19 Jun 2017

Print Is Not Dead (And That’s Weird.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 1
screen-shot-2017-01-10-at-1-01-44-pm
A janky screenshot of a janky scan of an old newspaper. Image: Me, sort of.

A few months back, my sister Rebecca told me she had looked up something in the online archives of The Madisonian, our hometown newspaper. I decided to log on and see what I could dig up. Investigative journalism, basically.

Before I tell you what I found, two notable facts about my hometown newspaper:

  1. The Madisonian is the nation’s oldest continuously-circulating newspaper west of Des Moines.
    That’s a big deal! A guy named James Iler started the paper way back in 1856. Back then, it was only four pages and was called The Pilot! [That exclamation point is mine, unfortunately; every newspaper should put an exclamation point at the end of its name, don’t you agree?] I could go down the rabbit hole on fascinating facts about this paper — like how during the Civil War it was called The Red Hawkeye! — but I won’t.
  2. My dad worked at The Madisonian for a number of years as a reporter. My family’s interest in print and publishing comes from both sides, see.

The first thing I did was type “Fons” into the search box. What, like you’ve never googled yourself? (If you haven’t, good for you; it’s weird.) Searching the Madisonian archives was like that, just more…old-fashioned, but without the microfiche.

A lot of what came up was pretty dull, just town listing stuff or mentions of me or my sisters in the fall play or going nerdy state speech tournaments. My dad’s byline came up, of course, and it will come as no surprise there were lots of hits for Mom; she’s been a recurring “local gal makes good” story over the years. She didn’t even have to hire a PR person!

But there were other, meatier clips. Like the one up top, there. Unfortunately.

I hadn’t thought about Tractor Girls in ages, but there it was in a December Madisonian from 1996. Tractor Girls was a play — actually, a series of seven monologues for seven actresses — written by yours truly my junior year. My speech teacher sent it (did I send it??) to the Theater department at Simpson College in Indianola, a town about 40 minutes away. To my shock and amazement, the theater people decided to produce the freakin’ thing. Of course I was insanely happy, overjoyed, all that. And of course I invited all my friends to come with me to opening night. Super fun, right??

To this day, I am amazed I got out alive. Not because the play was bad; actually, I remember it being pretty good. The danger I was in that night was due to my friends’ collective murderous rage: I based all the play’s characters on them.

I know. I know. It’s so awful. It’s just the worst thing ever. Ever!

Pals, I swear to you, with my dumb hand over my clueless heart (which was even more clueless at age sixteen, no surprise), I meant no ill will! Truly, I didn’t realize how totally uncool it was to plumb my friends personal lives for material. I changed their names, didn’t I?? Oh, the shame! Even though no one from Winterset came to see the play and no one who did see it had a clue about my…source material, my friends were furious and had every right to be. It blew over eventually, but it took awhile.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes since then but I haven’t made that mistake again. Case in point: There’s another gem I unearthed in my archive search worth sharing, but I have to get my sister’s permission first.

18 Jun 2017

Shoes Blues.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 11
Wikipedia says these boots are silk, but don't they look like velvet? Either way, they belonged to Queen Sofia of Switzerland (1836-1913). Work it, girl.
Wikipedia says these boots are silk, but don’t they look like velvet? Either way, they belonged to Sophia of Nassau, Queen of Sweden and Norway from 1872 to 1907. Work it, girl!

 

After hitting a wall this past week — I’m afraid my iron levels didn’t improve much after the infusions and I was also in six states last week for heaven’s sake — I’m back and would like to talk about shoes.

I am hard on them.

Angel and the other cobblers at Shoe Hospital at the Monadnock Building in the Loop know me by name, that’s how often I’m in there to get repairs done. It’s not because the boys don’t do a good job fixing up my shoes: It’s that I keep on breakin’ ’em down. But why?

It’s hard for me to admit this, but I tend to drag my left heel a little. You won’t notice it unless a) you’re a hunter, tracking me through the icy tundra! or b) a cobbler, repairing my shoes. I wear down both the heels from all the city walking I do, but the left heel sole always goes first. After just a few months, the metal tip of the heel starts breaking through the rubber and I’m back at Shoe Hospital, forking over the dough and feeling a little sheepish that I’m there again so soon.

Part of this is because I’m a high-heel fan. I don’t wear stilettos for heaven’s sake (well, not in the daytime, anyway) but a bit of a heel on my shoes is de rigueur. I’m the shortest in my family, so a sensible heel helps with that. But I also just enjoy being a girly-girl. It’s fun! The problem is that when you wear pumps and…scuffle a little like I do — ugh! — the result is that you have to go see Angel for new heel nibs and a patch job on the scuffs and tears while he’s at it.

The scuffs and tears aren’t the fault of my weird, quasi-Quasimodo leg drag thing, though; such repairs are needed when you stick a high-heeled shoe through a few too many subway grates. (It occurs to me I should invoice the City of Chicago for some of these repairs. I’m sure they’d be happy to help with that.) I’m sure I wouldn’t need so many repairs if I lived upon the rolling meadows of [insert pastoral locale here] and ran errands back and forth on soft grasslands. We can never know.

It’s a good thing that I like shoes. A lot. My very favorite wardrobe item is the coat, hands down, but shoes run a close second. This means that if a pair of mine really go kaput, it’s okay. Not only do I have backup, I won’t have to drag (!) myself to go find a suitable replacement. That’s an errand I can handle for sure.

But I also really like going to the cobbler. It feels good to pay a little to get a good pair of shoes fixed up good as new instead of tossing them out and buying a new pair. (It might be the same part of my personality that doesn’t throw out food if it’s been sitting out all night — within reason!) I try to take care of the material things I am fortunate enough to enjoy. I’m lucky and I try to be responsible about that.

It’s good to see you, good to be seen. There’s so much to tell you. I started with shoes, started at the bottom.

13 Jun 2017

Flash The Fox!

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 9
A girl and her fox. Photo: Bretta's brother, I think.
A girl and her fox. Photo: Bretta’s brother, I think.

 

Sometimes, great PaperGirl content just drops into my lap.

Yesterday, during a terrific class here in beautiful Irvine, CA, a lady named Bretta had a great-looking carryall satchel. It was big and navy blue with little embroidered foxes all over it. I loved it so much because I love fabric with little animals printed on and you don’t see tiny foxes very often.

I asked Bretta about it and she told me, “My daughter gave it to me. I had a pet fox growing up, so people give me a lot of fox stuff.”

“You… Had a pet fox??” I said, delighted and confused. (Delighted and confused is a weird emotional mix but I had no choice.)

Bretta said that yes, her fox’s name was Flash. They got him at the pet store back in the day, and that her brother had a monkey. She showed me a picture — the picture you see above — and when I saw that fox on a leash, I just did not know what to do with myself. I mean, is that just the living end??

“I used to put Flash up over my shoulders, sort of like a fur collar and walk around with him like that.”

You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.

Bretta told me she only had her pet fox for about a year because Flash ran away. Foxes do like to run. And his name was Flash! I suppose it was bound to happen sometime.

But that was really cool, learning about a girl and her fox. So I thought I’d tell you.

Thanks, Irvine. You’re pretty foxy.

11 Jun 2017

The Dimple Surveys, Part One.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 5
This image was contained within a roll of film found lying on a street in Australia in 1938 and was donated to the Royal Australian Historical Society. Image: Wikipedia.
This image was contained within a roll of film found lying on a street in Australia in 1938 and was subsequently donated to the Royal Australian Historical Society. Image: Wikipedia.

 

I have prominent dimples on both my cheeks. (My face cheeks! Don’t be cheeky.) Some people have one dimple on one cheek or maybe a dimple on (in?) their chin. Me, I have double dimples. I’m a Double-D or “DD.”

Mostly, I don’t think about my dimples. After all, I’ve had them all my life. When people point them out, it’s like, “Yeah, yeah. Dimples, dimples, dimples. What else is new?”** It’s the same with my two front teeth, which happen to be very rabbit-like. I don’t think about my rabbit teeth too much, either, unless someone like Claus calls me “Bunny” and teases me (in a friendly way) about them, which he used to do and still does, when we email.

Which we do. A little.

But in Lincoln this week, I thought a lot about my dimples because I saw my friend Carolyn, who has the best dimples ever. Ever! Whenever I see Carolyn — an accomplished quilt expert and curator and all-around extraordinary woman — it all makes sense. Carolyn’s a DD just like me, and when she smiles (or even speaks at all, honestly) I realize that dimples may indeed have special power. At the very least, I have to admit they’re pretty cute.

So at dinner on Friday night, I confab-ed with Carolyn and another DD, the luminous and brilliant Heather. It was the first time in my life I had ever actually discussed my own dimplage and the dimplage of other women. What we discussed was fascinating and we were drawing conclusions that frankly helped me understand my entire life!

As illuminating as that discussion was, however, the three of us are smart enough to know that a sample size of three is not sufficient to form official Theories about DD’s, so I told the gals I’d conduct some extremely scientific research on the topic and see if any of our hypotheticals could be substantiated by actual data.

