1 Nov 2016

Cubs Win, Strangers Hug.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Story, Travel | 9
The Lyric Opera House of Chicago right now; "Fly The W" means fly the "Win" flag! Photo: Wikipedia.
The Lyric Opera House of Chicago right now! “Fly The W” means “fly the ‘Cubs Win’ victory flag!” Photo: Wikipedia.

 

On Sunday evening, down in Houston for Quilt Market, I supped with several people from the International Quilt Study Center & Museum, which means that I got to be at a big, round table with some of my favorite people on the planet. I’m a member of the board and was invited to be there, but if I had had to pose as a waiter, I wouldn’t have missed that meal. However, because I also can’t miss office hours or class on Monday… I had to leave before dessert. It’s true: My flight out of Houston was 10 p.m. Sunday night. After risotto and Malbec. Gaaah.

(When people ask me how I get everything done, do you know what I say? I say, “It’s easy: I have no husband, children, pets, or plants. No one cares where I am.” That sounds awful, but it’s really okay.)

When I got to my gate at the airport, the World Series game was on, obviously. And because I was on a flight to Chicago, there were many people waiting to go home, just like me, which meant there were people whooping and hollering and drinking, watching the monitors. It’s hard to describe what it’s like to live in a town that could win — could actually win — the World Series for the first time in 108 years. Telling you what happened on the plane gets at it, maybe.

There was a bald man in his early sixties (it was hard to tell) sitting kitty-corner from my aisle seat. He was wiry, pretty short, and wore a Hawaiian shirt. His voice was so gravelly I think he must’ve been a pack-a-day guy. He had a cell phone that he was having a lot of trouble with as people finished boarding the plane and we waited for the crew to close the doors. Southwest has free on-board TV and the guy was trying to get on to see the score.

While we were at the gate, during the fourth inning, the score had been 2- 3, Cubs. Now, who knew?

“Miss! Miss, can you??” The guy waved at the stewardess several times while he stabbed away at his phone. The screen was so big I could see repeated error messages of various kinds. He wasn’t being rude about asking for help, but he was insistent and didn’t seem to have a single clue about how his phone (or the internet?) worked. I’ll admit it: Those of us around him, after 10 minutes of this, were getting a little exasperated.

“Are you online?” he asked his seat mates. They shook their heads. “How about you, did you get online? Did you get the score?” He was shifting in his seat, frustrated, then would be back at his phone. He started talking about the game to people and I picked up that they weren’t Chicagoans but Houstonians, possibly wary about going into Chicago for business this week.

The truth was, I was freaking out a little, myself. I don’t follow baseball. I’ve never been to a Cubs game, never even been inside Wrigley Field. Part of the reason for this is that Cubs fans can be very loud and there are a lot of them. Remember Lollapalooza? It’s the same problem. But when this World Series thing became real, it ceased to be a Cubs thing. It’s a Chicago thing, now. We all want this.

I pulled out my phone and took it off airplane mode for a second to see if I could get the score for him. I tapped him on the shoulder and showed him. “It’s still 2 – 3. Cubbies,” I said, and gave him a polite smile. “I have to turn this off now, though —”

Too late. He was already launching into this stat and that one, the odds of this, the odds of that. He had excuses ready for the Cubs if they lost that night (something about how no No. 1 team has won Game 5 after losing Game 2, etc.) and factoids about this or that player. I listened and nodded then politely said, “Well, I hope you can get online to see the score…” and smiled as I opened my laptop to communicate, “I am working, now.”

But I felt a pang of love for that guy.

He loves the Cubs. The Cubs are part of his life. They’re something he connects with his family. Or they represent or symbolize stuff. Maybe he used to play ball; maybe he never could. Maybe he actually lives in Wrigleyville. Maybe his parents took him to games, maybe his kids like the Cubs and he couldn’t care less about baseball but he loves his kids and loving the Cubs is a way he can feel close to them. Maybe it’s something else or all of the above. All sports fans have their reasons for loving their teams, but almost all sports fans count “Sometimes they win the big game” as one of their reasons for loyalty. Not Cubs fans. Their main resource is loyalty. You have to give them credit for that.

I secretly couldn’t keep my eyes off the guy’s stupid screen the whole time he was trying. He was at it a good 20 minutes more after we were airborne. In my mind (and under my breath) I was saying, “Come on, Cubbies. Come on, baby,” willing them to win, pleading with them. You can do this. When we get to Chicago, I thought to myself, we’ll learn the Cubs have won Game 5. (Honestly, I feel like if the Cubs win this whole thing, everything is gonna be okay. Like, everything. You know?)

Finally, the man got online. I could tell because the screen said, “You are now online. Enjoy live streaming TV courtesy of Southwest.” I looked away. I couldn’t take it. Please, Cubs.

He whirled around. Every muscle in his body was vibrating as he spoke to me and to everyone in the immediate vicinity. “They did it. The Cubs. They held ’em 3 to 2. They did it!”

I yelped. “They did?! They did!!!” I grabbed the man’s shoulder across the aisle. He leaned toward me with his arm out and we did this weird cross-aisle-male-female-stranger-hug and it was glorious, celebrating the Cubs win at 35,000 ft.

As I write, the boys are in the lead. The game is not over. The Series is not over. But I’m proud of my guys no matter what. Everything is gonna be okay! Fly the W!

 

31 Oct 2016

Returning From Quilt Market: Four Haiku.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 5
Embroidered pillow, detail. AE Gutterman booth at 2016 Fall Quilt Market, Houston TX. Photo: Me.
Embroidered pillow, detail. AE Gutterman booth at 2016 Fall Quilt Market, Houston TX. Photo: Me.

 

i.
Fabric in the sky
And through the winding aisles
Makes a girl dream big.

 
ii.
Well, now that’s not good:
I’ve used up all my data.
Sorry, Instagram.

 

iii.
List of things to do:
Hang with Denyse and Tula,
Shamelessly name drop.

 

iv.
Quilts are made of gold;
It’s up to us to guard them.
(Do not screw this up.)

25 Oct 2016

The Good News, The Big Shorts.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 17
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The shorts. Note boots to the left of the chair for scale. Photo: Me.

 

I had my knee appointment yesterday. The good news is that I don’t have to have my knees replaced this summer, which is what I had convinced myself I was going to have to do. They’ve been hurting so terribly and really, I think I was looking forward to major surgery in some sick way: It would mean I’d have to stop moving. Think of all the reading I could do!

So no surgery, but I do have some kind of patella syndrome. Can you believe that? Patella syndrome! Just when I thought I was gimpy enough, I gotta have some kind of patella syndrome. The nerve(s).

That my patellas have syndromized* is what my knee doctor told me, anyway. He was capable and I liked his Maltese accent, but I do think I’ll get a second opinion; there were a few concerns he didn’t address even after I mentioned them a couple times and feel like I owe my (cute, beguiling) patellas another looksee. I have a script for some physical therapy, but the meds he recommended I can’t take because of UC-related stuff. I shrug, I wince, I get the second opinion and wonder if I’m really weird enough to want someone to tell me that I have to have double-knee surgery so I can rest for Lord’s sake.

What I really wanted to tell you is that at the hospital yesterday I got to wear a pair of absolutely ginormous paper shorts.

My X-ray tech was named Angel.

“Hi,” I said, putting out my hand. “I’m Mary.”

“Miss Mary,” Angel said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please put on these shorts. I will wait outside; you let me know when you’re ready, okay? Just knock on the door.” I thanked him and he went into the hall.

Apparently, all they had were XL paper shorts. The shorts I was holding were pure comedy. I’m not saying that extra-large shorts are funny: I’m saying clothes that are way, way too big or way, way too small for a person are funny. It’s like a basic rule of comedy. And when the clothes are made of paper and have elastic… This is commedia dell’arte stuff.

I chatted with Angel while he did my X-rays. He was such a cool guy. He moved here from El Salvador twenty years ago and worked his way through radiology school while working as a janitor at Northwestern. He told me about his daughter  and how she’s already talking about being a doctor.

“You have to tell her how cool the clothes are,” I laughed. “Scrubs, paper shorts…”

We laughed. We talked about the election. I asked him if I could keep the shorts when we were done. He looked at me like no one had ever asked him that before.

“No one has ever asked me that before,” he said. “But…be my guest.”

Last night, because I am so cool, I posted a series of pictures on my Instagram account of me posing and duck-facing with my shorts. I used them as a cowl, a hood, a hat, a scarf. I’m glad my knees aren’t as bad as I thought they were. I just wish they didn’t ache like they do.

Interesting note: While I was goofing off with paper X-ray shorts on my head, they didn’t hurt at all.

*my term

23 Oct 2016

Tonight: The Lemon’s Lament.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Poetry | 8
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Limon, citrus, from Franz Eugen Köhler’s Medizinal-Pflanzen, 1896. Image: Wikipedia.

 

The Lemon’s Lament
by Mary Fons © 2015

A lemon’s a tragic figure,
And we’ve all got juice on our hands;
Without wish to understand it,
We make lemony demands.

We clamor for slices and wedges,
Ne’er valuing his or her whole —
Unless there’s food to squeeze it on,
A lemon rots within th’ bowl.

“Water with lemon,” we oft request;
“Lemon with my fish!”
While lemon must quell its agony
And roundly reject the wish

To feel fingers peel away
Its pockmarked, pithy skin,
Exposing tender fruit meat,
Poised to drip down someone’s chin.

