29 May 2016

The United States of John Wayne

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Paean | 0
Outdoor screening of "The Searchers", Winterset, IA. Photo: Me
People showing up early for the screening of “The Searchers”, Winterset, IA. Photo: Me

Hollywood film legend John Wayne was born in Madison County, in my hometown of Winterset, IA in 1907. Wintersetians take this seriously. If we had to choose between being known for the covered bridges or being known as the spot on the globe where The Duke took his first breath, we’d suck on our collective teeth and shake our collective heads and have to take the latter. Then we’d ask you for your delicious cookie bar recipe and hold the nation’s first presidential caucus.

This weekend was John Wayne birthday celebration weekend and I was here for a particularly exciting part of it: an outdoor screening of John Ford’s classic The Searchers, starring John Wayne in one of the most important roles of his career. The screening took place on the town square, right on the lawn of the courthouse. This was the first time a movie had ever screened there, birthday weekend or no. Who do you suppose orchestrated the event? My sister and my mother.

My mother, as many of you know, purchased the movie theater in Winterset when it went up for sale some months ago. The restoration project is well underway; seven trips to the dump emptied it of garbage, rusted stuff, rotten boards, etc., and every day that passes more wonder is discovered in that old movie house. One of the treasures is the screen itself. It’s in great shape. And it was the Iowa Theater’s very own screen that was put up by our beloved contractor, Steve, for the movie last night.

Families came. A few teenagers came. Old folks came. There’s a film crew making a movie of the restoration project and they were there. My might-as-well-be-my-cousin cousin Will played his guitar and sang folk songs to the audience as we waited for it to get dark enough to start the movie. The air was sweet. With the music and the sun slowly sinking down the sky — the rain that was predicted never even threatened to fall — an eventide spell was cast. The Chamber of Commerce sold candy, soda, and popcorn from a popcorn cart. I can’t confirm or deny that I had a bottle of Stella Artois in my hoodie pocket, nor can I confirm or deny that anyone else had a go-cup of anything similar, but doesn’t that sound nice? We’ll never know.

My sister Rebecca is the head of the entire Iowa Theater restoration project; she’s writing the grants, touching every logistic from projector to neon marquee rebuild, doing strategic planning — everything. She was the engine behind the outdoor screening, too, and my brother-in-law ran the projector. Before the show began, Mom and Rebecca gave a speech about the future of the theater, how 95% of the work being done is being done by locals, how the goal is to make a space the town loves and uses and grows for a long, long time.

About thirty minutes into watching The Duke search for Debbie, I gave into the desire for popcorn. I went over to the Chamber kiosk.

“Hi! I think I’ll get some popcorn,” I said.

The person who scooped some up for me was a bubbly, attractive woman named Heather. She handed me a modest sack of popcorn and I was surprised at how happy I was it was not a tub as big as my head. Heather shook her head. “This is just amazing. Just amazing. You’re Rebecca’s sister, right?”

I said I was and we talked for a minute, geeking out with happiness at the scene before us: people outside, together, enjoying their town, their town’s history, tasty snacks, and a movie, all on a long Memorial Day weekend. We agreed this needs to happen every year, if not more often.

“It just makes me happy,” Heather said, looking out at the one hundred or so people in lawn chairs. “I guess it’s America, right? It’s good. It’s good that kids can come here and it’s safe. You know?”

That popcorn was a buck.

 

27 May 2016

The Dog On The Plane.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Story, Travel | 0
Standard Australian Shepherd. Photo: Wikipedia.
Standard (but clearly perfect) Australian Shepherd. Photo: Wikipedia.

There was a service dog on my flight from Sacramento to Chicago on Tuesday, a miniature Australian Shepherd with brown, white, and black fur. His owner was a man with disabilities I could detect but not define. There were certain limitations in his movements, mannerisms that implied a condition that inhibits his ability to move through the world in the breezy way so many others do and don’t think about, don’t have to think about.

The Shepherd had permission to sit on his owner’s lap and I was sitting across from his owner. This means the travel gods were smiling on me that day because how can you have a bad flight when there’s an I’m-gonna-squeeze-you-you-so-cute puppy across the aisle? On top of that, I had a coupon for a free adult beverage because at this point I’m putting Southwest Airlines employees’ kids through college and they give me drink coupons to say thanks. You’re welcome, guys. Merlot.

I know better than to try and pet a stranger’s dog without asking; I certainly know not to reach for a service dog without permission. But when we were delayed on the runway for another ten minutes and everyone was sitting around bored, I figured it would be okay to ask if I could pet the dog.

“Yes, you can pet him,” the man said, friendly, his speech staccato. “His name is Cody.”

I put my hand out for Cody to sniff it and then, having been accepted, I petted that sweet creature and felt every tense cell in my body melt. I don’t love all dogs — I’m afraid of most big dogs, in fact — but there are magical dogs in this world. Cody was one of them. Mild. Kind. A honey of a animal. Which made it all the more painful to watch him as we took off.

The captain announced we were next up for departure and as the engines began to rev, Cody began to pant. He whipped his head around, scared at the noises: the fans, the announcements, the wheels, the machinery in the belly of the beast. I never realized just how noisy it is when a plane begins to take off; it’s loud in there. Cody’s brow displayed intense fear. He never whined, but he shook and shook, trembling so hard his owner had to hold him tight to his chest to keep him safe.

My heart ached. I don’t know why it was so hard to see it, but when Cody plunged his head into the crook of his owner’s arm to hide, to make it go away, there were tears in my eyes. Life is terrifying. Oh, it’s grand and it’s great but it’s terrifying — and that grand, great stuff can be as terrifying as the rest of it. The man told me later in the flight that Cody was attacked by pit bulls a couple years ago and was still traumatized by the event. He said Cody didn’t use to be so nervous.

Landing was tough, too. But when we deplaned, a little girl of about six was at the gate where we came out and squealed with pure joy when she saw Cody. She ran up to the owner and asked if she could pet the dog. As I passed them to head toward baggage check, I saw the little girl love Cody completely and totally, smiling, welcoming him to terra firma with no idea how happy Cody was to see her.

 

23 May 2016

The AMC “Dine-In” Movie Theater: Goodbye, Cruel World.

by | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life, Tips | 1
The "scene" of the crime! Get it? Scene? Like a scene in a movie? Hahahhhahaha! I kill me! Photo: Me
The “scene” of the crime! Get it? Scene? Like a scene in a movie? Hahahhhahaha! I kill me! Photo: Me.

 

I’m going to tell a story about Claus but I’m not being nostalgic.

Last weekend, I wanted to check out the fancy new theater up on State Street. The theater is new within the year, I think, though sometimes I’m the last to know about these things. It looks new: everything is shiny and the carpet is fresh-smelling. But that’s not all that’s going on at the AMC on State Street, oh, no.