And now, from the Drumming Dimplerettes, a drumroll, please!

If you are a DD (male or female), please click this link to take this 10-question survey. It’s really going to be fun for you and I cannot WAIT to read your responses!!

If you are NOT a dimple-cheeked person or if you are a single-dimpled person, sit tight. Your time will come shortly, I assure you. Your data is every bit as important as the DD data and I am writing your very own survey right now, sitting at this airport in the southwest corner of the United States, waiting for a delayed flight to Orange County. Of course, if you want to check out the DD survey questions, great; you’ll enjoy reading the questions and will get some insight into the conversation I had with my fellow DDs. But please: Unless you are an actual DD, don’t answer the quiz. I know you want to. But this is science!

I can’t wait to put on my spectacles and make a spreadsheet.

 

**Actually, that’s not true: I love it when people say they like my dimples. It is my hypothesis that most DDs do!

8 Jun 2017

Kelly Bowser Made Me Something I Have Used Every Day For Four Years.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Paean, Quilting, Story, Travel, Work | 14
Welcome to my hotel room photo shoot. Yes, I am wearing pink pajamas. Photo: Who else?
Welcome to my hotel room photo shoot. That’s the pouch Kelly made me and yes, I am wearing pink pajamas. Photo: Marty Fans.

 

Greetings from Lincoln, Nebraska, where it feels like Christmas Eve.

This is because the annual two-day board meeting for the International Quilt Study Center & Museum (IQSCM) begins tomorrow morning. Since I’m a board member, I get to go. That’s how board meetings work, I have learned and yes I do feel fancy but mostly I just feel geeky and happy. Jonathan Holstein is here. The only person I’d be more excited about meeting and working with would be Barbara Brackman. After that, probably Madonna.

The only drawback to being here is that I couldn’t stay in St. Louis, which is where I was yesterday. I had to leave Common Threads, a very cool, annual BabyLock event, which — of course! — landed the same weekend as my board meeting. Common Threads is an invitational meetup/think tank kind of a thing for quilters and sewists who work with BabyLock out there in the industry. There were around 55 people at the weekend retreat, some of whom I had never met, some of whom I consider good friends, e.g., Jenny Doan, Vanessa Vargas Wilson, Amy Ellis, and many other terrific, talented women.

Like Kelly Bowser.

Before I tell you why Kelly deserves special distinction, know that Kelly did not ask me to write this, nor am I benefitting in any way from singing her praises and talking about how much I love the thing she designed and how I have used it every single day for four years.

So, Kelly and I met at the first-ever Common Threads four years ago. I liked her immediately: She was funny and smart and warm. Kelly’s a talented designer, a so-good-it’s-annoying sewist, quiltmaker, blogger, and pattern writer, and she’s a mom, wife, and she has a law degree. We got to know each other and became industry pals.

That night, when I dug into the swag bag in my hotel room, I discovered the coolest little handmade cloth pouch! It was kinda puffy and had a zipper and everything. The tag said: “Kelby Sews”, which is Kelly’s brand. I learned that Kelly had designed and made everyone in the group that year (40 people??) their very own pouch, which she calls the “30-Minute Pouch”. (I understand you can download the pattern for free on Craftsy, so check that out.)

I just loved my little pouch. I began using it immediately. It is the perfect size for my lipstick, compact, eyedrops, tiny mascara, and aspirin thingy. That pouch has been in my possesion for four years. It has traveled tens of thousands of miles with me. It’s been in fabulous purses, let me tell you. It went to New York. It went to Washington. It came back to Chicago. It went to Berlin. It’s gone on so many dates. It’s been with me on family vacation. It was at my sister’s wedding.

I’m telling you: Kelly’s 30-Minute Pouch is seriously part of my life. In material objects, anyway.

There’s a lot to love about Common Threads. But my favorite part? Finding Kelly Bowser and rummaging around in my purse to get my lil’ pouch so that I can hold it up and go, “Kelly! Kelly, look!” Last night, a bunch of us girls had a great conversation about the power of the handmade object. You never know where the things you make will end up. It’s wonderful. Not everything that comes in a gift bag stays so long, you know?

And it pays to take care of something: Kelly was delighted to see I’m still devoted to my pouch, but she made me write down my address so she could send me a new one. I’ll allow it. But I’m not tossing the original. She made it for me!

7 Jun 2017

The Funniest Things I Have Ever Heard. (Don’t Get Too Excited.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Joke | 20
It's an outhouse! Image: Wikipedia.
It’s an outhouse! Haha. Image: Wikipedia.

 

On the bus the other day, I was thinking about the funniest things I have ever heard. I wasn’t thinking “What are the funniest stories I’ve ever heard?” and I wasn’t thinking about the funniest jokes I’ve ever heard, either. You might be thinking, “What else is there?” but I can explain.

You see, I remembered something out of nowhere that I hadn’t thought about in years — and I recalled that, at the time I came across it, I had never heard anything so hilarious in my entire life. I was eight, so don’t get too excited.

It was a little handwritten sign in a bathroom in Door County. The sign read:

“If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.” 

I was helpless with laughter. I had never known anything more genius and silly and funny and gross in all my life. It was a real gem for eight-year-old Mary, let me tell you. Clearly, it stayed with me.

So after thinking about that for awhile and, yes, chuckling a little (mostly about me at eight, giggling until I could hardly breathe, not so much about the pee thing), I wondered about other things like that. What were the other funniest things I have ever heard?

The second thing that came to mind happened when I was in high school, so again: No need to brace yourself for nuanced, sophisticated comedy, here. I was working as a waitress at the local Pizza Hut.

…and that’s it. That’s the funniest thing: Me, in high school, slingin’ pies at the local Pizza Hut.

I’m kidding! Although there is some comedic value to that sentence. It has something to do with the word “Hut.”

But seriously: The Pizza Hut’s manager’s name was Steve. That poor guy. He had a bunch of ne’er-do-well high school kids to corral all day and his “office” was a computer shoved into corner near the walk-in. He could’ve been a jerk — but he was so nice! He was understanding and cool but never inappropriately cool. Like, Steve wouldn’t buy us beer or let us take pizzas home for free. Steve was great. He was also a real cornball. That means he told corny jokes and was fond of puns.

One day, I got to work and Steve had clearly gotten a haircut. I said, “Hey, Steve! You got your haircut!”

And Steve snapped his fingers and pointed to me and said, “No, Mary: I got ’em all cut.”

I blinked. I cocked my head. And then I got it. And I loved it. I thought it was genius. Ha! Got ’em all cut! Because you don’t get a hair cut! You get ’em all cut! Oh, man. What a knee-slapper.

The other other thing I came up with was that my friend Nellie told me in college that she and her sisters, when they were kids, used to roll down this hill in the backyard. One day, her sister pooped her pants as she was rolling down the hill and after that, they called it “Poopy Hill.”

Yes, I am aware that two of the three of the funniest things I am claiming to have ever heard have to do with the bathroom. I sincerely hope that if I keep thinking about more wildly hilarious things, this will not be the case.

5 Jun 2017

Women Smiling.

by | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life, Luv, Paean | 12
Woman, c. 1982. Photo: Wikipedia.
Woman, c. 1982. Photo: Wikipedia.

 

Walking through and around the Chicago Loop and its immediate vicinity makes me feel connected and strong. I want to walk here for a long time.

I see many beautiful things: a group of teenagers cavorting in front of a 7-Eleven, their youth crackling in the air; a seagull, flown in all the way from the lake, perched on a sign for the Washington Blue line station; the sun when it dips behind a Willis Tower. The city flowers in their planters. The cornices of the Harold Washington Library. Women smiling to themselves.

This last one keeps coming up.

Lately, I have seen many women in the Loop who are up to something good. They’re smiling like they’re in love. Or lust. Perhaps it’s their spouse. Maybe a new lover. Maybe it’s just a crush. (“Just”!) Maybe they’re smiling about last night — or this morning. Without question, it’s good.

It happened again this afternoon. I was walking east on Van Buren toward State. At the front of the crowd of people coming from the other direction was a woman, about my age, Korean, I think, smiling to herself. I glanced at her as we passed each other. She did not notice me at all because she was not particularly aware of anyone, or even that she was walking on Van Buren Street in Chicago. She was somewhere else, thinking about someone. It was obvious, even in the 2.2 seconds I had to read her face.

Maybe she was thinking about a text message or a flirt session with the object of her desire/affection. I’d like to think the corner of her mouth went up because she thought about she got the best kiss of her life this weekend.

Whatever it was, it was fresh. Nostalgia is not present in the smiles I’m seeing. These are the quiet, beautiful smiles of women — ranging in age, ethnicity, and physical appearance — in whom spring fever has manifested. I guess. That’s got to be part of it, right? There are countless ways to smile, countless reasons. What I’m seeing is particular.

Part of my happiness in witnessing this phenomenon is understanding how they feel. I’ve been that woman. I’m not right now, and I can say sincerely that it’s okay. I’ll be that woman again. As sure as the El curls to the west at Lake; as sure as the pigeons love the red Calder sculpture outside the post office on Dearborn; as sure as my tea in the morning, I’ll be walking through the Loop someday soon with my head in the clouds and a smile on my lips because of him.