Nay, this has never happened;
(A lemon hardly peels!)
Instead it’s razed into sour wafers
With no regard to how that feels.

Tabbouleh, pound cake, salad dressing
All need a touch of tart;
For the chef to achieve th’ flavor profiles,
It’s tang they must impart.

‘Course they won’t then toss the lemon in
To whatever dish they serve;
The lemon’s tossed into the bin,
(The callousness, the nerve!)

But Lemon knows they cannot do it —
It’s accepted this as fact;
It has no life beyond a garnish,
The squirt its closing act.

For when we choose a fruit to eat
The lemon has no place;
It offers only pain to man —
It’s written on his face.

Lemon plays the outfield, always
Never pitcher, never hitter,
Forever weeping acid tears;
And you wonder why it’s bitter.

*Hello! I thought I’d post a recently revised and updated version of The Lemon’s Lament tonight. Whenever life seems a bit on the bewildering side, writing fruit poetry makes everything better. This is an actual fact of honest truth in my life. Read this one aloud to someone you love who is nearby: husband, girlfriend, cat, plant! All of ’em at once!

22 Oct 2016

“There Shawl Be Others.”

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 15
This was not my scarf, but it is a vintage Hermes and you get the idea. Photo: eBay.
This was not my scarf, but it is a vintage Hermes and you get the idea. Photo: eBay.

 

I wanted to write this up last night because I thought it might help — but I couldn’t. I was too low, too morose to try when I got home. In the grand landscape of life, this disappointment is tiny, I know. But it still hurts.

Last night, somewhere in O’Hare International Airport, I lost my most favorite, special shawl. Don’t ask me how I lost it. One minute it was there, the next it wasn’t. I had a lot of bags. It was crowded in the airport. It dropped off. It was picked up. It’s gone.

My shawl was actually a scarf, big enough to wrap around my shoulders. This was not just any big scarf, either; it was a silk- and cashmere-blend Hermès scarf, similar to the one you see above. But mine was different. Different and more beautiful because it was mine, the one I picked out special and the one I wore so, so often for almost three years. I wore it at my sister’s wedding. I wore it on countless airplanes and on more than a few dinner dates. She was my buddy.

Like a kid with a piggy bank, I saved up to buy it, did math on my fingers figuring out where to cut back here so I could spend there — and “there” was the scarf.

Because I knew the Hermès scarf would be worth it. Appropriate everywhere, anywhere, this is the practical/fabulous fashion accessory that goes with everything. It dresses up jeans; it’s perfect at dinner. The intricacy of the pattern, the rich colors of the yarn, the attention to detail; the Hermès scarf is a timeless object of fashion and style. These are textiles made by people (in Paris) who love what they do — and I love what they do! I love the curlicues, the softness, the restrained riot of color and shape. But because you pay for that beauty — as well you should — no mere mortal can afford to like, pick up an Hermès scarf. They’re kray-kray expensive. So for a long time, I could only covet.

But at the end of 2014, I got good news after my pouchoscopy and was going through the tough time post-NYC/Yuri and being new in town in DC and I decided that while I couldn’t buy a new Hermes scarf, I could buy one used on eBay — and frankly, I needed a treat. There were many used scarves to choose from and so I pored over the offerings, checked the seller’s ratings. I clicked around and clicked around and bam: I found The One.

The One was navy blue and “Mary Fons Red” (!) and perfect gold and pale pink and gold and pink and blue and red. Roses. Ropes intertwining. Leaves. Blooms. Curlicues. Vines. That scarf was me if I were a scarf. We were perfect for each other. I gulped. I checked my bank account. I hit “Checkout.” And when it came, I knew I had done the right thing. When I wrapped it around my shoulders, I felt safe. I felt beautiful. I felt like an adult. That scarf made me feel like a woman I wanted to know.

Bye-bye, scarf.

Look, I bought her used. I was that scarf’s second life. Well, she has a third life, now (so far, no Lost & Found Department has called.) I only hope whomever has her tonight understands what a fine thing they have happened upon.

Wrap yourself up in her loveliness. Stand taller. Dry-clean.

 

20 Oct 2016

Brawesome!

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 14
Brassiere in a box, c. 1954. Image: Wikipedia.
Brassiere in a box, c. 1954. Image: Wikipedia.

 

This afternoon I did a handful of demos at the Iowa Quilt Museum. The museum is housed in a gorgeous, late 19th century building on the town square of my hometown of Winterset, IA. I’m so proud to be from Winterset, proud that the state quilt museum is about 1.5 blocks from my mom’s house.

The building that houses the IQM used to be a JCPenny department store. I remember going in there as a kid. I remember the sweatpants on racks, the baby clothes hung on the back wall, the menswear department, the housewares — all of it. It’s where you went to get clothes and sheets and a lot more if you were a Wintersetian back in the day. Our small-town JCPenny department store looked a lot different from how a big city or suburban department store looks today, it’s true; but our JCPenny was one shop with many sections, so it was a department store to us.

The renovated, retro-fitted mezzanine where I did my demos today was one of the more interesting places I’ve worked. This is because I realized that I got my first training bra on that very mezzanine.

Seriously. I was talking to people about the American quilt, stitching on a Singer Featherweight owned by my grandmother and I remembered that I got my first bra in the same exact spot where I was sewing. Saying “I got my first bra” is to say that when I was beside myself with grief for one, Mom purchased for me a cotton slingshot. That’s what training bras are, of course: cotton slingshots. Question: What were we training for, by the way? Did we have a choice?

Life is weird. I remember I got a pastel yellow bra and a pastel pink bra. The yellow, interestingly, was my favorite of the two. Each bra was literally two triangles and a piece of string. Like I cared how it was made. When I put on the bra (especially the buttercream yellow one) I felt so beautiful, so grown-up. I remember looking in the mirror and feeling like a force of nature. I felt like a woman, finally. I felt like a person.

Today — and tonight, doing a lecture on the ground floor of the old JCPenny’s — I thought, “You’ve come a long way, baby.”

18 Oct 2016

The People Next Door.

by | posted in: Chicago, D.C., Day In The Life | 12
Newspaper ad for the 1917 propaganda film, "Who's Your Neighbor." When you're done here, google it: pretty interesting stuff! Image: Wikipedia.
Newspaper ad for the 1917 propaganda film, “Who’s Your Neighbor.” When you’re done here, google it: pretty interesting stuff! Image: Wikipedia.

 

While I was away last year, singing in the pool at my rawther glamorous residence and getting pooped on by birds, a not-high-rise-but-higher-than-my-mid-rise condo building was going up kitty-corner from my building here in the South Loop. It was in the last stages of construction when I moved home; I would see the crane and the workers, the construction cones out in front of the main entrypoint.

Over the summer it was completed. You know how in Ghostbusters, when Zuul blasts away that chunk of the apartment building in Manhattan where Sigourney Weaver lives? There’s a chunk carved out of this building kind of like that, except that it’s on purpose and paid for by developers and they’ve put a garden in there! Or is it a park? It’s what cityfolk call “greenspace” and I have a great view of it from my windows! Way cool. Gardens come to me, baby.

There’s also a pool on the other side of this new building and I can see just a slice of it from my perch on the sixteenth floor. It looks like a great pool. I should try to make friends with someone over there so I can scope out what my windows look like while swimming.

What’s really fascinating is that for some months I looked over at a tall, dark, glass thing…and now there are people living there.  I can see their glowing TV screens. Someone has a bright red couch and in the daytime, I can see it. I mean, it’s right over there, right there across the sky.

Who are they? Are they excited? No matter who they are or where they came from, they all have one thing in common: They just moved in.

13 Oct 2016

Know Yourself: Not a Bad Idea.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 2
The School of Life "Know Yourself" deck. (It's actually a pretty dove gray color... Not sure why it looks white.) Image: Scan by me.
The School of Life “Know Yourself” deck. (It’s actually a pretty dove gray color. Not sure why it scanned white.) Image: Scan by me.

 

I am sitting in my favorite black chair. There is a deck of cards on the window ledge at my right.

(This is me in the chair. I bought the chair in Washington, D.C., where I was living this time last year, getting ready for the launch of my fabric line. In Washington I also bought a dresser and other things that I mostly still have. Can you believe it’s been a year since Claus flew to D.C. to help me move home? Can you believe Claus is far away in Germany? Link by link, you’ll see the whole picture — or remember it.)

I got the deck of cards this summer from the gift shop of The School of Life. I’ve mentioned The School of Life before; Mariano and I got to know each other using one of their conversation decks.* It was a different deck than the one I have pulled off the window sill just now, though; this deck is called “Know Yourself,” and it’s really meant to be used alone.

Each card has a question on it that prompts you to think about who you are, what you really, really believe about and want from the world and yourself.

Maybe you’ll take out a piece of paper and jot down some thoughts. Or maybe you could copy and paste the questions into an email and answer them that way — then you could email it to yourself to read later. Whatever you do, dig deep. Go for it. Dig deep in your heart and your mind and be honest. You don’t have to type or write anything, though writing things down is incredibly helpful to me. I can’t make sense of anything without writing it down. (I write about writing from time to time.)

Okay, here are five really good ones, hand-selected, just for you. I care for you so much. Words fail.

  • If someone likes me a lot, I start to feel…
  • List the (now guilt-inducing) occasions when you were especially mean to people.
  • List five things that are important to you in your life. How much of your time do you give to each of these?
  • What did you learn about relationships from your parents?
  • What are you currently lying to certain people around you about?