This AMC features “Cinema-Suites.” What’s a Cinema-Suite, you ask? A Cinema-Suites is a place where you go to die happy. The official description is different; AMC decided to not include “die” in their messaging for some reason. Officially, “Cinema-Suites [offer] a grown-up atmosphere featuring in-theater dining, a full bar, and extra-comfy recliners. Enjoy handcrafted burgers, bowls, desserts, and more while you enjoy the show.” Oh, but, AMC! You’re being modest!

Here’s how it works: You get your ticket. You go into your theater. You are shown to your specific seat by an usher. You sink into the comfiest recliner into which you ever sank your tush. A table tray swings in from your right hand side. There’s a cup holder. There’s no bib, but you feel like there could be and that would be fine. There’s a button on the left side of the chair and when you push it, the chair begins molesting you in a friendly way, raising your feet up on the foot rest as it’s reclining you back. It’s not a massage, exactly, but it’s not not a massage. Then, just when you’re laughing with a tall German that this is so much fun and way, way too easy to love, a waiter — a real waiter! — comes and gives you menus.

There are delicious foods on this menu. Your waiter comes and takes your order and he will bring you what you ordered while you watch the movie. Hot food. Like a burger. Or a hot fudge sundae! Or — wait for this, you can’t believe this — popcorn! You can’t get popcorn at a concession stand because they bring you your popcorn on a tray. Is anyone else freaking out about this? Because I am not being sarcastic: this is amazing. I didn’t even want popcorn. I’m not supposed to eat popcorn. But I ordered some anyway because it was Claus and my last date and because they were going to bring it on a tray. A big bucket of popcorn on a tray, brought to me while I’m essentially lying in a bed, watching a Hollywood movie that cost more to make than the GDP of most of the world’s developing countries.

I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m saying it’s a heckuva town.

 

19 May 2016

Meditations On Hand-Quilting (Love, The Quilt Scout.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, The Quilt Scout, Work | 0
Mom's hand-quilted Tulips quilt hanging on the back porch at the lake house. Photo: Marianne Fons
Mom’s hand-quilted Tulips quilt hanging on the back porch at the lake house. Photo: Marianne Fons.

From where I sit in Sacramento, I’m about two hours away from the Pacific Ocean; if the breeze blows just right tomorrow, I might get some salt in my nose. Who doesn’t like that? I’m fourteen-and-a-half hours from Berlin, by the way. But I’m glad I’m at my aunt’s house. I don’t want to be in Berlin and I don’t want to be home right now, either. It would be hard tonight, being among all those objects that have now changed shape.

Tonight, rather than moping around or rubbing it in my auntie got us facials at the spa tomorrow (it has literally been a year since I had a facial) I shall direct you to the latest Quilt Scout column wherein I share my maiden voyage into hand quilting. This column has been up for about a week, actually; Quilts, Inc. has gotten a bunch of mail about it. I didn’t realize just how many hardcore hand quilters there are out there. I have been invited to join several groups already and I might do; if I bring the quilt and huge quantities of cookie bars to each group, I might get some sewing bee-style help and get that dang thing done by 2021.

The post is about memory, though, too: our first memories in life. What’s yours? What does our first memory say about how we see the world? My first memory, as I say in the article, is one of sitting on my mother’s lap while she hand quilted a wholecloth quilt. The resonance of her voice in her chest. The rocking of the rocking chair. That’s what the post is really about, I guess.

Tonight, feathers in the rocking chair to you all. Goodnight, friends.

12 May 2016

The Shoe Spook.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 1
An aerial view of my coffee table...and my spooky shoes. Photo: Me, on a ladder.
An aerial view of my coffee table…and my spooky shoes. Photo: Me, on a ladder.

There’s something in this world that deeply wigs me out. It is strange that it does that because the thing that freaks me out so much should definitely be no big deal. But that’s what an irrational fear is all about: irrationality.

Here goes: I am disturbed when a pair of shoes are placed together on the floor with the right foot shoe on the lefthand side and the left foot shoe on the righthand side. See above, then see me turn my head away and shiver.

Wherefore, weirdo? Let me try — for the first time in my life — to explic the inexplicable.

It’s unusual to see feet going the wrong way, for one thing. But what’s unusual is often funny and I am amused by all manner of unusual things on a regular basis. This is not one of those things. Is it upsetting to me to see shoes in this way it because it looks painful? If there were feet in the shoes, it would be awfully painful. Now, feet will go that way when a person crosses her legs or performs some ballet moves, but just feet, on their own, backward like that? No. And that’s the other thing: when I see shoes placed in this manner, I automatically think about disembodied feet.

My sister Hannah hated the Dr. Suess book The Walking Pants. She would howl in fear when I would say “walking pants,” which of course I would do from time to time just to make sure she was listening to me. It’s a strange, almost grim tale of these empty pants that walk around the town. They’re green and a lot of the story takes place at night, if I’m remembering correctly. Perhaps my uncomfortability with this shoe thing has its roots in those dumb pants; the story frightened me, too.

This irrational fear is not a superstition, because a superstition means that you see something, in this case, that causes you to think there will be a consequence, usually a negative one. I don’t see shoes the wrong way and think, “Well, that’s that! I’ll be dead in a year!” or “Great, just great. I saw spooky shoes today and now I have to tie a goat to a tree and name my firstborn Jebediah. Just when I was on top of my email.” It’s not a superstition, it’s just an old-fashioned case of the willies.

When I used the words “disembodied feet,” it occurred to me I could have created a new, irrational fear in any number of people reading this blog. I hope that didn’t happen, because I’m telling you: this backward shoe configuration happens a lot. You can’t escape. The good news is that the more people afraid of something (e.g., mountain lions, witches, Tyra, etc.) the less irrational it is to be afraid of that thing.

Am I wrong? Is it not strangely disturbing or am I just strangely disturbed and no you do not have to answer that. (Also, the shoe thing is a fear; this is my actual phobia.)

8 May 2016

Good Moms.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Paean | 1
Marianne and Mary, c. 1981. Photo: My dad.
Me n’ Marianne, Christmas, c. 1981. Photo: My dad.

When I sat down to write this Mother’s Day post, I started it: “I’ve got a good mom.” But what you’re reading now is a second draft.

Around the third paragraph, somewhere between detailing my Mom’s incredible bring-home-the-bacon-fry-it-in-the-pan-single-mom sacrifices and all 627 of her current projects, I decided that though I believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that I have a “good mom,” saying that I have a “good mom” implies that there are not-so-good ones, as well as downright dastardly moms and worse than that.

Before I head into the terrifying wilderness of moral relativism, I want to say that there are bad people who are bad, full stop. If you hurt someone who can’t defend himself or herself, and if you do that on purpose, more than once, that’s bad, and we can stand in judgement of the perpetrator and say, “You cannot do this. This — and you, by extension, sir/madam — are bad.”  Since there’s nothing keeping anyone from having children, if a kid’s got a for-real bad female for a parent, it follows that a person can definitely have “a bad mom.”