It’s exciting, really. All that love on the way.

 

26 May 2017

“It’s Not Even Leatha’!”

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Fashion, Story | 13
This one's leather. Hermes Ostrich Birkin Bag. Photo: Wikipedia.
This one’s leather. Hermes Ostrich Birkin Bag. Photo: Wikipedia.

 

I had an experience yesterday that made me happy in my heart, though even as it was happening I thought, “Mary, you are so weird.” But I’m okay with being weird if it means moments like these.

On the way back from my infusion appointment yesterday, I felt all right. Actually, I felt pretty good. I decided to get a coffee for the bus ride home. It just so happened that the nearest place to go for a coffee was Nordstrom’s. I was right outside the doors! Nordstrom’s has a good cafe! Don’t look at me like that.

I went inside and noticed big red signs plastered everywhere announcing a one-of-a-kind, do-not-miss-this-or-you’ll-never-forgive-yourself sale (this happens a lot at Nordstrom’s.) Though I was in no mood to shop — really — I decided that after I got my coffee, I’d look at the handbags. There was a sale, after all, and I was iron-enriched. My evening would be simply be reading and writing and hanging out with my couch; some innocent designer handbag perusing before I headed home couldn’t hurt. Knowing me, it would help.

I made a beeline for the designer side of the handbag section. There was a wide table with a shallow lip full of bags of various sizes, all of them gorgeous. There were Alexander McQueen clutches embellished with Swarovski crystals and silk flowers. There were a couple structured leather Proenza Schouler satchels. There were Fendi totes. My heart went pitter pat as I looked through them all. I love a great bag.

But it wasn’t going to happen for me yesterday.

The bags, even at 40% off, were expensive. Like, slap-yo-mama expensive. What’s 40% off $2700? I don’t know, either, but that’s how much one of the satchels cost and I just don’t have that kind of scratch to drop on a purse right now. Oh, I’ve purchased some expensive handbags in my day. But I could count on one finger the number of times I’ve dropped [INSERT FIGURE HERE] on something that will soon contain exploding pens and smashed cashews and get kicked under my seat on my next Southwest flight.*

There was a Nordstrom’s clerk standing near the table. She was super pretty, a little older than me with white-blonde hair. Her job was to keep an eye on the merchandise, of course; those handbags were usually under glass or hooked to security cords. I greeted her and smiled; she smiled back.

Right before I decided to head out, I took a second look at a killer denim shoulder bag. It was Stella McCartney. A heavy, shiny chain ran up the sides and ran along the top. It was padded, but only slightly. It might not sound like much (puffy denim??) but trust me, this was one hot purse. Then I looked at the price: on sale at $830 dollars. Eight-hundred-thirty dollars! On sale! In that instant, I heard in my mind one of my all-time favorite lines from a movie:

“$830 dollars?! It’s not even leatha!”

It comes from Joan Cusack in Working Girl. Since so many readers love the exact same movies I do (Overboard, Baby Boom, etc.), I’ll bet many of you know this line, too. It happens when Melanie Griffith (Tess) is at her boss’s house, trying on her boss’s clothes. Tess’s friend Cynthia, played by Cusack, is with her. When Tess takes something off a hanger that still has the tag on it, Cynthia looks at the price, splutters, and says, in her thick Bronx accent, “Six-thousand dollas?? It’s not even leatha!” It’s so great.

Standing there with the Stella McCartney puffy denim handbag, I really had to laugh. And then I thought, “I’ll bet the clerk would laugh at this, too. Should I tell her?” I decided to roll the dice, a la my Uber tour of Savannah.

“You know,” I said, coming around to her side of the table. “I think you’ll appreciate this. One of my favorite lines in a movie comes from Working Girl. Have you seen it? Do you know what I’m talking about? Melanie Griffith? It’s an eighties movie.”

The clerk sized me up right away, like, “What is she saying? Why is she talking to me like she knows me? Is this woman safe to talk to? ”

There was no time to waste. I told, very quickly, about the line in the movie, how Joan Cusack looks at the price tag and goes, “It’s not even leatha!” and how I thought about it when I looked at the denim puff bag.

The clerk loved it. She legit laughed, as in threw-her-head-back and laughed at the line. “Oh, wow,” she said. “That is so good. It’s great. You have no idea how much merchandise we have in here that that line applies to. Thank you. Seriously, thank you for that.”

So there you go. I’m weird. I sidle up to store clerks and launch into lines from Melanie Griffiths movies from 25 years ago. I have no intention of stopping this kind of behavior as long as it makes sense. Making people laugh while they’re at work makes sense to me.

 

*I fully intend to be the sort of person who sees a handbag on a table like this and says to no one in particular, “Would [SISTER/FRIEND/MOM] like this?” and then promptly buys it without blinking. Be patient, sister/friend/Mom. I’m working on it.

 

24 May 2017

If It’s Not One Thing, Make It Another

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Sicky, Tips | 15
The idea here is that the little kitteh is making a list of things to do. Image: Wikipedia.
The idea here is that the little kitteh is making a list of things to do. Image: Wikipedia.

 

One of the hard parts about not feeling 100% is that it’s advisable to rest, to stay put. I am terrible at resting and staying put.

On a physical level, it’s just plain difficult for me to settle down in a chair for very long. I’m up, I’m down. I sit down to sew and oop! Gotta get up for some ice. I sit down to write and oop! I’m up because I really should go get the laundry out of the dryer before I get too into things. I sit down to have my breakfast and oop! I’m up because I need salt. That kind of thing.

But that’s just the micro-level stuff. It’s hard for me to stay put on the macro level, as well. After a string of days laying low, I feel so off. I want to be leaping and leapfrogging and feeling fabulous but I feel logie and grouchy and antsy. It’s important to mention, by the way, my desire to leap and frog about does not mean I have a yen to go outside and catch butterflies or hike the Appalachian Trail or swim laps all day and then link arms with my friends and dance till the sun goes down (or comes up? I don’t know, I’m exhausted just thinking about all that.) Leaping and leapfrogging and feeling fabulous to me can be as simple as getting up and feeling good, then being productive at my desk and then maybe going to lunch.

When I can’t do these things, when doing laundry is hard not just because I’m iron-deficient but because I’m mildly depressed over being iron-deficient, it’s hard to get up over the fence.

Today, I did things that helped. It always starts with little things. I made a list that was manageable. Here’s what was on the list:

  • fold laundry (*good job for doing it yesterday!!)
  • go to the library to return your book
  • go to post office
  • answer pressing emails

And guess what? I did all of those things (plus a few more) and I feel better as I write this.

If my blog is ever of use, it’s because I can tell you what’s happening to me and then, if it’s happening to you and you identify, you won’t feel like you’re sitting by yourself. Maybe you’re not anemic, but maybe you’ve been sitting still and feeling weird about that or feeling bad about it. My suggestion is that perhaps you might like to make a short list. It worked for me today.

Just try a short list.

13 May 2017

Graduation Station.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 2
Good luck, brothers and sisters. Image: Wikipedia.
Good luck, brothers and sisters. Image: Wikipedia.

 

It’s graduation time.

Yesterday, the Loop was teeming with happy, giddy students and parents and siblings already in town for graduation ceremonies and festivities. For many youngish humans in my city right now, school’s not just out for the summer — it’s out for good.

As I made my way to the first of several engagements yesterday afternoon/evening, I thought about my own graduation from the University of Iowa so many years ago. They named me valedictorian of my department, though I’m still not sure what that meant, other than that I was tasked with giving a speech at commencement. This terrified me. I was sure that I couldn’t write a commencement speech that wouldn’t be cheesy or boring. So I turned my allotted 15 minutes into a performance: I had fellow grads in the audience write advice on small slips of paper, crumple them up, and toss them up onto the stage so I could catch and read them. Whether this was effective/entertaining or not, I have no idea — the whole thing was a blur.

Sort of like my entire undergrad experience. Not because I was a party animal for four years. (That was just senior year.) It just went so fast, is all. And what I do remember about it is in flimsy patches. I’d have to sit down for awhile and really try to remember, year by year, what that time was and what it was all about. Part of my forgetting surely is due to what came after those good ol’ days: the Mack truck of post-college reality. I went from being a popular senior in small-pond Iowa City to being a studio-apartment-dwelling coat check girl in an enormous metropolis that couldn’t care less about me (or that I was valedictorian.) Those were the hunger years. I had no idea how hard they’d be.

Though there were smiles and whoops downtown yesterday — and all across the country, wherever colleges are wrapping up the year — there was something else in the air which suppose I’d call a tremulous expectation. There’s a “now what?” coloring the graduating seniors’ pride and joy. I know that “now what?” very well. Seeing them cavort around this weekend brought it all back.

I don’t mean to be a buzzkill. It’s wonderful to see all these kids with their whole lives in front of them. Maybe it’s that I’ve lived through some of the life that was ahead of me and it looks different from here. Not bad. Just different.