Don’t think, “Ugh, that would take my entire life, trying to ‘go there.’ No thanks, Mar.” You could set a timer for ten minutes and move through them quick. You don’t have to spend hours and hours getting to know yourself — unless you want to, of course.

*The School of Life didn’t pay me to write this post, nor did they give me any free stuff. Yet!

 

6 Oct 2016

Colleen, This One’s For You.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 24
Me and "Whistler's Mother" in Oshkosh. Selfie by me n' Colleen.
Me and Whistler’s Mother in Oshkosh. Selfie by me and Ms. Colleen.

 

Something amazing happened in Oshkosh the week before last but this is the first moment I’ve had to really write out the incredible story. PaperGirl is lengthy today but you’ll see: It’s so worth it.

Many of you are familiar with Carmen, my beautiful, capable, lovely assistant in Colorado who came onboard this summer to help with gigs while I’m at school (and forever after, I hope.) Without her making my dossier and communicating with my hosts about details (bios, supply lists, etc.) I simply could not be making this work. I’ve proposed marriage to her at least three times. She’s already married, so it’s not gonna work.

Carmen’s dossier for the Oshkosh gig was perfect. But I read it wrong.

I didn’t see that the location of the workshop that day was different from the location of the lecture that night. It was there in black and white, but I didn’t register that. So, bright and early at 8:25 a.m. — plenty of time to spare before 9 a.m. class because that’s how I roll — I show up at the venue for the lecture…and the comedy of errors began.

“Hi!” I said, brightly, to the desk person at the community center. “I’m teaching quilting today. Can you tell me where I need to go?”

The woman looked at her schedule. “Oh, sure,” she said. “Just follow this walkway through to the back.”

Great, I thought. Let’s go to work.

When I got to the classroom, I was surprised to find just one lady there. She was basting a quilt and only half the lights were on. I hope the numbers for the class are okay today, I thought. If a class has low enrollment it’s like, the worst. Every teacher has experienced it and it doesn’t mean people hate you; sometimes, for whatever reason, you have a small class. What can you do? I greeted the lady with a warm smile and, thinking she was my host because she was the first to arrive, I said:

“Hi! You must be Janice!”

The lady looked up at me and said, “No. I’m Colleen.”

“Oh,” I said, “Well, it’s nice to meet you! I’m Mary!” I stuck out my hand to shake hers. She shook my hand but did not make any gesture of, “Welcome! It’s so nice to meet you! I watch your show!” or “Welcome to Oshkosh!” She just kinda…looked at me. Though it feels weird to say it, that’s kinda what happens when I get to my gigs. I mean, I’m the guest teacher and everything and usually people are happy to see me, you know? That was not what was happening.

I looked around. “Colleen, I have to say: It’s funny there aren’t more people here, yet. Do you know if the class is full?”

“I have no idea,” Colleen said, still looking at me funny. “I didn’t know we had a different teacher today. Where are you from?”

Oh, no. Something was wrong. I felt my stomach drop. Anyone who works on the road knows it: that first, horrible wave of anxiety when you get to a gig and something doesn’t look right. I was in Wisconsin, right? Yes, I drove there the night before. Was it September 21st? I literally took out my phone to look. Yes, it was the 21st of September. Plus, I have Carmen, now. She is my angel. Carmen wouldn’t let me drive to Oshkosh on the wrong day.

“Well,” I said, trying to breathe, “I’m concerned… I haven’t talked to Janice this morning and I know I’m in the right place…”

“I’m not sure who Janice is,” Colleen said. I felt sick.

“Janice P.,” I said, “asked me to come and teach for you ladies. I’m teaching you the Thousand Pyramid.I’m Mary Fons and —”

“No you’re not.”

“What?”

Colleen looked like she had seen a ghost. “You are not.”

I thought she was kidding, of course. I chuckled a little. “W-well, yes. I… I’m Mary Fons.” I hated how that sounded, like, “Eeeeeewwww, yeeeessss, I’m Mary Faaaaaahhns,” like I eat cucumber sandwiches all day.

She stared at me. “No, you’re not.” Colleen squinted through her glasses.  “I mean, you look like her but…”

I had to laugh, though the clock was ticking and I was not feeling good at all. “Yes, I’m Mary. And, uh, I’m really worried, actually, that I’m in the wrong —”

Colleen gasped and clapped both her hands over her mouth. “Oh, my God! It’s YOU! It’s YOU! Oh! It really is you! Oh my…! It really is! Y-y-you’re here! What on Earth??? You’re…here?!”

What was happening? I mean, this lady was awesome and I felt flattered that she was so excited to see me, but the prickly heat had begun. The woman at the counter of the community center told me where to go to find the quilters, right?? Yes, she had! And I read the address on the dossier that morning and put it into Google maps. And this woman is a quilter with a quilt on a table. I was in a very bad dream. Tick-tock. Everyone waiting, somewhere, for me. Pendennis, help me!

Colleen looked at me like I had a halo or wings or something. “I watch you all the time. I love your show! Well, I don’t like it when you’re not on. The best episodes in over a decade of that show are the ones with you and your mother! How on Earth did they get you to come here???” Colleen trailed off, staring at me, shaking her head. “I just can’t believe they got you to come here! You must cost an arm and a leg!”

I went around to hug her, partly, I think, because I needed a hug at that moment, though I also was really liking this lady through my fear.

“Colleen, you are so sweet. Thank you. But Colleen, um, something is very wrong, though. I was invited by Janice. Do you know her? The guild? I am very confused. I don’t cost too much, I guess, I mean, I was asked to come, so…” I had my phone out, frantically flicking through emails and the dossier and text messages, looking for whatever piece of crucial information I had missed. With my other hand, I searched my totebag for the dossier, my contract, a treasure map — anything that could help me.

I texted Carmen. While I waited to hear back, Colleen solved the mystery.

“Wait!’ she said. “You’re here for the Lakeside Quilters.”

“Yes, yes!” I cried, and pulled out my papers. “Look! I have this address on my schedule!”

“Ohhhkay,” she said, scratching her chin. “That’s the problem. This is a quilting class offered by the Fox Valley Community College. We’re not a guild. We’re just a class. We meet on Wednesdays.”

That same moment, Carmen texted me back: “Mar, the workshop venue is 14 minutes from where you are — I think you’re in the lecture venue! Two different places!”

Dang it. My whole body felt hot. If I left that second, I could get to class by 8:58 a.m., which is not good but is a lot better from being in the wrong state or the wrong galaxy, which is where I thought I was.

“Colleen! Okay! I got it! Oh, thank you so much — I’m so sorry, you must think I’m such a dummy!”

Colleen was so helpful and sweet and tried to give me directions, but I was already plugging the correct venue into my phone. She was saying how no one would believe that she met Mary Fons this morning.

“No one’s gonna believe me!” she said. “I lie a lot.”

I laughed and pulled the handle up on my suitcase, about to literally run to my car. But I was kind of in love with this lady. She was wily. There was something special about her; I could feel it even though my stress. What was one more minute?

“Do you have a phone, Colleen? Wanna take a quick selfie? But we gotta do it super, super quick,” I said. She said she didn’t have one and wasn’t that just her luck. I grabbed my phone out of my back pocket again. “Okay, I’ll take it an email it to you, okay? Let’s do this!”

We took our selfie. I emailed it to her right away. This woman was still in total shock. It was kind of amazing. She was just shaking her head the whole time, still kinda not believing that Mary Fons (!) had walked into her Wednesday morning quilting class at the community college. After the email sent, I flew to the classroom venue and we had an awesome day.

But it was stressful. This stuff happens. And when you meet someone like Colleen and funny things like that happen, it makes it okay. She was so adorable and sweet and she made the Oshkosh mix-up story a good one, not a bad, stressful, day-in-the-life-on-the-road one.

Colleen, you are the best. What a funny situation we were in, my friend. I’m going to paste in the thank-you email you sent me last week because it is priceless — priceless — just like you. (“Whistler’s mother”?? A mickey in your Geritol?? I am speechless with admiration.)

I shall never forget you, CoCo. Stay in touch — I mean that.

Dear Ms. Mary,
    Thank you so much for the selfie. I just love it, your so cute and I have a bit of Whistler mother about me so its all good. 

I couldn’t wait till lunch to tell my story. I had to wait till lunch because everyone would be there and they couldn’t interrupt me because their mouth would be full. Well it went over like a lead balloon, no  one believed me and someone asked me if Iwas drunk. Being a tea total-er  I said no unless someone slipped a mickey into my Geritol. It really hurts to  be telling the Truth once in your life and no one believes you.

Then some one walk in and said Mary Fons was going to be at the gild meeting tonight. Every one certainly changed then and I just said Well I know she would be there and when they ask how I knew I told  the truth. She told me, her and I go way back (at least 29 min) but I left that part out.

I watch  you on PBS and I like you But in person I LOVE you, your so warm and friendly and your hugs are your crowning glory.

Im going to get so much millage out of my selfie I might have and 8 by 10 made and  have it bronzed .
Thanks Mary for just being you. You made my day. Correction you made my year.

Colleen

 

2 Oct 2016

Breaking The Bad Bitmoji News.

by | posted in: Art, Day In The Life, Family, Tips, Work | 6
I think I've got it? Bitmoji by me using Bitmoji app.
Close enough. Image: My bitmoji avatar made by using Bitmoji app on my phone.