But apart from these depressing exceptions, I’d like to suggest there are no “bad moms” in the delivery room. Rare is the woman who holds her 30-second-year-old on her breast and feels anything but wonder, pride, good intentions, love. Things kick off that way and then they go on from there. Sometimes they go pretty good. Sometimes, not so much. Sometimes, not so much at all.

Now, I’ve never made a mistake in my life, of course. All the decisions I’ve ever made have been perfectly-timed and dead-on. I’m constantly delighted by my 100% rightness in every situation; I regret nothing. The plans I lay, they are carried out precisely as I intended from a place of clarity and wisdom. Nothing bothers me. I don’t lose my temper. I love everyone for who they are because I realize holding people to my high expectations is absurd. I laugh at life’s troubles and I have unwavering grace and tact in all my personal and professional relationships.

But I’ve heard there are people who make mistakes — and I have heard that people who are mothers were people first. Contrary to fabric softener commercials and stories about “the good old days,” a woman does necessarily not become a flawless caregiver the instant she gives birth. It’s more likely that she is essentially the same person she was before she had a baby, except now the whole world has changed, which would shake anyone up.

My point is: Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms: good, less-good, and otherwise. It’s a heckuva job, from what I can tell. I’m not a mom, but I could be someday* and I know I will need plenty of grace; this is a Mother’s Day card to the moms out there who need some today.

*Big Mother’s Day ups to Gramma Graham, my mother’s mother; she had my mom and Mom’s twin brother David at age forty, and that was back in the early ’50s. Dorothy was a cougar! That’s hot, Gramma. I’m thirty-six.

 

 

3 May 2016

Glitter: A Short & Shiny Play For Two That Is Mostly True.

by | posted in: Art, Day In The Life | 0
Glitter. Photo: Wikipedia
Glitter. Photo: Wikipedia

GLITTER: A SHORT & SHINY PLAY FOR TWO THAT IS MOSTLY TRUE.
by Mary Fons (c) 2016

MARY 1 and MARY 2 are drinking coffees at a cafe. MARY 2 pulls her phone out of her purse and a burst of extremely shiny glitter poofs out from her bag. 

MARY 1: What is that.

MARY 2: What.

MARY 1: That glitter.

MARY 2:  Oh, yeah. That’s this glitter.

MARY 1: Why is it coming out of your purse?

MARY 2: I was making valentines and my friend asked me if I wanted to take home the glitter we didn’t use.

MARY 1: And you said yes?

MARY 2: (Guiltily.) Yes.

MARY 1: Why?

MARY 2: …It was pretty.

MARY 1: That’s where it starts. One moment you’re a grown woman making homemade valentines with craft paints, and the next thing you know you’ve got glitter stuck to the bottom of your foot, glitter dangerously close to your eye, glitter in your cell phone. Glitter is not your friend. I don’t care how sparkly it may be. Bits of glitter? Every tiny piece? Each tiny piece of glitter is a spore on the wind, attaching itself to anything it can in order to extend its lifespan. Never say yes to extra glitter. Never say yes to glitter at all!

MARY 2: It’s really wonderful glitter, though. Did you see how fine it is?

(She shows MARY 1. They touch the counter and then look closely at their fingertips, admiring the glitter.)

MARY 1: Woah. It’s like shimmering baby powder. It’s like…sparkly silt.

MARY 2: This kind is called “glitter dust.” It’s finer than the regular kind.

MARY 1: Why does it make me feel so good? Am I wishing for a simpler time? Am I so easily distracted? As a female who loves shiny pink glitter, am I reinforcing negative gender stereotypes? Is it weird that I love how glitter comes in a test tube-like container? What is that about?

MARY 2: That’s just glitter, man. That’s glitter.

MARY 1: No! Resist. (She steps back from the table.) Get it away from me. Glitter is worse than Christmas tree pine needles. Such things are vacuum resistant, carpet sweeper resistant. It’s already everywhere!

(As MARY 1 says this, a person carrying a large, open canister full of honey passes by and MARY 1’s wild hand movements cause her to whap the person, who promptly spills all the honey over MARY 1.)

MARY 2: (After awhile.) It’s really pretty, caught there in the honey. It’s like in Jurassic Par—

MARY 1: Please get me a damp towel.

MARY 2: I’ll be right back.

THE END.

 

1 May 2016

National “Eat Sponge Candy Until I Have a Stomachache” Day.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Food | 2
I strongly object to this idea at Fowler's Chocolate today. Photo: Me
I strongly object to the idea of “TV Delights.” But I cannot throw stones. Or truffles. Or anything right now. Photo: Me

The picture above is not a picture of Buffalo’s famous sponge candy. There is no picture of sponge candy available to me at this time because a) we know I use only public domain images or images I have taken myself for PaperGirl, and b) I have now eaten all of the sponge candy that came through this hotel room over the course of two days, a quantity that would surprise you. No, really. It would surprise you.

But what is sponge candy? The devil knows.

That’s no colloquialism; not this time. I don’t say “the devil knows” with a shrug and look at the ceiling, as if to communicate “Sponge candy. Who can say?” No, I mean that the devil knows what it is. Because the devil has a test kitchen and he spends good money on R&D.

Eons ago, fathoms below Buffalo, NY, the devil put honey, baking soda, and sin into a big, fat (really, really fat) cauldron and he stirred it with The Spoon of Regret. He stirred and stirred and then, when his special “honeycomb toffee” was ready, he poured it out into sheets or something, cut it, then dipped the cubes into the most wonderful, creamy, silky milk chocolate you have ever tasted in your entire life. The devil then tried a piece of it and he laughed and laughed and laughed because he knew what he had done. He christened** the stuff “sponge candy” and now I’m on my bed with a stomachache and I can feel my hips expanding. “Oh, that’s impossible,” you say, “that’s just in your head.” I think you’re wrong. My hips are pooling and the more I look at that white paper bag in the trash can over there, the wider the pool gets and I feel it.

At the quilt shop yesterday, the devil used the kindest, most generous quilter named “Margaret” (sure) to bring me a bag of this famous candy simply out of the kindness of her heart. This was very smart of the devil because I didn’t suspect anything. Margaret, you were a pawn. I tried one in the kitchen and it was all downhill from there: I ate four before for my second lecture and six more when I got back to the hotel. I ate the rest of the bag about an hour ago. But wait. That’s not all.

Do you think I could resist going to legendary sponge candy-maker Fowler’s Chocolates two doors down from the quilt shop during the lunch hour today to buy large quantities of this delicious confection also known by adorable name “hokey pokey?” No, of course not. The devil is in the business of putting small-batch chocolate shops two doors down from quilt shops in adorable American towns. This quilt shop-chocolatier combo is deadly for many, many of my friends. A quilt shop adjacent to a chocolate shop is my tribe’s fly paper. The devil’s flypaper. Lock up your daughters and sons if they like to make quilts and have a fondness for pure gustatorial bliss: the end is near.