7 May 2017

Airport Appreciation Day.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Rant, Travel | 11
The view from the window. (I'm not even on the plane, yet, though.) Image: Wikipedia.
The view from the window. (I’m not even on the plane, yet, though.) Image: Wikipedia.

 

I had a pretty funny post going. It was an open letter to my flight from New York to Chicago. I do love the open letter form, as many of you know. But that was two hours ago.

That post has been deleted because your ol’ pal Mar doesn’t feel so funny anymore. Well, not funny ha-ha. I feel more sorta funny hysterical. Not funny hysterical as in “That’s hysterically funny!” but more like”Please, please make this day end.”

At press time, I’ve been at the Westchester County Airport since 3:30 p.m. It is now 9: 10 p.m. My plane will not board for another two hours.

But before you clutch your pearls, you must know that this is actually miraculous news. For just two hours ago — let’s call it the Planestine Era — I did not possess a boarding pass for a flight to Chicago tonight. Oh, no, no, my little marzipans. I had something else — two something elses, actually. I had in my sad, manicured paw a boarding pass for a flight tomorrow with a layover in Washington D.C. which would put me at O’Hare at nearly noon. And this scrap of paper was stapled to another scrap of paper which was a hotel voucher for a night’s sleep at the nearby La Quinta Inn. (I use the phrase “night’s sleep at the La Quinta Inn” loosely.)

It has been, as my dear mother would say, “Airport Appreciation Day.”

First of all, let me tell you that I understand the following:

  • No one is hurt, no one has died.
  • No one ought to be getting on a broken plane.

This is what I have been telling myself for the past seven hours. Perspective is crucial at times like these. Perspective is a tool that, as an adult, you simply must employ on Airport Appreciation Day. Otherwise, you are in danger of acting like a child and I assure you: A child is precisely what you want to act like when you’re in my situation. I get it.

Remember the days when you were at a slumber party or a circus and you pitched a fit because you just wanted to go home?? Remember how no amount of candy or toys or hugs and kisses from Mommy or Daddy or Gramma or Grampa would console you because you were tired and angry and fed up and grouchy and probably there was something going on with your poop (sorry, but you know I speak the truth) and you just freaked out because everything was lousier than it had ever, ever been, ever and NO NO NO.

Yeah, I know. But difference between children and adults is that we know better than to do that past a certain age. Oh, we have exquisite reasons to freak out. The feelings are totally legit. But when we’re grown, we have to try harder. We must breathe. We must recognize the humanity in the people who are working ticket counters and serving sodas on airplanes. After all, they are just like us. They are trying to earn a living. They do not wake up in the morning, stretch, and think to themselves, “How can I have the worst day of my life? How can I cause suffering in my fellow man? Oh, I know!”

No. The people who work at the airport wake up everyone else. They wake up like you. With few exceptions, these folks are trying their best to like, avoid hideousness.

I saw some hideousness today. Tonight. People yelling. People disgusted with each other. It was rough. And I wasn’t a cool cucumber the whole time: When they told me I wasn’t going to sleep in my bed tonight after being in three states this week, hot tears started pouring down my cheeks. Some people in the line might’ve thought I was a drama queen, but I assure you, those were real, bitter tears.

But I knew to dry up before long. This is life. This is travel. The man behind me, he lashed out at the ticket people working through the long line of exhausted, bewildered passengers. I’m not saying I’m better than than that guy; I’m saying he couldn’t overcome his inner, tired, sad child. Tonight, at least, I managed to overcome mine.

Writing helps me live my life. That’s why I do it. Writing is how I make sense of things, so as I wait here at the gate for two more — please say just two more — hours, it’s my only comfort. My blood pressure has dropped. I am breathing easier. This is the gift I have in my life. It’s you, it’s my journal, it’s my book. For me, I always have an escape route. Letters and a page.

Wait! I didn’t tell you how it worked out!

Right at the moment when I was leaving the airport to go to my sad, sad hotel room, there was announcement: American Airlines was going to see if they could get a plane over here to Westchester County to fly us to Chicago. I raced back through security. We all waited with bated breath. Then, the good news came: Yes! Yes, there would be a plane! It wouldn’t be here till 10:40 p.m., but it would come!

So I had a glass of wine with a few other folks in limbo and then I came down here to you.

6 May 2017

My Little ‘House Of Cards’ Problem.

by | posted in: Art, Day In The Life | 30
NOT GOOD. Image: Wikipedia.
HERE WE GO. Image: Wikipedia.

 

Sometimes my sister Rebecca will mention a hugely popular movie or a television show and I’ll say, “What’s that?” and she will smack her forehead and roll her eyes and say, “You are unbelievable.”

A good example of this was La La Land. We were walking along a few months ago and La La Land was apparently what every last person on the planet was talking about but I had literally never heard of it. When Rebecca discovered this, she groaned. “How is that possible?” she said, shaking her head. “Are you like in the world?”

Yes, but I just don’t see many movies and I don’t have a television. And though I definitely consume visual media, it’s not super mainstream media most of the time. I love to watch documentaries. I very much enjoy watching lectures and educational content on YouTube while I sew. Oh, and I’ve seen every episode of The Great British Bakeoff at least twice. But the big shows like Game of Thrones, Scandal, or [insert show here], I just sort of don’t get sucked into that stuff.

Except. Except for this one dark, gripping, tension-filled, beautifully rendered, twisty-turny, Shakespearean blinkin’ show called… House of Cards.

Mercy, that show is good.

It was all Claus’s fault. A couple years ago, he started watching it and wouldn’t stop talking about how incredible it was. From the opening credits to the storyline(s) to the cliffhangers, he just went on and on about it. I finally decided to give it a chance, even though Mom said she and Mark tried to watch it but couldn’t get past a couple episodes because “the characters were just such awful people, honey.”

Yeah, no kidding. Murder, treachery, mutiny, little lies, big lies, enormous lies — the characters in House of Cards are more dastardly and dirty than the meanest Blackbeard-ian pirates that ever sailed the high seas. But they’re fascinating. I don’t know when I’ve ever been more into a television program than House of Cards. Kevin Spacey is irresistibly wicked. Robin Wright is terrifying and beautiful. I’m in love with the character of Doug Stamper, which, if you know the show, is super weird. But what can I do? He’s so wrong, he’s right.

The reason I’m bringing this up now is that Washington, we have a problem: Season 5 is starting at the end of this month.

This means I am about to be obsessed with watching a television show again and I was enjoying not having to deal with that, honestly. It’s kind of stressful. You see, I started watching the House of Cards when there were nearly four seasons already made and available to stream on Netflix, so I started at the beginning and watched episode after episode after episode until there were no episodes left to watch. I watched that show like it was my job. I’d start in the evening and I would watch it until 2:00 a.m., then dream about the show when I fell asleep! It was crazy.

Now, since I’m caught up, I have to see the show and then wait?? For an entire week??

Rebecca, this is why I don’t do this kind of thing. But if you want to get caught up on House of Cards, I would love to come over to your place and watch it together. We can eat popcorn and watch the pirates run amok!

 

5 May 2017

Have Board, Will Skate.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 8
How do they do that?? Photo: Wikipedia.
How do they do that?? Photo: Wikipedia.

 

Greetings from Westchester County, New York.

I have been in three states this week and I am resting up in this hotel room so that I can do two days of lecturing at the fabulous Northern Star Quilt Guild’s “World of Quilts” (WOQ) quilt show. If you’re in the area, you’d better getch’er tushie down/over/up here because there are vendors, demos, and something like 200 quilts ready to be viewed by 2,000+ people when the show opens tomorrow at 10 a.m. The WOQ show has been going strong since 1989 and I am honored to be a part of it this year.

In other news, I would like to talk about skateboards.

Actually — no. First, I want to tell you why I would like to talk about skateboards.

You may have noticed that this blog is updated regularly. These days, I’d say I’m posting 4.87 times a week. What this means, according to my arithmetic, is that if you click on my blog each day — you gorgeous, brilliant creature, you — roughly 70% of the time you’re going to find something new to read.* That number a little under my target of 5.6 posts per week, but with all that goes on in my life in a typical 24-hour period, I’d say it’s pretty good.

To help myself churn out such sparkling content (ho-ho!) week after week, I keep a running list of ideas on my computer. I don’t refer to the list every day, nor do I add ideas to it every day. But when I find myself with the time and inclination to blog but without a specific target in mind, I’ll check the list. Here is about half the list right now:

  • the time I did transcription work
  • Alexander the Great wore linen armor!!
  • the benefits of a degree in theater
  • everyone skateboards (“ca-chunk, ca-chunk-ca-chunk”)
  • the Wikipedia entry for “Mary”
  • Britney Spears in Las Vegas
  • apologize
  • Hannah letter to the editor
  • first kiss
  • “nabadana”

I’ll work my way through them, you can be sure. You might even decide that you have nothing better to do with your life than make up some kind of PaperGirl bingo card and play with your friends and neighbors! Every time I write one of the posts on the list… Okay, I don’t know how bingo works. I’m sure you could figure it out, though and I’d like to personally thank you for inspiring me to write the “PaperGirl bingo card.” I am inexplicably happy about that configuration of words.