 

Someone said to me recently, “You’re all over social media!” and I was surprised to hear that because it’s really not the case.

I’ve seen legit social media masters and that ain’t me. Believe me, I see the benefits of being all up in the social media game, posting this video and re-tweeting that, but the only way I can increase my social media reach is to do more social media and I just don’t have it in me.

Being a blogger isn’t the same as being a social media whiz. When I write a blog post, I always let folks know by posting to Facebook and to Google+. And yes, I do enjoy Instagram, but I go in spurts: I’ll be stuck in a coffee line and post a few shots before I get to the register. But I resigned from Twitter because I don’t want to send text messages to the world. I have taken in some light Snapchatting, but I must be too old for Periscope — and I never made a single Vine. I don’t even play games on my phone! By the way, I know Pokemon Go is a game, but is it a social media gamey thing? Like, do you follow people’s games? Probably. I doubt I shall never know.

But it’s time for another confession. I do have a goofy app thing that I love. I love Bitmojis.

Using bitmojis is definitely not using a social media platform, but if I socialize with it via text messages, does that count?

In case you don’t know — you probably do — Bitmoji is an app for your phone that allows you to create a cartoon of yourself and then gives you hundreds of “bitmoji” illustrations to choose from to express hundreds of different emotions in your text messages, from “I love you” to “It’s red wine night!” to “Busted!!” to… Many other strange things, e.g., you, as a unicorn, blasting off a rainbow that kind of looks like a fart. It’s so much fun! I’m amazed at how much my bitmoji looks like me and how much my sisters’ bitmojis look like them. Sophie’s got a good one, too.

But yesterday I had a rather awkward text conversation with a friend of mine who is in his early fifties and made his bitmoji.

My friend’s bitmoji did not look like him. Actually, that’s not true: My friend’s bitmoji looked like him about 30 years ago. There were no lines on his face. He put himself in a polka dot shirt for crying out loud — he’s a t-shirt n’ sweater vest kind of fellow — and the body shape he chose for his bitmoji was rather…optimistic. All of these things I tried to tell him super diplomatically when he asked what I thought, but I when he texted me that he was depressed after hearing the feedback but followed up immediately with an “LOL, jk!!!” I knew we had a problem.

When Sigmund Freud was 63, he wrote about being horrified on the train one day when he realized the elderly gentleman he was observing was his own reflection. When I waited tables at Tweet, I worked for dear Michelle, who told me once, “It’s amazing to me when I give a man a wink and then I remember, “Oh yeah: I’m old. How about that.” My friend’s off-the-mark bitmoji showed me that we stay on intimate terms with younger versions of ourselves. Every once in awhile I see a picture of myself and I think, “How about that.” It’s not that I’m one foot in the grave; it’s that I’m not twenty — even if I feel like it. (I often do.)

Bitmoji did not pay me to write this post, unfortunately, but I do encourage everyone to go make one and enjoy it; but make it true to how you look. It’s more fun that way.

p.s. Were you just thinking, “Hey, I wish I could read a funny, extremely short play”? I gotcher’ play right here!

26 Sep 2016

That’s Some Desk!

by | posted in: Day In The Life, School | 4
See below for key! Photo and fancy graphics: Me.
See below for key! Photo and fancy graphics: Me.

 

It might not look like much.

But that’s my living room table-slash-sewing table-slash-second desk, a.k.a. Mission Control. I’ve got a presentation tomorrow (did a mini one today, too) and so many things due and last week I was in four states. I have decided the best way to keep things straight is to a) focus on one thing at a time and b) take pictures of everything and label them with numbers.

(Just kidding about the second thing except it’ll be fun to do it right now so let’s do it.)

Here’s what’s on my desk:

  1. The “Heart Plus” cloth bucket my friend Theresa made for me when I went to Portland last year and saw her and the gang at the Portland Modern Quilt Guild and Fabric Depot. I use it every day, T. (My sewing machine is about two inches from the frame of this picture, by the way.)
  2. My class readings for The Literary Animal class (orange notebook) and my “citizen scientist” fieldwork journal. We read Virginia Woolf’s “Flush” for this week’s discussion. Do you know that novel? It’s great! Woolf wrote it from the point of view of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s cocker spaniel. What a woman!
  3. My Tivoli radio. I have to bang on it to get it to work and that’s half the fun.
  4. Pencil cup.
  5. A printout of Winslow Homer’s “Croquet Scene,” 1866. I can’t tell you more at the moment, but just you wait. I’m gonna blow your mind later this week when I tell you about this picture! It’s part of an assignment. I’m freaking out!
  6. I went to visit my friend Sophie’s School of the Art Institute (SAIC) studio today. While we were talking, she took an illustration of a girl reading books in a library off her wall and got out a spiral thingy and took out this thing that looked like a cross between a three-hole punch and a paper cutter and she made me a journal. While we were talking and eating generic M&Ms. She knows bookbinding and just like, made me a little spiral journal while I was complaining about needing just 2-3 more hours in the day. This is art school, I think.
  7. To-do list. (Second one today.)
  8. My latest poem: “The Field Mouse.” See No. 5 and stay tuned!!!
  9. My day planner (yep, paper) and a handout that are the exact same color of banana yellow. I didn’t even plan it.
  10. Log cabin blocks that I showed in class today. Yup: all-white. So many things to tell you, so much art to make, so little energy left in my fingers to type it…
  11. High-contrast blocks I also showed in class today. Guess what? Everyone loves patchwork. Everyone melts when they see fabric in pretty shapes sewn together. Isn’t that what we do, quilting friends? We take soft fabric and we make pretty shapes and we sew them together. When you share patchwork in a class full of art people who are getting writing degrees, you inspire like 90 stories or poems or journal entries, etc., etc. I saw it happen. I was there. It was so awesome.

There is a No. 12.

It is me, asleep under the table. Goodnight!

20 Sep 2016

Lost Wallet Found, Good Deeds Done By All.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Story | 14
The note! Photo: Me.
The note! Photo: Me.

I was walking with my pal Stephen a few weeks ago. We were both sweating because it was 87 degrees outside. We fantasized about the day when we could once again describe the air as “fresh” and “crisp” instead of “sorta like a wet gym sock.”

“Speaking of gym socks,” Stephen said, “I’ve got tickets to the first Bears home game on the 20th. You wanna go??”

Football is another reason Stephen likes when summer gives way to fall. He was never a sports fan growing up but fell in love with football a few years ago and now he’s really hooked.

Having never set a toe inside Soldier Field (I know — ridiculous!) and also being fond of spending time with Stephen, who is just a cool person, I said yes! I don’t have much time for diversions these days, but how could I say no to a Bears game? My first ever!

It was an incredible experience that I’d like to write about but not in this post. This post is about how I lost my wallet on the way home from the Bears game…and someone found it and returned it to me.

Here’s the thing about going to a big sporting event at Soldier Field: no purses or bags allowed. Well, that’s not entirely true: You are allowed to carry a purse/bag if it is a NFL-sanctioned, clear plastic bag that I’m sure costs $100. The only thing I’m less interested in doing than purchasing a $100 plastic bag is carrying the thing. With these cute shoes?? Are you crazy?? I decided I would leave everything at home and I put my license, debit card, and a $20 bill in this slim little black wallet and put it in my back pocket.

Exactly.

It was so weird to be out in the world with no purse. It almost ruined everything for me. A woman’s purse is her brain and I have lots of things in my purse. Eventually, I relaxed into the experience and watched big, beefy dudes kick a little ball around fake grass and I really enjoyed it. Until I got home last night and realized: no wallet.

Oh, I wept. I wept and gnashed my teeth. How could I have been so dumb? Did it fall out in the stadium? Or in the pedicab on the way back to drop off Stephen? Did it fall out on the street before I went into my building? I was really sunk because in less than 24 hours, I was set to rent a car to drive to Oshkosh to teach and lecture! I would have to go to the DOT and get a new license. Needless to say, I did not sleep well.

This morning, I opened my laptop with a heavy heart to check the hours of the DOT and of course clicked open my email to see if anyone had given me some sort of Lifetime Achievement Award overnight. And there, better than any Lifetime Achievement Award, was an email from Ryan B:

“Hello, Mary: I believe I have your wallet. I found it last night on the sidewalk outside of Shedd Aquarium. Please contact me at 123-456-7890. Thank you, Ryan.”

Ryan and his wife were riding bikes out at the Museum Campus where Soldier Field, the Shedd, the Field, the Planetarium, etc., are located. They spotted a little black square on the sidewalk — amidst a sea of people! — and they picked it up.

I made strange sounds of joy and gratitude. I wept. I called Ryan. I babbled thank you, thank you at him and praised his True Goodness and possibly weirded him out when I said, “Mister, you’d better tuck those angel wings into your jacket before you go to work!” and then he told me he’d give my wallet to his receptionist and I could come by anytime today and get it. His office is downtown; it was a 10 minute bike ride from my Literary Animal class at school. I had my wallet back — debit card, $20 bucks, and license intact — before 1:00 p.m.

When I spoke to Ryan, I asked him if he had any food allergies because I’d really like to give him a treat, a reward for returning my wallet. He protested:

“No, no. No reward needed. What goes around comes around, you know?”

He’s right — but no way was I not gonna do something nice for this guy. Rather than treats, I decided on a Starbucks card. If I had buckets o’ money, I would’ve gone in for $100 and really wowed him; instead, I put $20 on the card, the exact amount I thought I’d lost forever.