**this was difficult for the devil but he pushed through

29 Apr 2016

Welcome To Draft Town: You’re Late.

by | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life | 1
I understand this man's name is Ki'won T. Bates Jr. He seems to be very good at football. Photo: Wikipedia
I understand this man’s name is Ki’won T. Bates Jr. He seems to be very good at football. Photo: Wikipedia

In the grand tradition of being embarrassingly out of the cultural loop, I bring you this.

A three-day event kicked off this afternoon in Grant Park, a.k.a., “my backyard.” The event is called “Draft Town” and I’ve been seeing signs up for this thing for at least a month. The blue banners all say, “Welcome to Draft Town!” and feature a small NFL logo near the bottom; the bus stop ads feature smiling families and smiling football players and the NFL logo near the bottom, but no other information. So I walked around for weeks with no idea what all this meant. Other thoughts and tasks claimed my attention so I never got around to figuring it out.

Then my neighborhood erupted. A monstrous — we’re talking five, six story-high — concert stage went up overnight. Claus and I were biking on the bike path when we saw it; I almost skidded out. Many people had pulled over to the side of the path to gape; it was like an alien ship had landed in the park and we were waiting for little green men to come out. For two weeks, circus tents have been popping up like mushrooms; construction guys have been snapping chalk lines; fence companies have been fencing everything off. 

Turns out Draft Town is a free festival centered around Chicago’s hosting of the 81st NFL draft. The draft is where the teams pick players. (I looked up how it works but my eyes glazed over and I couldn’t see to type, so if you want to know more about the system, that’s all you.) All the stages, the tents, the structures, the fences, the every blinkin’ street for ten miles around blocked off and detoured, the hordes of people on the street — this is Draft Town. It is not a town in which I would like to live, but I haven’t gone to the video game bonanza tent, the make-a-jersey attraction, or the corn doggerie, so you never know.

Here’s the funny thing, though: this is not new. This happened last year, too. Draft Town didn’t tell me what it was on the banners and bus stops because everyone on the planet already knows what Draft Town is. It would be like Nike ads saying, “Just Do It. These Are Shoes.” Or a rock concert advertising that rock music will be played for your listening enjoyment, live, by musicians who know songs by heart. Draft Town, man. It just is.

I’m on a plane right now, speeding at high speeds far, far away from Draft Town. I’m sure the masses of people flooding into the park are having a blast; some people like that sort of thing and I’m all for it, really. Me, I get claustrophobic in big crowds and I do not understand football, much less follow it, much less paint my face and torso for it. I like where I am just fine, 35,000 in the air with no way to survive a firey, firey plane crash.

Bye!

28 Apr 2016

Buffa-WOAH.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Tips, Work | 0
"A Sunday Afternoon Meeting of the Rubber Workers Union," 1942 Wikipedia
“Sunday Afternoon Meeting of the Rubber Workers Union.” Photo by Marjory Collins, 1943. Image courtesy Wikipedia via the Library of Congress.

I am flying to Buffalo, NY tomorrow afternoon so that I can scoot over to Williamsville, NY Saturday and Sunday morning to hang out with the savvy and able-bodied gals at Aurora Sewing for the weekend. They had to add an extra day for my lectures and trunk shows because clearly, when it comes to itinerant quilt teachers, the quilters of the greater Buffalo area have excellent taste.

I’m clicking around to learn a little about Buffalo because I have an occasion to do so, and that’s good; Buffalo is a city you hear about in the news from time to time but probably don’t know much about if you’re not from around there or close to around there. I suspect most of us read several paragraphs about Buffalo in an American History textbook at some point. Industry, is it? Wealthy escape for New York Cityfolk? Surely there aren’t buffalo there. Surely.

Here are the things I am learning about Buffalo as I click back and forth from here to my other browser pages. This is a play-by-play account of Buffalo you’re looking at. Let’s do this:

1. Named after Buffalo Creek.

2. Terminus point for the Underground Railroad! Woah!

3. Right there on Lake Erie, not too far from Niagara Falls/Canada; this explains #2.

4. President McKinley was shot there! Woah! He died eight days later! And it was Teddy Roosevelt who was sworn in when he died! Zounds! That’s kind of a big deal, Buffalo.

5. I was right about industry: cars, shipping, freight, grain elevators, stuff like that. Hard times came in the Depression, etc.; a rust belt city.

6. Now it’s coming together for me: I’m picturing some sad newscaster out in snow up to her stocking cap, reporting from a highway in Buffalo about the latest blizzard. Buffalo gets seriously dumped on in winter and for some reason, we hear about that a lot.

7. OH MY LORD: BUFFALO WINGS. Buffalo wings were first served in a bar in Buffalo, NY! That juicy little fact was worth the price of admission. I do not understand the appeal of buffalo wings, but at least I now know the truth of their origin.

I can’t top that last one, so I’ll quit while I’m hot. I do want to point out the picture above is of a meeting of the Rubber Workers Union in Buffalo in 1943. Those women are so fabulous! They are wearing hats and furs. It looks like they’re about to do a Broadway finale.

I’m not a fan of wistful, misty gazes into the early 20th century; stuff was as weird back then as it is now and people had plenty of problems we do not want now. But man. Those clothes. That pride! The pride of going to meetin’! The photo says it’s a Sunday, so they probably came from church. But still. That’s some Sunday best, ladies.

I shall take my best purse on my journey to your great city.

 

 

27 Apr 2016

My Printer, My Battleaxe.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Tips, Work | 1
The Cannon Pixma MX420: workhorse, monolith. Image: Internet
The Canon Pixma MX420: workhorse, monolith. Image: Internet.

I have had the same Canon Pixma MX420 printer/scanner since October 1, 2011. I know the exact date because I bought it on Amazon and I’ve just learned that when you buy stuff on Amazon, Amazon keeps the date of your order. This means that if you go through a breadmaking phase or an “I’m-going-to-read-George-Bernard-Shaw’s-entire-body-of-work” phase and years later you have a reason to figure out when all that went down, you can look back at your Amazon purchases and find out.

My Canon Pixma MX420 printer will not die. It has moved with me — wait for it — seven times since I bought it. That’s a lot to ask of a plastic box with glass, microchips, and a laser inside of it. All those boxes, those trucks, the accidental bang here, the on-purpose bang there — the girl is as good as new. She prints. She scans. Her LCD display is bright as ever. Her USB ports are unsullied. She has her pride, her morals.

I still don’t like her, though. That’s the problem: I’ve never liked this printer. Oh, I like that she works. I give thanks for every single page she spits out because at this point, every page strikes me as miraculous. What I don’t like is her attitude. My printer has an attitude problem and believe me: we’re close. I know her better than anyone. We’ve lived in the same (seven) house(s) for five years.