Okay, so skateboards.

They’re absolutely everywhere. The other day, I realized that one of the major sounds of the city these days — as common as taxi honks, car alarms, the whoosh of the El — is the “ca-chunk! ca-chunk! ca-chunk!” of a skateboard as a rider whizzes by on the sidewalk. (The “ca” is the front wheels hitting the sidewalk seam; the “chunk!” is the sound when the back wheels cross it.)

When did the profligation occur? Skateboards have been around a long time and of course I have seen (and jumped out of the way of) many of them in my day. But there are way more right now and I’m curious as to why. Another interesting phenomenon is that though there are more skater boys than there are girls, there are so many girls who get around this way! I see them all the time. It’s pretty cool.

And that’s it. That’s what I wanted to say about skateboards. So…

Bingo.

 

*If that math so wrong it’s not sort of sweet but just embarrassing for everyone, please let me know. Thank you! — The Management.

29 Apr 2017

Airport Sundry Shop Despondency.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 12
Image & Style magazine's April 2016 cover featuring "Mob Wives" Marissa Jade. Image: Wikipedia.
Image & Style magazine’s April 2016 cover featuring “Mob Wives” Marissa Jade. Image: Wikipedia.

 

I am at the Raleigh-Durham airport. My flight is delayed at least an hour because the rest of the country is beset by storms, apparently. I left my phone charger at the retreat center, I accidentally packed my computer cord in my luggage, I’ve got a half bag of turkey jerky in my purse and no contact solution to squirt into my dry eyeballs: Welcome to the glamorous life of a sewlebrity.

Aw, it’s fine. I’m just being dramatic. (But there really is turkey jerky in my purse and my computer really is going to die before too long, here.)

The truth is, I’m in a pretty good mood, considering. I spent 36 hours with a group of salt o’ the Earth women down here in North Carolina. It appeared they had a good time and learned things from me; the opposite was true, too.

I had a conversation with two of the ladies on the front porch last night; I won’t soon forget it. We talked politics and it was so good. I rarely ever broach the topic, as you know, but from time to time, the mood is right, and so it was last night. The three of us talked about how we voted, how we feel about how we voted, and how important it is to keep talking to each other across party lines, across our life stages, across our city mouse/country mouse locations. We have to do this if we’re gonna make it. I thanked them last night for the meaningful chat; I thank them both again now.

My hopeful, optimisticky mood took a hit a few hours ago, though, and I blame the newsstand at the sundry shop here at the Raleigh-Durham International Airport (RDU). My love of magazines and books is no secret: I was the editor of a national magazine for four years; I am currently associate editor of my school’s newsmagazine; I have written two quilting books; I am writing a book of essays. If I got any more in love with magazines and books, why, I’d marry ’em!

But the magazines and books at the RDU sundry shop made my stomach hurt. Here’s what was there and how I felt about what was there:

  • Romance novels — not where my interest lies*
  • Super-crazy expensive business books with titles like, “Who Stole My Pickles?” and “The Accelerator’s Handbook: The Only Business Advice You’ll Ever Need. Ever. Really.” — no way
  • Magazine after magazine with photoshopped models making truly ridiculous fashion faces — this is still a thing
  • Magazine after magazine freaking out about everything — WE GET IT
  • Magazine after magazine about tech or computers — #TylonolPM
  • Magazine after magazine for dudes — gross

And I really needed to get something to read because hello: no phone charger, no computer cord. The clock was ticking, man. I finally found a book worth buying: White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America, by Nancy Isenberg. Thank goodness. This book is at the top of a zillion “Best Of” lists and looks fascinating, so as this computer dies out, I can read instead of watching that kid over there by the water fountain spin around in circles until she falls and bonks her head and cries. Again. Because that’s happened twice. She’s actually pretty cute, but I’m getting dizzy.

Fade to black.

 

*In the original post, I used the words “Trashy romance novels.” This was offensive to several folks, so I edited it. We regret the faux pas. — The Management

24 Apr 2017

It Was Bat Appreciation Day and You Missed It! (I’m Here To Help.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Word Nerd | 2
As much as I like bats, they're not exactly handsome creatures. I went with free clip art. Image: Internet.
As much as I like bats, they’re not handsome creatures. I went with free clip art on this one. Image: Internet.

 

A couple weeks ago, Sophie and I took a trip to the Montrose Point Bird Watching Sanctuary. This sweet enclave of brambles and bushes and trees has gotten the nickname “The Magic Hedge” because over 300 species of birds can be found there, according to the Illinois Audubon Society. The Magic Hedge is one of Sophie and her partner Luke’s favorite places to go because Sophie and Luke are legit bird-watchers. In fact, the first time I ever met Luke, he and Sophie had just come from bird-watching. I swear the crazy kids were wearing matching shirts with birds on them. I might be making that up but it’s definitely something they would do.

The love those two have for birds has had an effect on me; I am more in awe of birds because of their interest and joy in seeing them. But the coolest thing Sophie and I saw at the Bird Sanctuary wasn’t a bird.

It was a bat! Yeah, a bat!

We were going along a hedgerow, picking our way along the path, when an elderly fellow coming the other way stopped us, pointed to a branch mid-way up a tree, and whispered, “There’s a red bat just up ahead. Look there!” There it was! A wee, sleekit bat was hanging upside down, sleeping the day away! Why, he looked like a little pussy willow up there, only with a reddish hue to his fur. Sophie and I couldn’t believe it! A bat! We looked at him for awhile. He didn’t do much but he was great. Then, when a lady came along the path, heading in the direction of Sir Bat, I stopped her and told her about the bat, just as the nice man had done for us.

The bat was probably my favorite thing at the Bird Sanctuary that day. My second favorite thing was witnessing Bird Sanctuary etiquette. I love when people get excited by simple things and help other people get excited about them.

Anywhoo, the very next day I was in the newspaper office looking at a website that lists the National Days. You know, National Donut Day, National PaperGirl Day, stuff like that. Well, what do you suppose I saw? I saw that not only is there a National Bat Appreciation Day, but it was coming up in a matter of days! Amazing.

So I wrote up a short, fun little item about this for F Newsmagazine and I thought I’d send you over there to check it out. I really stand by the reading selections I give you in this article. I know many of you are big readers and I promise: You cannot go wrong with the recommendations offered, even if you aren’t so sure about the subject matter.

Also, “Read All A-Bat-It!” is maybe the best headline I’ve ever written, so there’s that, too. Enjoy!

 

22 Apr 2017

Salty.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 12
The big box. Image: Me.
The big box. Image: Me.

 

I ran out of salt the other day and it was very exciting.

Running out of salt doesn’t happen often in my home because I buy the big box of Morton’s Kosher Salt. That big box contains three pounds of salt. That’s a lot of salt to get through even for me, a gal who puts salt on everything she eats unless it’s ice cream, and even then, it could happen.

There was a terrifying moment a couple mornings ago when made my scrambled eggs. I had hit the bottom of the previous box of salt but had not yet gotten the new one. I panicked a little and seized the 99.999% empty box, shaking a pathetic cloud of salt dust over my plate. It worked well enough, but it put the fear of Jehovah in me. I wrote “BUY SALT!!!” on my to-do list. At the top.

On my way home that evening, I popped by the store and got my new salt. I wondered to myself as I lugged it home in my totebag* who I might be by the time I finished this box.

I will surely be in my second year of graduate school; there’s no way I’m going to consume quite that much salt from now until late August, am I? I think that would be bad. Will I be in a new relationship? That last box of salt was used in preparing meals for a few gentleman, if I may be frank. (None were named Frank. Maybe I’ll meet a Frank.)

Maybe when I finish that box of salt, all my dreams will have come true and I will be sublimely happy and want for nothing and lack nothing and be this perfect, happy, beneficent, magnificent being that sort of floats along and makes the world a better place and causes no suffering and doesn’t make anything worse.

But I’ll probably just be making scrambled eggs.

 

*Chicago has implemented a 7 cent bag tax for every plastic or paper bag used for carrying purchases from a store. Grocery stores, convenience stores, department stores — no purchased object is safe. When they announced this, I thought it was just grocery stores for some reason. People were grumbling, but I didn’t think too much of it; it couldn’t add up to too much, I usually have a totebag, anyhow, and if it leads to fewer plastic bags in the world, this is probably good. But then I realized the tax is on all bags! If you purchase one thing every day, on average, and it comes in a bag, that’s $25 a year. It’s annoying, is what I’m saying. Also, I promise not to do any more math in a post for a long time.

19 Apr 2017

All The Ridiculous Things I Want.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 12
Gold! It's gold!! (Actually, this is chocolate.) Image: Wikipedia.
Gold! It’s gold!! (Actually, this is chocolate.) Image: Wikipedia.

 

Yesterday, I gave a big, honkin’ presentation in my Oulipo class on a famous Oulipian named Harry Mathews. Today, I gave an even bigger presentation for Anne Wilson’s class on seminal 20th century artist Miriam Schapiro. (I’ll be posting about her before long, especially in light of your intelligent, important comment yesterday, Kathryn Darnell!)