Thank you, Ryan. You did a Very Good Thing and I thank you. We all do!

18 Sep 2016

Wipe Out With Red Wine.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Story | 20
The Remorse of the Emperor Nero after the Murder of his Mother by John William Waterhouse, 1878. Image: Wikipedia.
Finding an image for this post in Wikipedia was a tough one. I think the red of the robe and the look of defeat work nicely, though! The Remorse of the Emperor Nero After the Murder of his Mother, by John William Waterhouse, 1878. Image: Wikipedia.

After a spectacular day at the Pine Needle Quilt Shop today — wow, wow, wow — I got to the airport with time to get something to eat.

Oh, Geri, Jim, and the amazing folks at the Pine Needle tried to feed me. The event was catered, even, with tasty boxes for the attendees that contained mini-quiches, scones with lemon curd, fruit, and a sugar cookie in the shape of my logo. But when you’re signing books, smiling for photos, chatting with quilters, and telling stories about stuff, even if you can get food into your mouth, you’re not gonna have time to chew it. It’s best to wait.

Once I found my gate, I decided to get some pizza at the make-a-pizza place. It’s great. You can put whatever you want on your pie, no extra charge, load it up, go for it, baby, we’re Portland! As my margherita pizza was baking in the wood-fired oven, the gentle hipster asked me if there would be anything else — wine or beer, perhaps?

Now there was an idea. At 3 p.m. it was a little early in the day, but I had more than delivered at two different jobs, I was no longer on the clock, I love red wine with pizza, and I’m a grown woman with an electric bill and student loans.

“I’d love a red wine,” I said to the kid. He actually said: “Right on!”

He hands me my wine — which, true to that groovy Portland vibe came in a plastic cup with the pizza place logo on it — and I pay. I turn to walk to the counter to get napkins and red pepper. I take two steps…and slip and fall.

The floor was slick. My sandals are slick on the bottom. Gravity is weird. Portland has invisible moss all over it. I could try and figure out why I slipped, but it matters not: I went down. Everything happened in .03 seconds but I remember much of it: the spluttering in shock, the way the wine in my glass shot up in a column of red, the gasp of the crowd — oh, there was a huge crowd of people around, naturally — as they saw me turf out.

Later, the girl nearest to me would say with admiration, “You really stuck the landing.”

She was right! I only went down as far as one knee and I kept my wine cup in hand the whole time. Nothing spilled out of my purse or totebag. But the wine had gone everywhere: the counter, the floor, all over my right arm. My first thought was not, “Have I broken a bone?” but “Great — I am going to spend the rest of the day smelling like the janitor’s closet at a Napa Valley winery.”

The gentle hipster was at my side right away. When it was established that I was okay and I had turned to the crowd — the crowd! — to announce this, my guy offered to pour me another cup of wine. This time, I did not deliberate. He gave it to me along with my pizza, which was now done, and I turned, gravely, to return to the task of getting my napkins.

The other kid working the place was cleaning up the wine spill on the counter. He turned to me and asked, “Do you want the rest of this?” gesturing to my nearly empty original cup. I laughed and said “Sure,” trying to be sort of insouciant about all this, casual, giving off a “Hey, I fall all the time, this is what I do for fun!” kind of easy-going attitude. I put my napkins in my purse and when the kid gave me my original cup, he had filled it back up.

“Oh!” I said. “You’re so sweet. But your buddy already refilled me.” I did not need two cups of wine.

The kid looked at me and back at the wine and over at the other cup of wine near my pizza box. He shrugged. “You can have this, too, it’s okay.”

Walking carefully, now with a small pizza box, a purse, a totebag, and two plastic cups of wine, I made my way to a table in the foot court area in Terminal C. I sat down. I enjoyed my pizza. And I had just a couple sips of wine, but I didn’t linger. Because all I could think of was some family that had seen me fall looking at me from across the expanse of tables, the mother shaking her head and saying:

“You see that woman? That pathetic, pathetic woman who fell? She’s drinking two cups of wine, kids. Two cups of wine all by herself in the middle of the day. I’ll bet that’s not the first time she’s embarrassed herself in public. I’ll bet she goes back for more when she’s done. Okay, Braden, let’s text Grandma and let her know our flight’s on time.”

p.s. Want to laugh at me in another airport? You’ll like this.

16 Sep 2016

The PaperGirl Interview: Susan Cramm and Her Wonderful Laugh

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Paean | 6
Ms. Cramm and her quilt. Make sure to read to the end of the post and you'll get more on the story of the quilt and Susan, too. Screenshot: Me.
Ms. Cramm and her quilt. Make sure to read to the end of the post and you’ll get more on the story of the quilt and Susan, too. Screenshot: Me.

My friend Susan asked me to go to The Moth with her on Tuesday night. It was an easy sell.

For one thing, I enjoy the popular storytelling event. (If you aren’t familiar with The Moth, you absolutely should be; make a note to google it when you go.) In addition to taking in some quality entertainment, by seeing The Moth I’d be doing research for the storytelling class I’m teaching in a couple weeks at the University of Chicago. But the best reason to say yes to hanging out with Susan is Susan and her wonderful laugh. So I said yes.

Susan is kind, smart, pretty. She’s brave and great at storytelling (she has won The Moth many times as a result.) She’s generous, she’s loyal — all that Good Person stuff. But it’s her laugh that wins. Suze’s laugh is one of the best things about her.

Do you know someone with an incredible laugh? A laugh that makes you laugh with pleasure? Susan’s got one of those. Her laugh is life-affirming. It is round, generous. Susan’s laughter bubbles up from her core then launches into space, fully-formed, in a sonic celebration of everything that is good in the world. Susan’s laugh calls to mind rose bushes and robins’ breasts: full, lusty things.

This is not normal. Most people just laugh. I decided, sitting next to Susan at The Moth the other night, clapping my hands with glee every time she found something to be funny, which is often, that I would have to further investigate. What follows is an email interview I did with the one and only Ms. Susan Cramm, who I am now dubbing, “The Queen of Mirth.”

PaperGirl: When did you become aware of the uniqueness of your laugh, Suze?

Susan Cramm: I think I’ve always been a full-out laugher.  I think it was finally commented upon in college.  I would go see friends and classmates in shows and they would say that they knew I was in the audience.  The first time I was called out by a performer was in 2003 while watching a Punch and Judy show at the Whiteside County fair.  The puppeteer had Mr. Punch say, “Hey lady in the back, will you come to all my shows?”

PG: What makes you laugh?

SC: Oh, most anything.  I’m easy.  Regular funny stuff, bad jokes, good jokes, puns, pet videos, everything. The absurdity of life.

PG: I have had the pleasure of sitting next to you at a number of performances. Sometimes I see you cover your mouth with both your hands to stifle your laugh. Have you been in situations where your laugh was not welcome?

SC: I do get looks every once in a while.  I’m loud and sometimes people don’t like that.

PG: You and I have a friend in common: Bilal Dardai. He is someone I would pay to be an audience member if I put on a show because he has the best laugh. Well, the two of you tie, anyhow. Would you be interested in hiring yourself out for audience stunt work? Have you ever been paid to laugh?

SC: I love Bilal!  I will gladly take a comp ticket.  I believe it would be considered a conflict of interest with my job if I were to be a paid audience member for a play. [EDITOR’S NOTE: Do you not love Suze for taking this question 100% seriously??]

PG: A mellifluous laugh like yours makes me wonder about your singing ability. Do you sing?

SC: I do not sing for other people to listen to me.  I sing at church with the congregation, along with the radio if it’s extra loud, and, like my mother, I sometimes sing what I’m doing — but I’m hopefully alone when that happens. I’ve been told I do hum a lot without realizing it. 

PG: Do people want to talk to you all the time about your laugh? Are you giving any other interviews?

SC: I do have people come up to me after shows — talent and audience members — to say thanks and that it “opened up the room” to laugh with me.  I’m not giving any other interviews about my laugh; PaperGirl has the exclusive on this story.

PG: Tell me anything else I need to know about your laugh and what it means to be you, Suze.

SC: I could not have as big a laugh as I do without also having had the experience of the body crumpling, snot inducing, wailing sob of an ugly cry.  Not everything is funny.  Also,  you are the only person allowed to call me Suze.

You can get a little taste of Suze’s (!) laugh because… She guested on a 2012 episode of Quilty! Dig that short hair on me and the really, really cool polyester quilt we celebrate together. Times like this, I really miss that lil’ show.

 

14 Sep 2016

Survey Results: The Rorschach Blot

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 10
An ink blot. OR IS IT?? Image: Wikipedia.
Here we go. Image: Wikipedia.

 

I’ve dragged my feet getting survey results out because I am overwhelmed.

On Monday, I had my first seminar class. It’s not like regular class where you have textbooks and assignments. In a couple weeks, for example, I’ll be giving a presentation on the grammar of quilt patterns, my personal quiltmaking practice, and — because this is how I roll —  a quick-but-comprehensive history of the American quilt. I can’t wait to share with my School of the Art Institute colleagues — except that I definitely, definitely can.

Because there’s a lot of other stuff going on. For example, this weekend I’m keynote-ing and doing several events at the big EE Schenck “TRENDS” conference in Portland. On Sunday, I’ll be zipping over to The Pine Needle Quilt Shop to lunch and teach, which is great, because the first event is not open to the public but the Pine Needle totally is. I’m not sure there are tickets left for the Pine Needle, but if there are and you can get there, come hang out with me! We can talk about all kinds of things and pet fabric together. I will answer any question. Any question. 