If you hit the wall switch and the power goes off on her without you turning her off at her console first, when you go to turn her on again, there pops up a message that says, “The printer did not shut down correctly. Next time, press OFF before disconnecting power to the printer.” I’m sorry, did you say, “Next time”? What am I, your office drone? And you can’t do anything until you hit the “OK” button to “ACCEPT.” So this printer is like, “I’m not doing anything for you until you acknowledge what you did. Until you admit you made a mistake. OK? Until you ACCEPT IT.”

“I accept all kinds of things!” I used to yell. “You don’t even have a spinal cord!” But I stopped that years ago. She’s a printer. She can’t hear me.

And once I knew better, I did better: I dutifully turned her off before I flipped any wall switches. I learned you have to lightly touch the “Off” button to wake her up before she’ll let you actually turn her off. So you have to do a light tap, then a convicted press. If that second contact isn’t deliberate enough, it won’t work, so your instinct is to just tap again, but that does nothing. So you go to press hard again, but by then she’s been tapped and is feigning confusion. It took me several years to figure out how to avoid this mess; done sloppily, she’ll just turn off and on again at least twice. Don’t get me started about the fuss she makes if she runs out of paper.

Today, my icy heart melted a little. I looked over at her, printing out two contracts, a cover letter, and a 24-page chapter of Claus’s latest book (in German!) and thought, “That blinkin’ thing still works.” I thought how weird her life must be. She’s either dealing with the shock of being woken up and turned off out of nowhere or she’s idling, waiting for a command from a computer she can’t refuse if she doesn’t like — or approve of — the content. Being a printer does not sound like a good time.

I have just realized that not so long ago, I wrote about the issues I have with my stove. Wow, okay. I am going to back away slowly. I’m going to put on some makeup. Get dressed. Go outside. Meet some people. Talk with words.

I travel to upstate NY on Thursday for a 3-day work trip. Sometimes it’s hard to head off to a gig; sometimes it’s clearly good for me.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Canon, I know how corporations work. I know you’re watching your SEO. I know that if I say that I love the Canon Pixma MX420, someone — even if it’s a robot first — will see it. And surely you reward those people who are devoted to you and your product. Perhaps you will reward me with complimentary ink, perhaps, or an upgrade, maybe, should say that I love my Canon Pixma MX420 best printer for all best printer Canon Pixma printer scanner combination best Pixma MX420 ink ink cartridge Pixma Canon best home printer top ten printer scanner combination Canon printer MX420 ink refill top ten printers for home office Canon best printers for home use or business use highest rated Canon printer? Thank you for your consideration.]

 

 

26 Apr 2016

That’s My Dad.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 1
From R-L: Dad, Me. Photo: My Aunt Leesa.
From L-R: Dad, Me. Photo: My Aunt Leesa.

I was going through the dumb iPhoto album on this dumb laptop, looking for a dumb picture that apparently is in my old laptop’s dumb iPhoto album, though it’s likely it could be in either my dumb desktop iPhoto album or my old desktop iPhoto album, which is also dumb. I have sworn that when this laptop dies, I am switching to a Windows Surface thing. Seriously, I am doing that. The Mac cloud has failed me too many times and Steve Jobs is dead. These are facts, and I never found that picture I was looking for.

Another fact: that guy up there is my dad, and this was a picture that I didn’t mean to find. There aren’t many pictures of my dad on any of my computers. There are barely any on the Internet; I found two. Now there are three.

Dad and Jane were traveling through California while I was visiting my favorite Auntie in Sacramento some months ago. I got nervous when the prospect of them dropping by came up; I hadn’t seen my dad in over five years. But I agreed. What was I gonna do? Say no? No, because that just isn’t my style, even if my stomach hurt terribly that morning and I bit my thumb cuticle on my left hand till I drew blood.

Aunt Leesa and I made muffins; the meetup was going to be brunch at her house. We made strong coffee. My auntie knows how I feel about my dad (complicated) and she knows the early story of my family (lousy, complicated) but she’s not a Ground Zero Crewmember so she’s about the best person on the planet to sit next to at brunch if you’re me and Dad’s across the table. She also grew up with the guy, so she knows when he’s, you know. Full of muffin. Which he is.

I could write a novel about how that two-hour brunch went, what with all the labyrinthine thought processes running through memory and curiosity at the same time, trying to result in conversation not emotional but still genuine, not slow-burn rage-y but not without bite. You want those who have hurt you to hear a little bite in your voice, don’t you? We all want to punish, even while we eat bacon. Especially while we eat bacon.

You know what’s weird? Writing PaperGirl.

 

22 Apr 2016

It’s a Heckuva Town.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, New York City | 1
Puppies playing in pet shop window. Note photographer reflected in mirror. Photo: Her
Puppies playing in pet shop window. Note photographer reflected in mirror. Photo: Her

The death of Prince sidelined the follow-up to my trip to NYC. I’m happy to report that I had the most wonderful day.

Well, it was wonderful once I was not in the act of waking up at 3:30am. That was uncomfortable. But once I was vertical, the day glided along like it was on rails. Since I was going to New York City and coming home within a matter of hours, I needed no luggage. I took my Jim Shore patchwork shopper (autographed, because he’s a good pal of mine and you betch’yer buttons I’m name-dropping) which easily held my laptop and all my personal effects; I also carried a modest totebag with a quilt, a book, and some Small Wonders swag for the people at the recording studio. Do you know the glory of walking into an airport and going straight to security with no stop at the ticket counter, no luggage check? It’s intoxicating. And I’m TSA Pre-Check, too, so it was me, an electronic boarding pass and a prayer, baby. Que bella.

When I landed at LaGuardia, I had time before I was to meet my sister for lunch, so I took public transportation into Manhattan. Why not? I had time and I had no luggage. Had that not been the case, I’m sure I’d have taken a taxi. But I was footloose! Fancy! Free! The sun was shining, the temperature was perfect: 69-degrees and all sunshine. I was a woman with time on her hands.

The bus took me to a train; after that train there was to be another to get to my sister’s office. But I bailed on the train transfer and got out at 63rd and Lexington in order to walk the remaining thirty blocks to Hannah. Thirty?! Yeah, sure. City blocks in Manhattan are short and pure entertainment.

I saw puppies playing in the window of a pet shop (see above.) I saw a tiny cemetery, restful and serene, stuck between two buildings; I saw a two different girls wearing tiny hats, so that must be the new thing; there was a man in a suit that I know cost more than most people make in a month or more; bodegas, murals, homeless, worker bees, dogs, babies. Muppets. Ballerinas. Unicorns.

The time I spent with my sister was like, soul good. We needed a good cup of coffee and that’s precisely what we had. If that was the only thing I was in New York to do, that would have been worth every penny. And the guest spot on the Good Life Project podcast went great, I think. I got choked up at the end, so it was certainly something. (The episode I’ll be on won’t air for several months; I’ll let you know when it goes up.) After the show, I headed back to the train and bus combo; I got to the airport with no issue. Walked onto the plane. Back in time for dinner.

New York, you’re all right. Your spring flowers up against all that graffiti looked so good to me yesterday, I came quite close to missing you. Chicago says hi.

