d like. There’s nothing like a mic stand, a mic, and a sound system. So simple. Elegant. Just a stick and a prayer, you know? Sound waves and things. I love standing behind a mic and sometimes, when I’m giving a lecture at an actual lectern, with a podium that separates me from the audience with that big block of wood, I miss the other part of me that doesn’t need (or want) to have any barriers up there.

Maybe I should just buy one and keep it in my house.

28 Aug 2013

“Lobster Girl… Won’t You Pinch Meeeee…”

by Mary Fons | posted in: Day In The Life | 0

One night, not so long ago and definitely in this galaxy, I had on red pants and a red shirt. That night, I made dinner, which necessitated me putting on oven mitts. They were also red. They still are!

I felt like a lobster. So I began to sing a little song, which I do when I’m happy. If I’m singing, you know I’m happy. My little song went like this:

“Lobster girl…
Won’t you pinch meeeee…”

That was it.

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Author Archives: Mary Fons