With seminars to write and quilt shops to love, I realized I had better start releasing my survey data in chunks or I’ll never get it out at all. So let’s talk about this inkblot.

All y’all’s answers to the “What do you see?” inkblot question inspired many reactions in me, including but not limited to: delight, mild concern, deep concern, melancholy, mirth, and introspection. Good job! Below are the categories of what you told me you saw in the inkblot and some of the answers I received.

Animals (Or Animal Parts)
Seahorses, a cow, dragons, a deer, a steer, a skull, a bull, dueling shrimp [three people said “dueling shrimp”], fighting deer/stags/reindeer/wildebeests, kissing pigs, a bat, two turkeys, “Seahorses dancing in coral,” “crayfish, moose, and flowers,” “Elephants riding giant hamsters,” “deer escaping fire in a forest,” a giraffe, deer standing on clouds, “two moose coming out of the water in the fall,” an elk running up a mountain, a puppy, a praying mantis, koalas, “I see a moose, bunnies, and peaches,” “a cow’s head wearing an Elizabethan collar, smelling tulips.”*

Anatomy
a uterus/innards, a pelvis or pelvic bones/body parts/abdominal x-ray, an animal skull/bones, ovaries, “kidneys, pelvis, dislocated femurs,” a vagina [they actually wrote “va-jay-jay”], the pelvic x-ray of an alien

Love
two people kissing, kissing people, two lovers, people in love

Quilts
Two people said they saw the colors for their next quilt!

Wiseacres
A couple people said, “I see nothing, feel nothing” and another wrote, “I see an inkblot.” Very cute.

Let’s go with “Other”
a witch
a lady dancing on apples with fire for her hair
“two potbellied gargoyles…medical Mary Jane…”
“maidens dancing on chickens wearing Chinese dragon headdresses”
a nude back in a wine glass
a captionless image
poppies in front of a lake with a sunset
a demon
four hearts, two lungs, and a fiery gate
a messy glass of wine
two trolls arguing
“I was surfin’ and a tuna tried to eat me!”

One other quick thing: Many people thought the “How old did Mariano turn out to be?” was a trick question or a pop quiz. I didn’t mean it to sound that way; I never told you how old he is, actually. I wanted to know what you might have speculated. Most of you got it wrong. You guessed too high.

*emphasis mine. 

12 Sep 2016

My Animal Instincts.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 13
The Lady Clare, by John William Waterhouse , 1900. [Based on the poem "The Lady Clare" by Alfred Lord Tennyson.] Image: Wikipedia.
The Lady Clare, by John William Waterhouse , 1900. [Based on the poem “The Lady Clare” by Alfred Lord Tennyson.] Image: Wikipedia.

Is that a white deer in the Waterhouse painting up there? Do white deer exist? When I first looked at it, I thought it was a lamb, but I’m okay with the animal being a deer because I made braised lamb shank over the weekend and served it to Mariano over polenta with pan sauce and I’d feel just terrible if I had to look at a lamb after just cooking one up in a pot with vegetables and serving them to a hungry mailroom guy, you know?

Why are you looking at me like that? You have the most amazing look on your face right now. What in the world…?? Did I say something? Did I do something? What’s so interesting about lamb shank? You’d better take a deep breath and just calm down. I’ll tell you more about the lamb shank later if you really want me to, good grief.

Now, then, let me share about one of the marvelous classes I’m taking! The class is called “The Literary Animal.” Fantastic. Here’s an excerpt from the class description:

“This course concentrates on animal as character — either as narrator or designated subject — in nonfiction, fiction, poetry and hybrid forms… We do animal observations, create generative exercises, and take a field trip. We investigate: How does one’s identification of and curiosity about animals inform a text? What are the issues surrounding sentimentality and animals on and off the page?” 

Wow! You should see the reading list.

If you are familiar with my fabric line you know I love fabric with animals on it — not animal print, mind you, which I do not like, but fabric with tiny animals printed on it. When I spy a little animal print in the patchwork of a quilt, the whole quilt feels warmer and more friendly to me, so I put lots of animals in Small Wonders fabric.

Ergo, there are plenty of animals in my quilts — but hardly any in my life. I live downtown. I have no pets. I have not managed to make friends with someone who owns a working ranch (or even a chicken farm.) In the city I see squirrels, pigeons, and the occasional rat, but this is my main connection to the animal kingdom and this is kind of sad. “The Literary Animal” is changing all of that.

My first assignment was to be a “citizen scientist” and observe an animal for 15 minutes, then write down my observations. Guess where I went? Guess what animal I observed? Well, I observed a turtle!! I rode my bike to the Shedd Aquarium and watched a turtle with a real bad attitude for 20 minutes and then I wrote down everything I saw and thought about in my special notebook. I could start a whole new blog about that turtle. I won’t. But I could. Also: Turtles make you think about things that have nothing to do with turtles.

“The Literary Animal” is a graduate-level class; there are only five of us in the room, plus professor Cross. Tomorrow morning, when we all share our experiences and the pieces we wrote, I get to go to the zoo. I mean that figuratively, but in two weeks, we’re actually going to meet at the zoo.

Now, about that lamb shank…

 

 

7 Sep 2016

The Pen at the Bank.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 16
The second note. Photo: Me.
The second note. Photo: Me.

 

I am waging a war with a pen. Actually, I am waging a war with a Citibank ATM vestibule.

The only reason I “like” banking at Citibank is that in the 15 years I have been a customer, Citibank has not been absorbed by a series of other banks like most everyone else’s bank seems to be.

It happens all the time around here: On Tuesday, you’re banking at Bankorama and then Bankorama gets bought out by Blinky Bank; by Wednesday, you’re a Blinky Banker. Then Blinky Bank gets bought out by Ba-Donk-a-Donk Bank and now when people ask you “So where do you keep your life’s savings and petty cash?” you have to say, “At Ba-Donk-a-Donk Bank.” You do not have to say that for long, thankfully, because it’s only a matter of time before Ba-Donk-a-Donk Bank gets…you get the idea.

Citibank has consistency going for them and I appreciate that, but I’ve had plenty of run-ins with statement errors and exorbitant fees. I’ve endured agonizingly slow service and I’ve overdrawn my account a few times. (It just feels better to blame them for that.)

But not until this spring did I question my loyalty. Why did I question my loyalty?

Because the pen in the ATM vestibule of the Michigan and Monroe branch has been dead since May. May! 

I told them in May. With a chipper attitude, I let the tellers know that the metal pen on the cord attached to the table in the ATM vestibule was not functioning and that they might want to replace it. Several weeks later, finding myself without a pen and needing to deposit a $1m check (just kidding, it was $40), I told them again. Next time I’m at the bank — after hours this time — and need a pen… Same pen! That pen has no ink! The pen is just a metal nib that scratches paper but does not mark! How hard is it to change out the pen?!

I started leaving notes. In the vestibule one evening, I took an envelope out of the trash and wrote — with a pen I found in my purse, thank goodness — “Fix this pen!!” and I stabbed the pen through the envelope so it might be seen.

No dice. That pen is still the same pen. So I left another note, which you can see above. I’ll leave one more because it’s really fun and funny to yell at a bank about a pen, but if nothing changes, I shall write a stern letter. I can only do a few things really well in life and baby, writing a stern letter is definitely one of them.

In fact, if you ever need a stern letter, call me. I’ll pen one for you.

 

4 Sep 2016

The First-Ever PaperGirl Survey! (Short, Fun.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 6
That's my hand-quilted "Larkin" quilt on my lap while I write this blog! Photo: Ebony Love.
That’s my hand-quilted “Larkin” quilt on my lap while I write this blog! Photo: Ebony Love.

I just made my first-ever survey.

Because of this, I have decided that if all else fails, I would like to make surveys for a living. What will I survey? Anything, as long as I have control over what I can ask in the survey. It was so fun to make this I am reconsidering all my life choices.

Do you have a moment to take this survey? There are only 10 questions and I promise it’s fun.

Just click here and be counted. After all, it’s an election year!

Thanks, guys. I really appreciate your feedback.

Love,
Mar

29 Aug 2016

The Red Robe of My Youth (What Now?)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 17
Illustration of medieval dressing. Source: Wikipedia.
Illustration of medieval dressing. Source: Wikipedia.

 

 

I’m a robe person. I have to be, because my fantasy of The Perfect Morning has a robe in it.

My Perfect Morning begins with my eyelids fluttering open at the early-bird-but-let’s-not-be-ridiculous hour of seven o’clock. I stretch long in my foofy, all-white bed and I pause mid-yawn because — is someone making bacon? It must be [INSERT BACON GENIUS HERE] come to visit me and make me bacon! I decide I’d better get up and comb my hair except it’s already fabulous. Did someone do my hair in the night?? I guess these things happen.

Now with all this extra time, I scratch my ribs and delight in remembering the witty, witty thing I said at the cocktail party the night before and how I was home and asleep by eleven because I always get eight hours — don’t you? Then I swing my long, long legs over the bed and sink my feet into the plush carpet — I bought the kind that vacuums itself — and I whisk! my robe off the hook nearby, except that I call it “my dressing gown” in the fantasy.

Really it’s just a robe — which brings me back to reality. I have a robe problem.