 

19 Apr 2016

Day Tripping + The Good Life Project

by | posted in: Day In The Life, New York City, Work | 1
NYC, 1932. View from the Empire State Building Observatory. Photo: Wikipedia
NYC, 1932. View from the Empire State Building Observatory. Photo: Wikipedia

A few months ago, an alarmingly attractive and discerning young lady named Lindsay contacted me and asked me if I would like to fly to New York City and be a guest on something called The Good Life Podcast. I immediately said yes and then asked her what that was.

The Good Life Project is comprised of a number of ambitious (and successful) initiatives created by Jonathan Fields, a writer and entrepreneur who has dedicated his life to living a good one. It appears that Jonathan has discovered that living a good life means helping other people live a good one, too. So, Fields has spent his life traveling around the world, launching big projects aimed at inspiring, connecting, pushing, enlightening, and generally helping people figure out how to feel and do better in a world that seems to punish us in all sorts of new and exciting ways on a regular basis.

Lindsay — who I’ve not yet had the pleasure to meet but who is clearly a winsome and nimble and possessing of good genes — is a PaperGirl reader and that’s how all this came about. Actually, she also used to watch me in the Neo ensemble here in Chicago; she said her dad saw my one-woman show and still talks about it. If Lindsay had asked me just to come over and hang out with her and her dad, I would’ve done that, too. Going to NYC tomorrow is pretty fancy, though, so that’s nice.

Some businesspeople in this world do in-and-out trips all the time: they fly into Atlanta from Cleveland for a lunch meeting then fly back in time for dinner. I’ve done a same-day trip maybe once before in my life; tomorrow will make it two. It worked out this way because there is an appointment on Thursday here at home that I can’t move, but the truth is that I am not interested in staying longer in New York City.

It’s too much, still. Because Yuri, who was a big part of my life and always will be. Because it saw most of my 34th year of life. And the air when I left, the rain that day — I’ll never forget it and that’s too bad.

There are 350k subscribers to The Good Life Project podcast, so I admit I’m a little nervous about doing the show. That’s 700k ears. Jonathan wants to ask me about quilting and writing and writing about quilting and if I get to have some tea in the studio with me, it should all be just fine. I’ll be sure to let you know when my episode is posted. I’ll also let you know how it felt to feel the pavement in shoes that haven’t walked on it, yet.

See you in the morning, Manhattan.

18 Apr 2016

A Parlor Game For Philosophers.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Luv, Story, Work | 0
Zero portraits of famous philosophers are interesting, therefore I give you the Rockettes at their 2007 Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall. Photo: Wikipedia
Zero portraits of famous philosophers are interesting, therefore I give you the Rockettes at their 2007 Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall. Photo: Wikipedia

A couple years ago I bought a book called The Philosopher’s Handbook, ed. Stanley Rosen. The book is split up into six topic sections, e.g., Metaphysics, Epistemology, Philosophy of Art and Culture, etc. Within each section, Rosen compiles six or seven excerpts from A-List philosophers across time who have written specifically on these topics and contributed much to philosophical discussions at large. For a layperson like me who wants to know about Kirkegaard but not, like, really know about Kirkegaard, it’s an excellent resource. I pick it up from time to time when I want to read something short and feel smarter, as opposed to reading something short and feeling dumber, e.g., USA Today.

Then I started spending an eyebrow-raising amount of time with a professional philosopher. He has a “Dr.” in front of his name, that’s how good he is at doing philosophy. When he saw The Philosopher’s Handbook on my coffee table the other day, he picked it up like, “Oh, that’s nice,” and flipped through with “Mm-hm” sounds. Then he put it back down and asked me if I needed yogurt at the store.

So we’re sitting around later (eating yogurt) and I pick up the book. Completely joking, I flip to the middle and read a random sentence from the middle of the page, and ask Claus if he can guess who wrote it. Claus goes,

“That’s Hobbes.”

I choked on a blueberry. “What??!! That’s right! How… How did you –? Wow!” He really is a doctor, I thought; Claus was clearly pleased with himself. I felt happy that when a person has a double Ph.D in their chosen field, they may someday be able to share the depths of their knowledge in an impromptu parlor game. I was impressed — but it could’ve been lucky. Let’s see how good he really is, I thought. Ipso. Facto. I fanned the 600 pages, stuck my finger down, and read:

Man’s first sentiment was that of his existence, his first care that of his preservation.

“Rosseau.”

I looked at him like he was an extraterrestrial. Rosseau was correct. He leaned back on the sofa and wiggled his feet, delighted. Could we go again, he asked? I flipped the book again, keeping my eye on him. I read this one:

Morals are assigned a special compartment in theory and practice because they reflect the divisions embodied in economic and political institutions.

Claus got this right, but I had to read a couple pages before he did. (It’s Dewey.) Out of 12 or so tests, the man got 9.3 of them right; which is about 80%. I would be as impressed to meet a poet who could identify that many poems by author in this way. It’s a beautiful thing to truly know your field; it’s comforting to me when people care so much and work so hard at one thing.

Here’s what I’ve figured out about philosophy since hanging around with a professional: it’s essential. It’s vital to look deeply into how we think, why we think it, how what we think affects what we do, and how what we do shapes us all (and in turn influences how we all think.) We must do it.

Because we’re always getting data — USA Today infographics like to help — with the latest conclusion from brain mapping technology that proves why more people are moving to cities; we get percentages of opinions from focus groups on how smartphones are changing culture. But science, sociology, psychology, number crunching — it comes after philosophy. No handling of information can happen without first understanding what information is in the first place, or how smartphones fit into the history of production and technology vis a vis culture (as opposed to straight timelines.) This stuff is so important and invisible, it’ll melt your brain. Philosophy has a reputation for being confusing and lofty because it gets down to this atomic level of systems of thought. But you can’t launch a rocket without a launchpad. Philosophy is our launchpad. It’s in us already, so fundamental, you don’t see it. You don’t hear it. But you breathe it.

We need philosophers to keep doing their work. I know a good one, if you ever have a question.

15 Apr 2016

My Cigarette Boat Experience.

by | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life, Luv, Story | 0
Except for the scuba gear and the fishing rack thing, it was like this. Photo: Wikipedia
Except for the scuba gear and the fishing rack thing, it was like this, if indeed that is a cigarette boat. Photo: Wikipedia

Claus announced he was going jogging and asked if I would go with him. I used to like jogging but now I hate it. I told him I’d bike alongside him.

We were down by the lake and I saw the first boats of the season out on the water. There were a couple sailboats. There were yachts that had been moved into the marinas from wherever they live the rest of the year. I didn’t see any motorboats but I thought of one.

A few years ago, I dated a stock trader who had a great laugh, a strong jawline, and an almost suspicious adherence to social etiquette at all times. He also had a whole bunch of Richie Rich toys, including a Maserati, a Porsche, and a BMW, which was his plain ol’ everyday car, unless you counted the Dodge Ram truck he needed to haul around cases of fine wine he bought at auction, marble slabs for his renovation project(s), and his cigarette boat.