During my research on the late Ms. Schapiro — who I selected to research because of her use of fabric and quilt motifs in her art — I found an early painting of Schapiro’s for sale through a gallery in Canada. There was a button on the gallery’s website that said: “Send Me Information About This Artwork”.

I clicked. I was curious and clicking didn’t cost a cent. How much would an early (smallish) painting by Miriam Schapiro be? She is a really big deal in the world of fine art, but how much would it be? I had to know. I’m not in the market for high art at this point in my life, so I really had no idea. What if it was a lot but not like, so much that I couldn’t take out a loan and buy it?? I’m already in debt for student loans. What’s an extra $100 bucks a month for the next few years, right? I connect to this artist’s work and though I do spend a lot on shoes, I don’t have a car, I use plain soap in the shower (as opposed to fancy body wash, not that I’m judging), and life is short.

The painting is $55,000.

My calculator tells me that if I paid $100/month for that work of art — this is the limit of what I could afford right now — it would take 550 months to pay it off. That’s 45 years. I’d be 82 when that artwork was mine and I didn’t even count taxes or interest on the loan I’d need to secure it in the first place.

So…that is not going to happen. Not yet, anyway.

Boy, do I want that painting, though. I keep thinking about it. I keep picturing myself as the kind of person who owns an early Miriam Schapiro, you know? She seems so cool, that person. Except that I’d probably have to get a new condo just to make sure I had the proper wall for it. Then I’d have to make sure I always wore something that complimented the painting, of course, and I’d have to be perfectly coiffed in case someone popped by for Champagne, dahhling, just to see “my Schapiro.” As I fantasized, the painting kept doubling in price.

C’est la vie. It was fun while it lasted. And in the spirit of that sort of fun, I thought I’d make a short list of other things I want that I cannot have because they cost too much money. What about you? Do we overlap?

Wait, wait.

Before the list, of course, more than any of these things, I want health and happiness for my family. I want a long life for myself and for my kith and kin and I want a savings account that will provide for me and all of them, too. I want world peace immediately. I want to start a theater with my friend Sophie. I want to build a library in my mother’s name. I want to make a foundation for quilt studies. I want all the broken hearts to have peace tonight. I want to forgive and be forgiven. All this is what I really, actually want. But now that I’ve made that clear, let’s talk ridiculous, material fantasies. I’m pretty sure it’s harmless fun. Pretty sure.

 

Fantasy (Material) Want List

  • That Miriam Schapiro painting.
  • Like, so many other pieces of art.
  • A full-time housekeeper.
  • A full-time chef.
  • A VIP/Platinum-whatever pass thingy for all the airlines so I can fly first class and go to the nice lounges in the airports (I’d just be doing homework in there but wow.)
  • New Oriental rugs! (Have you priced legit Oriental rugs lately?? Insane.)
  • New luggage (Nevermind!)
  • WARDROBE OVERHAUL! I mean, hello.
  • A new condo so I can get my little doggie, Philip Larkin (but I would keep this one and rent it out because even in my fantasy life, I know the value of a dollar and having rental income would help pay the bills.)
  • A lifelong vacation plan. Not a lifelong vacation, mind you: A plan that funds a vacation every year for the rest of my life. And for my sisters. A lifelong sister vacation plan. [This last thing might go into the list of things that I would want first, you know? It seems less material and more… More important.]

 

18 Apr 2017

Being Open vs. Staying True to a Vision.

by | posted in: Art, Day In The Life, Tips | 16
Making artistic choices. It's like buyin' veggies at a farm stand. Photo: Wikipedia.
Making artistic choices. It’s like buyin’ veggies at a farm stand. (Please note the label on the box of shallots reads “Tooty.”) Photo: Wikipedia.

 

Learning is exciting and fun when you learn something you didn’t know before and you’re instantly excited about it. My experience in grad school so far has consisted mostly of this kind of learning. More often than not, it’s like, “Wow, a new author I love! Wow, a fascinating person I’ve just met! Wow, a school of thought I never conceived of before! Wow, world!”

But that’s not the only way to respond to learning new things. Responding negatively to new information is important, too. It doesn’t feel fun to not like a book you have to read for class, but really, this kind of learning is every bit as exciting when you take the long view. Finding out what you don’t like, e.g., the kind of work you don’t want to make, the books or authors or ideas you reject, this definitely help shape who you are as a person, a student, a maker, whatever.

And there’s another kind of lesson, I guess, that I’ve been thinking a lot about. It hasn’t been fun to learn it. It’s been uncomfortable and painful. But it’s been very important. Let’s see if I can explain.

If you’re a person who strives to to better, learn more, and do exciting stuff in collaboration other people, which is all of us, you need to be — nay, you want to be! — open to other people’s comments and contributions. Maybe you’re working on a project for work. Maybe you’re making a quilt. Maybe you’re writing a book. Maybe you’re a parent and you’re trying to raise your kids. Getting outside input is important. Listening to someone who has been there before is wise (especially if that person just got a raise doing the job you have, won a blue ribbon on her quilt, got a Pulitzer for her last novel and raised six kids.) The right advice can save you a lot of time. It could even save your life.

But.

There is also a time to listen to yourself. There’s a time to get advice from this guy, that guy, her, her, and him, and then do nothing that they told you to do.

And I was going to say that “it’s so so so hard to know when to trust yourself and when to take advice!” but the thing is, I’ve been dealing with this recently and I think… Sometimes, I think it’s easy. Sometimes, you absolutely do know the right thing to do, and the hard part is admitting that and then going for it.

Here’s my example.

My advisors are amazing. They’re embarrassingly talented. They’re wildly accomplished. They’ve won awards, they’ve published in the fanciest places. They’re successful and brilliant and they are genuine fans of mine who want the best for me. I’m pretty sure that when I’m not in school, we’re all gonna hang out because we like each other.

But over the course of this semester, without meaning to do harm or lead me astray, both my advisors were steering me away from writing the essays I’ve been writing and toward writing a chronological memoir. And what do you suppose I started doing? Yes! Because they are so great and smart and fancy, I slowly started change everything I was doing to fit that vision. I thought, consciously and subconsciously: They know better that I do. They’re older. More successful.

The problem is that I don’t want to write a chronological memoir. I want to write something that doesn’t look like that. And when I lost sight of what I set out to do, when I was changing what I was learning to fit someone else’s vision, all the joy fell out of my project and I didn’t write on my book for a long time. I miss it.

Life and work, it’s all a negotiation. You must listen to others. You must learn. You would be well advised to be well advised. Folks who can’t be told nothin’ are frustrating and lame. (And believe me: Writers who think every word they write is gold and precious are not going to get very far.) We all need editors, we all need help and input from other people.

But you also know things. You do. And you matter as much as anybody else.

 

7 Apr 2017

Marianne Fons.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 28
The lady herself. Photo: Me, c. 2014?
The lady herself. Photo: Me, c. 2014.

 

Dear Mom:

By the time you read this, it’ll be tomorrow.

You’ll be home in Iowa with Mark and Scrabble. Your morning ritual will be done. You’ll have had your coffee. You’ll have put in an hour or more of work on your novel. Whether or not your morning ablutions are done, you’ll surely have your mental to-do list going; you’ll have a plan for the day.

By the time you read this, I’ll have done my own morning ritual, except that I drink tea and write nonfiction. That’s a huge difference — tea and nonfiction vs. coffee and fiction —  but is also sort of no difference at all, and I think it’s good for mothers and daughters to ride that line.

We covered both serious and frivolous ground in the 30 or so hours you were here in Chicago. We spoke of work, the future, creativity, family, fashion, sacrifice, choices, romance, time management, death (same as time management), taxes, and more. We talked quilts, of course. We talked about feminism because I’m studying the work of Miriam Schapiro and to talk about Miriam Schapiro is to talk about quilts and feminism.

I have so many questions about how making a quilt for the Bicentennial united so many women from different spots on the frenzied, polarized political spectrum of 1976. You were there, I wasn’t, yet. You were a stay-at-home mom, you took a quilting class, then you built this incredible business while raising up three girls all by yourself. My sisters and I go through life sort of continually shaking our heads in disbelief. Our family has certainly had its share of storms and shrieking eels, but the ship is sound: She tends to right herself.

Thanks for coming to Chicago, Mama. I miss being on TV with you. Judging by the (hundreds of!) people that came to see us today at the convention center, I’m not the only one. We’re a good team. But even if we never film another episode, we’ll always have those shows. We got to sew together and someone taped it! Way cool.

Lastly, thanks for buying me that dress. We went into Nordstrom Rack and my eyes laser-beamed on it immediately. It was smooshed into an overcrowded display, the only one of its kind. My size. On clearance. I knew it was perfect; you were dubious and made me try it on. When I came out of the dressing room, you took one look and threw up your hands and said, “Well, it’s perfect!”

And I felt so happy because I love being a person you like, a person that reliably makes you smile and shake your head because she can find the clearance-rack designer dress that fits perfectly and she can do it in 5 seconds flat.

It’s nice to be loved by my mom. It’s even nicer to know that I delight and amuse her. My sisters do that for you, too, and this makes me deeply, indelibly content. I speak for us all when I say we don’t take this particular contentment for granted.