I presently have two. The white, terry monstrosity is fine, if a little scruffy; it went to New York to D.C. and back again, poor thing.) The other robe is the problem: a berry red, heavy twill L.L. Bean number that used to be my mom’s. I saw that woman drink pots of coffee in that robe every day for years and when I appropriated a couple years ago, aside from a little wear on the cuffs, it was in perfect condition. I found it in the guest bedroom at the house in Iowa. I asked my mother, who was wearing a pajamas and a robe at the time, if I could have it, and she said “That’s weird, sure.”

You know how moms are better at laundry? I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but the red robe has fallen apart in my care. It’s faded. I ripped the sleeve when I was reaching for my tea canister because I didn’t realize I was stepping on the hem. A button on the sash popped off. In general, this once mighty item of loungewear has become droopy and sad. After probably 10 or more years of cumulative use, it’s time to let it go.

But I can’t trash it, yet. It’s such a great red. What should I do with it? Maybe there’s a church nearby who needs a Wise Man costume this year — it is literally the color of a poinsettia. The fabric is far too thick to use in a quilt. I could make a pillow, but I have so many.

I’ll ask Pendennis, but if you think of anything, please let me know. And who was making that bacon, by the way?

 

 

25 Aug 2016

Three Weeks and a Day.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 2
Interior, Imes covered bridge in Madison County (my home county in Iowa.) Photo: Wikipedia.
Interior, Imes covered bridge in Madison County (my home county in Iowa.) Photo: Wikipedia.

It’s been fun, talking about a summer crush, talking about grad school starting next week. It’s even been okay to think about summer coming to an end. I bought a nice sweater when sweaters were on clearance; before too long, I’ll get to wear it.

But just three weeks ago — three weeks and one day ago, to be precise, and one ought to be precise about such things, cannot ever be imprecise about them — there occurred one of the worst tragedies of my family life thus far. The terrible thing is not far from my mind, not at any time, however sweet the boys and the sweaters are.

Yesterday afternoon, I was walking home after a lunch appointment, forcing myself to recall The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock. I know the whole poem by heart and have performed it many times, but not recently. I was mentally brushing up, headed south on State Street and furrowing my brow, trying to remember what comes after, “and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells” when I heard:

“Mary!”

My sister, Rebecca Fons, was walking north on the very same street. There has to be a word in some language (Urdu? Norwegian?) which expresses the joy of seeing a beloved family member randomly on the street in a big city. It’s a singular, nothing-compares kind of joy and surprise and comedy.

Finding ourselves not needing to be anyplace right away (thank you, late August), Rebecca and I went into the library and sat at a table. As Gramma Graham would have called it, we “visited” for over an hour. We talked a lot about Megann.

Part of what has been so difficult about our cousin’s untimely death is that I care for her siblings a great deal. When I think of those three people in this world without their fourth, I literally clutch my chest: I think of losing Rebecca or Hannah before we’re old and grey and ready to go and it is impossible to get air properly. Megann’s passing has thrown into relief the truth that surrounds us at all times, the truth we cannot bear to look at for long: we’re all born, and we all die at different times.

I stopped dead in my tracks Monday morning, alarmed at what I had done: Was it was “too soon” to be sweet on Receiving Room Guy? Too soon to feel good (or talk about feeling good) when so recently, life was so low, so pitch black? I realized when I was playing cards the other night that I was having lighthearted fun. Is that wrong? Grief is so strange. Both Rebecca and I were quite emotional in the library yesterday, talking through our emotions — and I assure you there were no thoughts of cards or foolishness then.

It will sound dour as all get out, but it’s true: We’re trapped. Our lives continue until they stop; experiences rise up to meet us over and over, or we rise up to meet them, however that works. I can no more control the death of a loved one than I can control a Cupid’s arrow in my flank. And if it seems disrespectful to talk about death and Cupid in the same sentence, you take that up with life.

I have nothing to do with it, I assure you.

 

23 Aug 2016

Quality Conversation: Update #5 on You-Know-Who.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 2
Vintage card deck (not the one we used.) Photo: Wikipedia.
Vintage card deck (not the one we used.) Photo: Wikipedia.

If you’re new to this fun summer story, go back to yesterday and get the links for the first chapters. You’ll enjoy this development far more. See you in a minute.

Also: This post is quite long, but I assure you it’s super worth it. I’ve broken it into two sections. If I break it up into any more posts, some of you guys are going to murder me.

Over the weeks, my visits to the receiving room weren’t any more frequent than usual, but I would linger and chat with Mariano for a little longer each time. He’s just a really neat person. He’s from Miami. He’s in college studying sound engineering. He speaks Spanish. He’s a bassist in a metal band — I know, I know. But before you roll your eyes, you should know that he’s a gifted musician with an impressive list of awards and accomplishments and has been playing in bands and orchestras his whole life. Oh, and he lives in the building. That’s how he saw the sign on the receiving room door! Incredible.

So he talks to me about music, I talk to him about writing and quilts. We talk about all kinds of things. Mariano said to me a while back, “Well, I’d love to see your quilts sometime.”

Now, did I take that to mean “Maybe I could drop by and see your quilts sometime”? No, I did not, because I am a Total Nerd. No, I took this to mean, “Why don’t you haul a bunch of quilts down here to the gross receiving room where the lighting is terrible and show them to me where they can get dirty from sitting on the counter, and then haul them back upstairs?”

I had two friends who literally smacked their foreheads when I told them this. I can hear you doing the same thing. I also did the same thing. Later.

And so, a couple weeks ago, I hauled a big stack of quilts downstairs and had a little show-and-tell. Mariano was impressed. A few days later, I came in for a FedEx and he said, “Hey, you showed me your art. I thought I’d show you what I do.” And he gave me a copy of his album. Neat-o.

He went to get my package and I took a deep breath. I thought it would be easier to ask him to get a drink sometime if I wasn’t actually looking at him.

“Hey, do you want to like, get a drink sometime?” I said, doing my best, “I just thought of this just now” voice. “I mean, I really like talking to you and this is like, the worst place to have a conversation.”

He reappeared with my box, smiling. “I’d love that.”

*     *     *

For my birthday, I decided to buy myself a gift from the School of Life shop. I won’t wax on about how wonderful this organization is because right now, nobody cares. After you’re done here, though, google it; you’ll be glad you did.

Weeks ago, I ordered several sets of their beautiful question cards, including the “Conversation Toolkit” deck. Conversation cards aren’t anything new, but the School of Life is so thoughtful, so smarty-pants, I knew the conversation cards would be amazing. I swear to you, I did not have anyone in mind when I ordered the cards. (Remember: I didn’t pick up the “show me your quilts” thing, so.)

I got a notice that my package, shipped from the UK, was finally going to be delivered. And I had a brilliant idea: Why not ask Mariano if he wanted to do these cards with me! It was perfect! I sent him a text (we had exchanged numbers) and said:

“There’s a package coming from the UK. Let me know when it comes in. I’m going to open it down there with you. I’ve got an idea.”

The package came. Mariano gave me a razor to cut the tape. We opened the box to find these gorgeous boxes of beautiful, thick cards with wonderful questions printed on them. We set a date for Sunday night. I wondered if we should go to a bar for the game, but I felt comfortable asking him to just come up to my unit, like “Melrose Place.”

We had a blast. An absolute blast. What fun it was to learn about someone in this way! Zero small talk, zero fartin’ around. We jumped right to answering questions like, “Do you think other people regard you as a good listener?”

The whole time, though, I’m thinking, “I have to tell him I blogged about him. I have to.” Because at a certain point, not telling Mariano about all this felt dishonest. And then, miraculously, my chance was literally in the cards. I pulled a question:

“What’s the most surprising conversation you’ve ever had?”

Mariano told me about his neighbor back in Miami who shared a birthday with him. He told me about several remarkable conversations he had with this interesting person, what he learned over the years. I paused.

“I bet I can top that,” I said. I swallowed hard. Then, “I need to tell you something. I blogged about you. Several times.”

His eyes got big, but he didn’t make a break for it. I grabbed my iPad and summarized for him the first post. Then I said, “There were a couple other posts. But the most important thing is the open letter. I wrote it to hopefully read to you eventually. So…can I read it to you?”

He nodded. He took a drink of his gin and tonic. And I read the letter.

When I finished, I looked up at him. We were sitting on my couch. He was looking at me, smiling.

“I think you’re really beautiful, too.”

Me. Nerd Girl. Beautiful. Oh, Lord have mercy. I blushed about nine ways from…something. I mumbled, “W-well, that’s just… Wow, I mean, thank you. Um…”

There was an awkward silence.  And then I said, just freakin’ going for broke:

“Do we kiss, now?”

“Yeah,” he said, and we were like two magnets, just zap!

Boy, did we smooch. I smooched Receiving Room Guy, you guys!! Can you believe this?? It was amazing! I mean, the whole thing is amazing: This is really a terrific story. Even if it wasn’t happening to me, I’m pretty sure I’d think it was an extraordinary tale.

Now, just hold your horses: We just smooched. For awhile, yeah. But that’s all, because, well, that’s all. (For the record, this would be the first time in the history of this blog I have ventured into smooch detail. No matter what happens next, don’t expect any more details of this nature! Blech!)

Anyhow, there’s what happened, my dear, sweet friends. You heard it here first.

How cool is that?

22 Aug 2016

Receiving Room Guy Update (Tomorrow.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 2
Weird letter from some weird country mailed in 1967. Image: Wikipedia.
Weird letter from some weird country mailed in 1967. Image: Wikipedia.