A cigarette boat is sleek and slender and long and often white, but those aren’t the qualities that give the cigarette boat its name. They were used for smuggling stuff like cigarettes in the 1960s, so the Internet says. They do have a reputation for being used for nefarious purposes. Similar boats were called “rum-runners” in the ’20s, and we all know people were smuggling adorable kittens during prohibition. Cigarette boats can go extremely fast (100mph), they’re sexy, and they’re expensive. All of this appealed to my boyfriend, so he bought one.

One perfectly formed summer day, we took a ride. Everything was shiny. The sun shone off the water; the sun shone off the hull. The sun shone off my sunscreened shoulders; the sun shone off the two bottles of Champagne we put in the cooler. The sun shone off both of our sunglasses as we motored out past the lock.

When my friend hit the gas, I remembered that I am not a daredevil. Risks I take are the feet-on-the-ground kind, e.g., reading a long book, changing my dinner reservation. After I got over the initial shock of going that fast over a large body of water, I relaxed. I was reminded that none of us have any control over our life/death at any time; I was just being sharply confronted with this fact. The water was so choppy the further out we got and we were going so fast, we were catching air. We were jumping 100% out of the water and then would slam back into the lake. Bang! Spray! Bang! Spray! It was exhilarating and amazing; it was not something I needed to do often.

We slowed. I’d say “we dropped anchor” but that is not correct; we just stopped and bobbed around for awhile. We drank cold Champagne. We talked about how fast we were going just now. There may have been some monkey business, but I can’t possibly admit that sort of thing here, you understand. I’ve played on Lake Michigan’s beaches since I was a small child; I continue to find new ways to love that thing and in turn, it loves me back in surprising ways.

My friend and I dated on and off again for a little under two years, but we only took the boat out that one time. The first season we might have, but it was in the shop. The next time we could, we did, as detailed above. And then things ran their course with the two of us; that isn’t just another blog entry — it’s another blog.

Chicago boat season is upon us, then. I know there’s a single girl out there tonight who will take her first cigarette boat trip this summer. Hey, honey: wear the vintage 1970s mint green bathing suit with the slats cut out on the sides. Take the Ray-Bans, not the other ones. Hold tight.

14 Apr 2016

Irony.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Sicky | 4
Banded iron formation specimen, Upper Michigan. Image: Wikipedia
Banded iron formation specimen, Upper Michigan. Image: Wikipedia

I’m back home in Chicago! Being in Iowa was great, but whenever I get back to the city, I realize how much I missed the pigeons.

There were so many errands to run. My main task was to go into Northwestern Hospital for an iron infusion. I’ve got another week from today. I’ve been getting cozy with these things since I basically ran out last year; aside from the weird stuff that likes to show up on my CT scans, I’m anemic. My hemogoblins have been hanging out at 9 out of the recommended 14, so I need Fe pumped into Me. I’ve also been eating nothing but filet mignon and steak tartare, naturally. Sometimes I’ll have a porterhouse. Maybe a fox or a deer, if they’re running around. Or your delectable neck, my pretty… Mua-ha-ha!

Getting an infusion of X or Y or Z isn’t that big of a deal. You go in, they stick a sharp object through your skin into your vascular system and gravity assists in transfusing liquid into your bloodstream. I sat in a room with many people getting various intravenous medicine; my infusion took a little over an hour. I spent some time on Instagram, I looked through some papers. The nurses were nice.

There were numerous occasions over the course of 2011-2014 when I would take the Michigan Ave. #147 bus to that hospital from my home, sure that whatever was wrong with me was bad enough that I’d probably be admitted when I got there and I was usually right. I learned to pack a bag and turn off the lights before I left. If you’re going to be admitted, you might not be back for a long time and you’re gonna want stuff like your computer, phone, phone charger, book, couple Diet Cokes, actual shampoo and soap (as opposed to whatever that stuff the nurses give you when you actually are well enough or stinky enough to have a shower.)

I thought about that today because I walked home after my infusion was done. The sun was beautiful today. The walk takes about 40 minutes and on a busy Thursday, there’s so much to see. I remember this one particular time I was in the hospital for the third time in six weeks or something. They had just come in to say I couldn’t go home, that I’d probably be there at least until the next week. I remember freaking out and feeling trapped. My IV was a chain, a bond. My gown was revolting. My hair felt so bad. My body hurt. My body felt weak. I was hot. I was cold. I couldn’t just be in my bed. I couldn’t just go to the fridge. Surrender, Dorothy.

Sitting in my comfy chair on the 14th floor having some really basic, really innocuous procedure done, I felt glad that the infusion was all that was next to my name today. Many people have a longer list and no comfy chair at all. Every time I’m at Northwestern, I think about all that.

14 Apr 2016

Quilt Your (Quilts of Valor) Heart Out!

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0
Me and Mother Unit. Photo: Joe Mazza, Bravelux.
Me and Mother Unit. Photo: Joe Mazza, Bravelux.

There’s a fresh PaperGirl post coming later today, but for now, know that the latest episode of Quilt Your Heart Out is up on the site! Mom and I give quilting and life advice and speak to Ann Rehbein, Executive Director of Quilts of Valor.

She reads a letter from a veteran who was awarded a quilt. You will need kleenex.

Quilt Your Heart Out,
Mar

11 Apr 2016

“Existential Cheese Baby.”

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 1
The baby. The cheese. Photo: Me
The baby. The cheese. Photo: Me

Not so long ago, I walked past a cheese shop on Lake Street (this was in Chicago) and something caught my eye. Was Jersey Blue on sale? Was my eye drawn to a crunchy breadstick tree or a jar of free-range quince jam? No. I saw a baby hanging comically in a sling and had to investigate. I decided if I found a wheel of $20/lb. cheddar cheese in the process, well, that was fine.

I watched it at it as it hung there, totally powerless and adorable while Mom browsed the bins. As I marveled inconspicuously — I did get this single picture, unseen — I was plunged into a line of existential questions that I know the baby would have answered if it could have.

Existential Cheese Baby, what do you see? Do you see the array of cheeses or do you just see shades of yellow? Can you identify yellow, yet? Do you realize that if I had to try and explain to you what color is, it would take me so long to make any sense of it you’d have a beard by the time I was done? Oh, you’re a girl baby. Sorry.

Do you know purveyors of cheese used to be called cheesemongers? No, I don’t know why they’re not called that anymore. Things change, Existential Cheese Baby, and they keep on changing. Why, not so long ago, I was your age and my entire life was before me. That’s what I thought, but who knows? My entire life might be behind me because I could walk out of here and get hit by a bike messenger. You don’t think that would be enough to kill me? Have you seen those guys? I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.