See you next in Iowa, Mom, for the opening of the theater. Remind me to do an interview update with you and Rebecca this week or next week.

Love,
Mar

1 Apr 2017

From Time To Time, A Husband Would Be Nice, or, “I Fixed My Luggage.”

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 40
The file of this picture is named: "Winston Churchill SnowQueen of Feliland." I don't know what that means. Read on. Image: Where else? Wikipedia.
When I searched “luggage” in Wikipedia Commons, this was one of the images I found. It’s weird, but it kind of properly conveys how happy I am that I don’t need to buy new luggage.

 

Remember when I told you my luggage was on its last wheels and that I would need to replace it? How bummed I was; how peeved. The wheels were broken, I was sure. The latch wouldn’t close, the brakes were surely busted.

Before I clicked “Purchase” on two new suitcases — a huge expenditure for a person who travels as much as I do, hauling quilts, books, and homework from coast to coast — I decided to try something. I decided to try some WD-40 on those wheels. I remember WD-40. My dad used to use it on stuff. It’s lubricant for wheels and things. Maybe my wheels weren’t ruined, just squeaky. So I went down to the hardware store and bought some WD-40.

Then I thought about the rainbow-colored straps I see wrapped around suitcases on the baggage carousels, sometimes. Those straps… I decided they’re for keeping luggage closed tight when a latch is broken or dodgy. I tapped my nose. I looked at my luggage. Then I went out and bought a wide, black strap for $8 bucks at the luggage shop in the Loop.

Today, my silver hard-top suitcases are more fabulous than they have ever been. They are fixed.

Both pieces roll like they’re on rails — real smooth. The WD-40 was magic. It’s almost spooky how little sound I make as I walk with my suitcases. I could easily commit a murder while wheeling my suitcases along with me. That’s me: The Luggage Killer.

And the strap. That luggage strap is like a seatbelt for my soul. The buckle is big and strong and when I pull the strap tight and snap it (click!) around Suitcase #2, it feels physically satisfying. I feel like I’ll buy one for my other suitcase, just because. Snapping that black belt around my possessions is like swaddling a baby. And it makes a really good sound.

The only problem with all this is that when I was buying my strap and my WD-40 and spraying the stuff all up in those wheels, I literally thought, “It would be nice to have a husband. He would do this stuff.”

Isn’t that terrible? Or maybe it’s not. I have no idea. I do know that some people will spit out their tea when they read such a sentiment. Because girls can take care of themselves. Because not all men know about WD-40, anyhow. Because I’m clearly a capable woman. Because men shouldn’t have to be the ones in a relationship to do stuff with wheels. Because gender, because Mary, because ew, because no, because yes, because God, because etc., etc. It’s a very fraught thing to say, this, “I wish I had a husband who would WD-40 my wheels for me.”

I know. But I’m posting this anyway.

I don’t long for a husband. I really don’t. Not right now, maybe not ever again. And I did, after all, fix my own luggage; I figured it out. But I’m being honest. There was a moment of feeling bummed out because it took me a several months of wheeling around a pair of suitcases that sounded like dying ducks before I thought about repairing/fixing them up and, when that did occur to me, it was up to me to do it. This could also just be a nasty case of woe-is-me, in which case, yuck.

But that’s what happened. Also, I have a full can of WD-40, so please: Call me. Let’s grease some wheels. I will have this can of WD-40 for the rest of my life if I don’t make some house calls.

31 Mar 2017

The Swan Towel.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Work | 16
Swan/sentinel, whatever. Photo: Me.
Towel swan as sentinel. Photo: Me.

 

Greetings from Mattoon, Illinois, where the cornfields are wide, the quilters are smart, and the towel swans are thick and absorbent!

While we’re on the subject of towel swans, I’d like to talk about them. I’d like to talk about towel art in general. It’s a thing. I don’t think about towel art much because it’s not something a person comes across too often — even a person who travels as much as I do, which is worth pointing out — but there was a towel swan waiting for me on my bed when I arrived in Mattoon yesterday, so towel art is very much on my mind; that thing scared the crap outta me.

Have you seen this towel art? Do you know what I’m talking about? For the uninitiated, towel art is exactly what it sounds like: It’s… Well, all right, maybe it’s not exactly what it sounds like. The “towel” in “towel art” is accurate — towel art is made from bath and/or hand towels — but I’m not sure about the word “art.” It’s tricky business to go around saying what is art and what isn’t, but I’m more comfortable calling the swans, hearts, ducks, dogs, and various other creatures that get the towel treatment “towel sculpture.” These terrycloth figures are definitely sculpted. But are they art? As in, move-me-to-tears, someone-put-that-swan-in-a-climate-controlled-gallery-and-plan-a-gala kind of art? I have not yet encountered a towel piece that qualifies in this way.

But who cares, right? Who cares if it’s art or if it’s just fun? And can’t art be fun? Verily, I say: Art can be fun.

But here’s the thing: I think towel art — or sculpture, whatever — is weird. I don’t like the idea of someone putting their paws all over my towel to make it into a nubby, dubiously charming inanimate object without eyes and then positioning it in the place where I will eventually sleep. And I don’t care who it is who might be doing all that, by the way: If a loved one of mine was all up in my towels, twisting and folding and molesting them this way and that, I would tell them to knock it off.

And yet.

The towel swan in my room also caused me to experience something called mono no aware. This is a Japanese term that is untranslatable in English. Here’s how Wikipedia defines it:

Mono no aware (物の哀れ), literally “the pathos of things”, and also translated as “an empathy toward things”, or “a sensitivity to ephemera”, is a Japanese term for the awareness of impermanence (無常 mujō), or transience of things, and both a transient gentle sadness (or wistfulness) at their passing as well as a longer, deeper gentle sadness about this state being the reality of life.

Beautiful, right? The impermanence of a towel swan. The beauty of being in this old, single-level hotel that, judging by the way the place wraps around the pool, was a swinging joint in its heyday but surely will never be like that again. The fact that the first time I ever saw a towel sculpture, I was with my mom on a cruise ship. I was in my early 20’s and I hadn’t even met my ex-husband at that point. I didn’t know I’d get sick, I didn’t know I’d get divorced, I had made exactly two quilts.

Mono no aware is not sadness. Or maybe it is, but it’s a sweet sadness, which is to say that mono no aware is life itself. And if a towel swan in a hotel room in Mattoon, Illinois on a Friday night makes me feel mono no aware, then doesn’t it follow that a towel swan in Mattoon, Illinois is life itself?

I shouldn’t be okay with that. But remarkably, all of a sudden, I am.

28 Mar 2017

The Chocolate Muffin O’ Love.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Paean | 7
Nothing has changed except my shoe size, I suppose. Photo: Mom or Dad c. 1981.
Nothing has changed except my shoe size, really. Photo: Mom or Dad c. 1981.

 

In the newspaper office yesterday morning, Sophie asked me the best question I have ever been asked. 

I was at my computer and Sophie was at her computer and she turned to me with her beautifully lipsticked red lips and her gorgeous tortoise shell glasses and she addressed me as “Miss Mary” because that is how Sophie often addresses me and I love that and she said:

“Miss Mary,” she said, “I made paleo chocolate-banana muffins last night. I have them in my knapsack. Would you like one?”

I know what you’re thinking. “That’s the best question you’ve ever been asked?? What about ‘Will you marry me?’ What about ‘What do you want for Christmas, little girl?'”

No, no, no. Sure, the proposal was great, but we know how that turned out. And Santa? Please. He’s creepy and you never really get what you want, anyway. What you want for Christmas is for peace on Earth and to be deeply, purely, supremely happy forever, which is impossible. No, a question can’t be perfect unless the answer is a) easy to give and b) certain not to ruin lives, regardless of what that answer is. Let’s look at Sophie’s question again:

“I made paleo chocolate-banana muffins last night. I have them in my knapsack. Would you like one?”

Saying yes to this is easy because Sophie’s baked goods are made of unicorns and nutrition. But even if I didn’t want to eat one of these (perfect-for-my-ruined-guts) muffins, no lives would be ruined. So, you see? A perfect question.

When I took a bite of that muffin, I broke into the biggest smile. I actually started laughing, that’s how good it was. Its consistency? Angelic. The chocolate-to-banana flavor relationship? Harmonious. My only complaint? Too small.

How I needed that muffin moment! How I needed Sophie’s unicorns and nutrition. I was coming out of my funk and this was the final, gentle push. I know, I know: It was a freakin’ muffin. But the timing. The timing, you guys.

Eating that baked good — it took three bites and then I licked the paper — I felt like a baby trying chocolate for the first time. That’s how great. And I knew about that feeling because of the picture you see above.

That’s me up there, out at the farm in Iowa, in the Yellow House. I’m pretty sure the photo is capturing my first chocolate experience, though Mom could say for sure. When I ate Sophie’s muffin yesterday, I was instantly reminded of this photo of myself — there’s actually a series of them. I emailed Mom for the picture, apologizing for the random request. But I felt the only way for me to express my gratitude to Sophie and her gift was to show her that picture, show her how she gave me more than a baked good. She gave me a memory of joy.