Remember when I wrote about the really lovely and sweet guy who starting working my building’s receiving room? I wrote about him several times, in fact.

You remember: I called him “Receiving Room Guy” and I wrote about how I gave him my pancakes. Then I wrote about how he was practicing bass guitar in the, you know, receiving room, then how he and I really were starting to be friends and how he was sewing. Then I wrote an open letter to him because I was feeling weird about continuing to have a friendship with someone who I had blogged about to thousands of people.

Well… There’s been a development.

An extremely interesting one. I mean, even if it wasn’t my life, I would find this development interesting. If you were me and you told me (?) this development, I would maybe have to go get a bucket of popcorn.

And tomorrow, I shall tell you what happened. Why not tonight? Because I have to tell this thing exactly right and writing is hard. The development is just 24 hours old and a girl needs to think for heaven’s sakes. You’ll have to tune in tomorrow to find out just how delicious a story it really is. For now, I’ll tell you three things:

  1. I read him the letter.
  2. While we were sitting on my couch Sunday night.
  3. I have Mariano’s permission to both tell you his name and the story of what happened.

See you tomorrow.

 

16 Aug 2016

Ze Scrap PaperGirl.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0
I have no idea. Image: Claus, sort of, and me, kind of, and a scanner.
I have no idea. Image: Claus, sort of, and me, kind of, and a scanner.

 

I’ve been getting nice mail from attractive and intelligent people who are new PaperGirl readers. May I be the first to welcome you! (There’s no one around here but me, but just the same.)

Today’s post is about how everything I print out of my amazing, obnoxious printer has German philosophy on the back of it. But for this to be entertaining in any way, new reader, I have to tell you about Claus.

If we were at a party and you introduced me and Claus to your eight-year-old niece, you’d say, “Suzie, this is Mary. And this is Claus. Her special friend.”

Claus is a German philosopher. He has many letters after his name and he has written numerous books in both Fancy English and Lofty German. He is tall and says funny things. We spent a wonderful year together going on road trips, learning from each other, aggravating each other, and growing as individuals. I miss him, because Claus moved back to Germany in May and that was hard, but — and let’s go with this explain-to-an-eight-year-old thing:

“Suzie, sometimes two people who care for each other very much can’t be together.”

“Why not?”

“Because the timing’s not right.”

“What’s timing?”

“Let’s see if there’s any Jell-O salad left.”

When Claus moved back to Berlin, he had a lot of papers that he didn’t need/couldn’t take with him: reams of photocopied passages and chapters from various German texts he used in his research. I’m a big believer in using paper twice if possible, so I happily absorbed all that paper into my Paper Cupboard. Now, unless it’s official business (e.g., contracts, stern letters) everything I’ve printed out for the past five months and will print out for the next year will have terrifying German academic writing on the back.

It’s a nice memento, actually.

“Suzie, did you know that Claus sent Mary a big box of birthday presents on her birthday all the way from Germany?”

“He did?”

“Yes, he did. Wasn’t that nice?”

“Yes, Auntie. Claus is a nice man.”

(Good girl.)

 

14 Aug 2016

When In Doubt: Make Pralines.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0
My pralines. Photo: Me.
My pralines. Photo: Me.

I like Mondays.

It’s true. Monday is my favorite day of the week. I was born on a Monday and even though one of the most popular songs in the world the day I took my first breath was “I Don’t Like Mondays” by The Boomtown Rats, I like them. I like Mondays.

Tomorrow is Monday; I plan to grab it and squeeze. My hope is that the good ol’ engine of the standard work week will get my head on straight; I haven’t had this tough a time focusing since I had my last big surgery. I’m behind on everything and though I’m acutely aware right now that none of it really matters, the late fee on my condo assessment did wonders for yanking me out of the pain of the abstract. I simply must get things done tomorrow.

Tonight, as I did laundry and tidied, I decided I’d cook something. Cooking or baking always helps a black mood. Well, unless you burn everything up. If you scorch the cookies or the cake falls, well, that’s bad. You’re going to feel worse, maybe a lot worse. But it’s worth rolling the dice, especially if you feel truly rotten. There’s nowhere to go but up!

I made pralines. Pure sugar and pecans, baby. They’re a bit runny, but it doesn’t matter; I think you get your I Love Pralines Club membership revoked if you turn down a praline because it looks uneven. I’m going to send most of them to my Aunt Leesa; we made them the last time I went to see her and we ate them all in about 24 hours.

PaperGirl “Pralines of Love”

Note: Google the whole “ball stage” candy-making deal before you jump in. And get a candy thermometer. And BE CAREFUL. Okay, and making candy is super, super fun. Yum!
  • 1 1/2 cups white sugar
  • 1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar
  • 1 cup half-and-half (or milk and creme fraiche mixed because you didn’t have any cream, drat)
  • 3 T. buttah
  • 2 cups pecan halves (I think I used a little more than this because yum, nuts)

(1) Butter the sides of a heavy 2-quart saucepan. Put the two kinds of sugar and whatever dairy you ended up with into the saucepan. Get a wooden spoon and be ready to stand and stir awhile. Cook the mixture at medium-high heat to boiling, stirring constantly. You want to dissolve the sugars, and this will take 6-8 minutes. BE CAREFUL BECAUSE LIQUID CANDY IS BASICALLY NAPALM. SERIOUSLY, BE CAREFUL BECAUSE I LOVE YOU.

(2) Clip your candy thermometer onto the side of the pan. (Make sure the thermometer isn’t hitting the bottom of the pan but sits a bit above it.) Reduce heat to medium-low; continue boiling at a moderate, steady rate, stirring occasionally, until thermometer registers about 235-degrees F, or “soft-ball stage.” This will take 16-18 minutes. *TIP: It’s better to go a little longer here than to short yourself; I think that’s why mine were runny tonight.

(3) Remove pan from heat. Gently slide the butter into the pan. Don’t stir it. Let it all cool to 150-degrees F. (This should take about 30 minutes and get your pecans ready while you wait and get your parchment paper or wax paper ready, too! It’s almost showtime.) Remove thermometer. Stir in pecans. Beat vigorously (!) 3 minutes or so with your wooden spoon until candy begins to get thick—but try to keep it glossy-looking.

(4) Drop candy by spoonfuls onto parchment or waxed paper. Work quick-like-a-bunny because this stuff becomes spackle as it dries.  (If your goo becomes too stiff to drop, stir in a few drops of hot water.) Let them cool awhile. Then eat nine of them. Then put the rest in a tightly-covered container.

Yields: I don’t know. They’re always different sizes and I eat some before I count.

 

11 Aug 2016

Transmission: Iowa

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 3
Girl playing in public fountain/installation in Washington, DC, 2015. Photo: Me.
Girl playing in public fountain/installation in Washington, DC, 2015. Photo: Me.

Why do I write?

Over the past year, a year thick with introspection, I have come up with an answer: I write because writing is how I order reality. It’s not quite that “If I don’t write it down, it didn’t happen”; it’s more that if I don’t write it down, I haven’t got a chance of understanding it.

Reminding myself why I write is a good thing to do when I’m moved to share what’s happening right now. Writing down what is happening in my hometown, with my family and my extended family at the time of this death isn’t happening because I am an exhibitionist. I’m not doing it because it’ll make good copy. I write in my journal, this blog, essays, my column, etc., because if I don’t do that, I’m a goner.

You could take drawing away. You could take quilting away. You could take reading away. But if you kept me from trying to order my life through writing, I wouldn’t make it. Honestly, I couldn’t.

So.

There are colloquialisms everywhere. When something bizarre happens that freaks people out, we might say, “It was like a bomb went off!” We might say, when we enter a room where everyone is bummed out, “Woah, woah: Who died??” We say use these expressions – with no ill intent – and then, when the stakes are as high as they ever, ever get, when a literal bomb detonates or when someone actually ceases to be here way, way before they should cease to be here, we know we can never use those phrases again, not because we’re suddenly possessing of manners – we have always had manners – but because we know too much. Bombs and deaths are real and we figure out different words to use, thankful for all the choices available to us.

Megann’s family’s house is a shell. There are people coming in and out; relatives, friends, neighbors. There’s so much food over there, our house, five blocks away, has become the second freezer, the second refrigerator, the second pantry: We’ve got buns, cheese trays, salads, cookies. All of this will be used at the memorial, which is Saturday afternoon at the city park. There’s so much happening at the family’s house, it resembles a beehive but it’s not a beehive. It’s a grief house. It knocks the wind out of you when you walk in. The air stands still.

I saw Megann’s sister, Sarah, who was my best friend for decades and the first person I met on Earth who was my same age (we were only months old at the time), and we spent good hours together. Her radiant daughter, just three-and-a-half, is the only thing that actually makes anyone around here remember what feeling good feels like. I walked Sarah back over and when she got in the door, her little girl jumped for joy and cried, “Mama!!!!” Sarah scooped her up and buried her head in her daughter’s hair, hugging and kissing her. We all beamed for a solid two seconds and this was a great relief. Children are a gift.

I drank Scotch whiskey earlier. Scotch isn’t my thing, usually. But when I was with Sarah’s brother this afternoon, it just seemed like the thing to do, to ask him if he wanted a stiff drink. He accepted, thank God, and we sat on the front porch tonight as the rain poured down on Jefferson Street and we talked about what it means to be from here, and what it means to be at all.

I thought ground zero was last week. It wasn’t. That wasn’t even negative nine.

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