What are you good at? You don’t even know! You don’t even know what your interests are, much less if you’re good at any of them. You could be good at sports or arithmetic or spelling or capoeira but we won’t know for years! And your parents might not give a rip what you’re interested in and push you to do something you hate because they wanted to do that when they were young. Then whose life are you living, Existential Cheese Baby?? Life is absurd and confusing and then you end up in a cheese shop at thirty-six, staring at babies, only later to write about it publicly while slumped in a chair in Iowa wearing a pair of socks you borrowed from your philosophy professor boyfriend who technically lives in Germany.

Your mother appears to be wearing fringed hotpants. I thought you should know.

 

7 Apr 2016

A Wedding Today: Part Two

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Luv | 0
"A Bride" by Abbott Handerson Thayer, 1895. Image: Wikipedia
“A Bride” by Abbott Handerson Thayer, 1895. Image: Wikipedia

Read yesterday’s post first if you haven’t already!

This family had no money for a wedding. Appearances aren’t always what they seem. But if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a wedding at 2pm on a Wednesday at a courthouse. This wasn’t ironic for them, getting hitched at the county building; it wasn’t something they were doing on a lark, either. This was their wedding. Not everyone can afford lightning bugs in Mason jars strung from weeping willow trees in Seattle, Pinterest. This was it.

When I popped my head in, everyone looked at me. They were the only people in the courtroom. There was Grandpa with a long white beard; a few gals in their twenties, presumably sisters or sisters-in-law; a boy of two running around with a bunny toy; an aunt and uncle; and a big, dinner bell-ringin’ mother unit who narrowed her eyes when she saw me. I gave an “I am not the enemy” wave to Mom and tried to look mild as I hung near the door. I was not there to gawk or judge: I was just excited to observe, but I know that “observing” can look a lot like “staring at people like they’re zoo animals,” which is not okay. There was no mistaking a measure of self-consciousness in the room when we — two outsiders — appeared. But I was full of smiles and was already tearing up, so it quickly became clear I was not a threat, I was not mocking anyone. I was just some weird woman who said to no one in particular, “I’m sorry! I just love weddings!”*

The bride looked amazing. Her skin was creamy ivory. Her hair hung down her back in loose curls; she definitely got a trip to the salon out of this. Her lipstick was a deep, rich red. She held a tiny bouquet. And, just as Mom had said, this girl was puh-reg-nant. That baby was practically a ring bearer. And yes, her white dress — lovely against her pale skin — was short. Too short, really, for a gal that far along, but what do I know? Maybe that was the nicest-looking dress she could buy or borrow. Her groom wore a ballcap. He did not take it off.

I flapped at the bride and said, “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you! Yay! You look amazing! It’s so great!” She laughed and beamed and said thank you. Everyone was milling around; I figured it was because the wedding was done and they were waiting for papers from the office. I was about to go when one of the sisters came near. I asked how the ceremony went, if it was nice.

“It hasn’t happened, yet,” she said. The bride heard her say it and then the bride said to me:

“We’re doing it right now! You can stay if you want.”

At that moment, Mr. Hanson (I went to high school with him, too) came in to begin the process; there was no time to freak out. I just clasped my hands to my breast and mouthed, “Really??” and the bride mouthed back, “Yes!” so I sat in the farthest away pew and tried to be the most normal, weird wedding guest on the planet.

And… Guess what? I have to break this story up into three parts. I know! I wasn’t planning on it, but the end of the story can’t be told properly if it’s squeezed into a paragraph and if I write much more than that, this post will be too long. This is really a consideration, you know, the length of PaperGirl posts. Too short, there’s no point; too long, people get fatigued. It’s a fine line and it’s up to me to watch it, so this is me watching it.

Tomorrow, the conclusion of the story. The moral will be inside of it, like puddin’ in a longjohn. And if you can’t stand it and need to read other stuff I wrote about weddings, you can click this and you might enjoy a click on this, both of which will take you to pieces of the story of my younger sister Rebecca’s magic wedding last May.

*Tiffany was a good wing man; she made me look legit. (Remember: I was in sweatpants and had gym hair.)

 

 

6 Apr 2016

A Wedding Today: Part One.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Luv | 2
Kate n' Willy's wedding day. Photo: Wikipedia
The wedding I attended today was the opposite of this. Photo: Wikipedia

My mom had to go to the Winterset courthouse today to get something for her taxes. Our house is exactly two blocks from the courthouse; we’re as close as you can get to the town square without actually being on it. I was writing at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee when Mom came back.

“I got my documents,” Mom said, taking off her winter coat. “I was in the hall on the third floor and this guy — real tattooed, rough-looking guy — was lost. I asked, ‘Can I help you find something?’ and he said, ‘Yeah, I’m lookin’ for where you get married and where the bathrooms are at.'”

I coughed on my coffee. “He was getting married? Seriously? At the courthouse just now?”

“There was a whole wedding party,” Mom said. “The girl was very pregnant, dressed in this short, short white dress. The guys were all tough guys, tattoos. I think the mother of one of the couple was there. It was very interesting.” I shook my head. That was so awesome. A shotgun wedding at my very own courthouse. I was sorry I hadn’t seen it myself. I began to ask Mom every question I could think of because it would be a great story for this blog.

“Well, why don’t you just run over there right now? They’re probably still there; I only left two minutes ago.”

Incredibly, I was ready to run at that exact moment: my sweats and sneakers were still on from my morning workout. I scrambled out of my chair and took off, blazing down the alley, the courthouse dead in front of me. It’s a total beeline over there. I pushed through the heavy oak doors and zoomed up the two flights of stone stairs to the third floor. I looked this way and that, following hallways, peeking in doors. Come on, come on.

The girl working at the desk in the last office I peeked into turned out to be Tiffany, a girl from my high school. We recognized each other at once; it was a happy, if rushed reunion. I told her, breathlessly — I looked like a post-workout maniac — that my mom said there was a wedding and did she know where they do that stuff, the weddings at the courthouse? Tiffany did (she’s the office manager) and said it would probably be the courtroom. I followed her down the stairs and we were quickly right at the door to the courtroom. There was the wedding party, just as my mother had described them.

Tomorrow, the rest of the story, lovingly told, will include:

– how I was invited to stay for the ceremony and did
– a more detailed description of the bride and the groom
– musings on love (duh)
– how I cried like a dweeb (duh)

Until then, enjoy the canapes.

 

 

1 Apr 2016

The Placeholder Is The Blogger’s Friend.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 0
"Napkin holder" is close enough to "placeholder" and the images for these are way better. Photo: Wikipedia.
“Napkin holder” is close enough to “placeholder” and the images for these are way better. Photo: Wikipedia.

This post is a placeholder.

It is a placeholder for a post that I have been working on for almost two hours, now. Sometimes I bang out a post on the ol’ PG in no time; other posts take longer, some take much longer. But this one is killing me and it’s time to sleep. There are different moving parts in it, you see, and I’m afraid I’m more myopic than usual about the subject matter, so it’s best to tap out for now.

It’s about love. You’ll have it later this week.

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