Mom wrote back right away:

“Hi, honey. Mark and I just arrived on Washington Island…but I have that picture on my hard drive. Tell Sophie hi. Love, Mom.” 

27 Mar 2017

On Rendering Lard. (Thanks, Nancy.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 13
An atlas of Missouri drawn in 1871 by R.A. Campbell. This was the best I could do; not a lot of pictures taken of farm gals like Nancy, which is very sad, no? Image: Wikipedia.
An atlas of Missouri drawn in 1871 by R.A. Campbell. This was the best I could do; not a lot of pictures taken of farm gals like Nancy, which is very sad, no? Image: Wikipedia.

 

I’ve been a little maudlin lately and you’ve all been very kind about it.

My impulse is to apologize for getting boo-hooey, wingeing on about being sick, being vague, and feeling overwhelmed. But I’m one of those people who tends to apologize when someone else bumps directly into me and I’ve been told that’s bad. (Sorry.) So I won’t apologize for being in a bit of a blue, sentimental place lately. I’ll just tell you that I very, very much appreciate you patting my arm and waiting for it to pass (thanks for all the comments and emails, guys, holy cow) and I’ll tell you that I’m pretty sure this particular mini-Blue Period is done.

I owe it all to Nancy Holman.

I’m researching Log Cabin quilts right now for an Exciting Project and I would like to share with you something that I read this morning that popped me out of my funk on contact. It is a passage taken from the “work diary” of this Mrs. Holman, a Missouri homesteader in the 1860s and 1870s. At one point, she describes her chores in full. These are her chores:

“Shearing sheep and washing the wool; twisting thread; making and dyeing yarn; spinning flax and tow; weaving cloth; planting and tending the garden and preserving its produce; rendering lard and making soap and candles; watering and milking the cows; slaughtering the hogs; picking cotton; sewing carpet rags; making baskets and brooms; and, of course, maintaining the routine of cleaning and scouring floors and furniture, as well as washing, ironing, cooking, and sewing.”

If you’re like me, right now your eyes are very big and you are feeling a mixture of deep horror and wild admiration. You may be shaking your head and thinking to yourself, “None of the problems that I have would exist if I had to work that hard doing all those things every single day.”

I’m with you. Who has time to worry if her jeans look cute if she’s got a hog to slaughter and a broom to make? Penpals and stubborn head colds? Please! Get to rendering that lard and spin some flax. Get over it!

In our ways, of course, we are all as busy as Nancy. I’m serious! We’re as busy as any humans ever have been, but there’s no arguing that things we’re busy with are slightly different now and require less literal blood and sweat. We may feel this or that type of way about the things we have to do in our lives that aren’t 100% fun — those feeling are valid — but I for one am very, very grateful that I do not have to make my own soap. Some people would argue that I might find deep happiness, making my own soap. They can go ahead and argue that. I wonder if they have ever smelt lard as it renders. I have. It is not good.

Anyway, thanks, Nancy. I needed to get out of my head and you did that for me.

And she still found time to quilt.

 

26 Mar 2017

A Girl Can Dream: A One-Week Morning Walk Promise.

by | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life | 13
Chicago's Wabash Avenue as seen from Washington Street. Photo by John Carbutt (1832-1905.) Image: Wikipedia.
Chicago’s Wabash Avenue as seen from Washington Street. Photo by John Carbutt (1832-1905.) Image: Wikipedia.

 

Yesterday, I drove almost to the Iowa border to give a lecture for a lovely audience in Morrison, Illinois. The lecture went great, I met 116 wonderful people, and I very much enjoyed my time on the road. Driving 2.5 hours there and 2.5 back, even though it rained almost the whole way, gave me some much needed thinking time. It’s hard to multitask when you’re driving; you just have to cruise. It was nice to cruise.

The car I was driving was a rental. I’ve mentioned before, I don’t own a car, because unless you absolutely have to have one, if you can avoid owning a car in the city, you should probably avoid it. But by the time I got back downtown, the Hertz location  was closed. This wasn’t a surprise: Carmen told me I’d have to return the car the next morning.

I parked my little red Ford Focus in the lot near my house and paid the overnight parking fee. My voucher would expire at 7:27 a.m., so when I went to bed last night, I set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. to give myself plenty of time to have some tea and get down to the lot to purchase either a new voucher or get the car moved to a different parking spot until it was time to take it back to Hertz. This was the plan. (See what I mean about having a car in the city? Bleh!)

But because I am behind on sleep, I hit my snooze button…multiple times. When I finally realized it was way past time to get up, I did not have time to make my tea and have a cup of it before I needed to go down and deal with Little Miss Focus. This made me very, very grumpy. Usually when I wake, before I do anything — before I scratch my ribs or yawn or rub the sleep from the ol’ peepers — I roll out of bed, stand up, and go directly into the kitchen to put the kettle on. I don’t use the bathroom. I don’t check my phone. I don’t even look out the window to see if the world fell down while I was sleeping. My first impulse is make sure tea is on the way. Once the burner’s on, other things are possible. Barely.

Yeah, well, that wasn’t gonna happen this morning. With grunts and protestations that could put your grumpiest, orneriest Grampa to shame, I hollered and shoved my feet into my sneakers, stabbed my arms through my jacket, threw my wallet into my pocket, stuffed my keys into my pocket and went down the elevators and out the back of the building to deal with the (blinkin’) car.

I got down there and got right inside because it was raining, of course. I sat there. I took some deep breaths. I thought about how I was about to pay $12 for more of parking only to turn back around in a couple hours and take it to Hertz. I sighed and thought about how my Tea Moment was already sort of ruined. I thought, “Fons, why not just take the dang thing back right now?” And I decided, after rubbing my forehead a little while, that that is what I would do. I could get some tea at the Peet’s across the street and just be done with it. I didn’t have makeup on. I hadn’t showered. But as long as I didn’t see anyone I knew, it was the way to go.

After dropping the car off, I stepped out of the Hertz parking garage and found the rain had stopped. It was just barely 8:00 a.m. The city was so…calm. I had a nice cup of tea in my hand and — this is important — I didn’t have a purse or anything with me. My wallet was in my pocket. I had my sneakers on. It was a straight shot down State Street to my home. (Later, when I looked it up on Google’s map, I learned it was a 1.4 mile walk. Nothing, really.)

I sort of cocked my head and went, “Hm!” And I just walked home. In the morning, with nothing but my thoughts and the wwwwsssssssshhhhhhhh of the occasional street sweeper on a cross street or the trundle of the El trains crossing the river. I saw the homeless folks on State sleeping in the doorways; it was still quiet enough for them to stay in their strange nests. I saw a couple joggers. I saw some cops. It was beautiful to be there, unfettered, in my city.

When it happens that I am up and out and walking in the morning — it happens when I have, say, a rental car to return — I am reminded how much I love to walk in the morning. I did it on New Year’s Day, actually, and I swore then I’d try to do it more.

My tea ritual is so ingrained. It’s rote. I love my morning tea. It’s been my morning thing for a good ten years. Ten years! But the sweetness of early ambulation, the freedom and perspective of the walk down State Street this morning, it’s stayed with me all day.

And so, to you, I am going to make a promise: Starting tomorrow, for one week, I am going to take my tea outside in the morning. I’m going to walk, you guys. Half-hour or so. The weather is nice enough to try. Let’s see what happens.

What if it’s the key to everything?

24 Mar 2017

My PenPal, Part II.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 1
The Post Office, by David Gilmour Blythe, c.1865. Image: Wikipedia.
The Post Office, by David Gilmour Blythe, c.1865. Image: Wikipedia.

 

I waxed on about my penpal yesterday and today, I’ll wax off. (That means I’ll wrap it up. I had to make the joke!)

The question posed on a postcard from my mystery penpal asked if there was more to life than pure biology. And I said I’d answer today. But when I sat down to write, I remembered that I don’t tackle spiritual/religious topics on the ol’ PG, as a rule — it’s just too personal a topic, I guess — so I am going to hereby back out of the question.

What I will do, however, is list ten things that I believe are pretty wonderful:

  • a marmalade kitten
  • warming your toes by a fire after coming in from a blizzard
  • laughter through tears
  • sisters
  • a top-shelf, perfectly made margarita (make mine up, with salt, please)
  • the feeling you get when you help someone
  • dulce de leche anything
  • art by kids (pretty much any art, pretty much any kid)
  • kissing
  • airplanes

I could keep going, of course. But those things, to me, cause me to believe that life is more than biology. I mean, dulce de leche? That is divinely inspired stuff. And marmalade kittens? And my sisters?  Come on. It’s all pure good.

Maybe my next letter to my penpal will answer this question more fully; it would be good for me to write more about it and after all, he asked. When I’m done thinking on paper, I’ll send that paper through the mail — that incredible, magical system that transforms mere words into something more official, more real, more meaningful.

Thanks, [PENPAL], for your friendship and for giving me the opportunity to write letters. PaperGirls like that stuff.

 

1 … 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 … 26