Mary Fons - PaperGirl

20 Nov 2017

Little Drummer Girl (In the Laundry Room)

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 3

Her future view, perhaps? Chicago Civic Orchestra, 2007. Image: Wikipedia.

I swear, when I get a little dough, I’m gonna get my own washer and dryer.

There wasn’t one in my unit when I moved in back in 2011 and, since there was a great laundry room on the 20th floor of my building, I felt I could and should spend money on other things. Like a couch. Since then, my laundry room has done well by me; remember when I washed my entire fabric stash? Yeah, me too. The six washers and six dryers came in handy back then.

For the most part, I still like doing my laundry in the laundry room, but it’s time to bite the Tide pod and get myself my own washer/dryer. I’m an adult!

The only drawback I can see is that I sometimes meet interesting people up there and that won’t happen if I get my own appliances.

Case in point: About an hour ago, I went up to the laundry room to get my clothes out of the dryer and there was a young girl standing at one of the tall counters where people can set their baskets or fold their towels and things. I couldn’t tell right away what she was doing. Tapping? Typing? I craned my neck to look as I pulled my socks and sheets. Then I saw it:

She was playing a drum pad. Like, she was practicing drums. In the laundry room!

It was so cool, her whole set up. She had normal-looking drumsticks in her hands, but she was drumming on this sleek, super-thin pad that made a soft — but clearly strike-responsive — sound. It sounded awesome. She also had her phone out on the table and she was looking at it, playing the score from there. I’m not sure if the metronome was playing from her phone or the drum pad, but she had that going, too.

For a brief moment in my life, I played the drums. Yes, it’s true. When I was in junior high, I did the whole band thing, marching band included. I lugged a set of quad-toms (oy!) through the streets of Winterset, Iowa, for the homecoming parade, diddle-ing and paradiddle-ing my best “Eye of the Tiger” and “We Will Rock You” as my fellow bandmates blasted their tubas and trombones dangerously close to my head.

Oof, I hated marching band. And regular band. I do in fact have rhythm, but organized rhythm is a problem for me. There’s too much pressure when you’re part of a big band; there’s no freedom for improvisation. It’s the exact same principle with me and dancing: I can cut a real rug on the dancefloor, but only on my own. In a dance class, I’m hopeless.

Anyway, seeing the gal in the laundry room flooded back all kinds of memories about band and my short journey into drumming. I decided I had to say something. I like talking to strangers.

“Hey, that’s really cool,” I said, gesturing to her practice space. I headed toward the door so she wouldn’t feel like I was being a creeper.

“Oh!” the girl said, turning toward me. She was sheepish. “I barely heard you come in. Thanks!”

“I used to play drums, like, nine million years ago,” I said. Before the girl could ask me any questions, I shook my head. “For like two seconds. No, it’s so cool to see you practicing that way. That pad is awesome.”

The girl, who had loooong blonde hair and a space between her two front teeth, nodded. “Yeah! It’s really great. I hope it’s not too loud.”

“Not at all,” I said. Then, because I didn’t want to assume she was in high school (even though she really looked like she was in high school), I asked, “So are you … In a band?”

“I’m studying music,” she said. “I want to be in an orchestra.”

I readjusted my basket on my hip and opened the door to leave. “Well, if you’re practicing in the laundry room while you do your laundry, you’re gonna make it. Good luck.”

The girl laughed and said thanks. I said bye and headed back downstairs to write to you and tell you about it.

I meant what I said to her, you know. She’ll make it if she really wants it. Sometimes, you can just tell.

19 Nov 2017

Words I Can No Longer Spell

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Word Nerd | 16

Spelling bee, 2011. Photo: Heather Temske via Wikipedia.

I have lost the ability to spell certain words.

Well, that’s not true. I could never spell “committment.” See? Still can’t. I never, ever get it that one right, ever.

But the words listed below I feel like I used to be able to spell but now just do not come out right. I’ve been noticing them more often. Because between writing for Quiltfolk and drafting essays for grad school workshops; between my bi-monthly Quilt Scout column and cranking out articles of my own for F Newsmagazine; between and editing tons of other peoples’ work for the paper or various classes; between entire continents of email and a myriad of other assignments I’ve got, I write a lot. (“Alot,” even.) So these words I seem less able to spell lately come up with some regularly, simply because my word input/output is so high.

Here are troublemakers, and I’m going to leave them exactly how I type them, straight out of the gate. Who knows: I might actually spell them correctly! Doubtful, but let’s see what happens:

concommitant
bourgeoise
persue
bureaucracy
recalcatrent
conscious [that’s a word, yeah, I know — but I meant to spell “conscience”!] reciept

I got “concommitant” and “bureaucracy” right, but that’s it, I think. When did I stop being able to spell “pursue”?? The only break I’ll give myself is that I actually can pull off “receipt” most of the time, but only with a full-stop pause over the keyboard so I can do the “‘I’ before ‘E,’ except after ‘C'” children’s rhyme in my head. I’m a grown woman! I don’t have time for “‘I’ before ‘E’ except after ‘C'”! What is this, naptime?? Do I look like I need a carton of milk?

Actually, I would love a nap and a carton of milk. You can bring that anytime.

Anyway, the “I used to be able to do this thing with my brain and now I can’t” is a scary thing to say, but don’t worry about me. It’s not that I’m losing cognitive ability. If I were, I might have said “loosing cognitive ability.” (Is the “loose” vs. “lose” error everywhere online these days or is that just me?)

No, I feel like my vocabulary, both verbal and written, is generally always improving, even if it’s marginal. There will be a point when I cap out, but I’m not there, yet. Grad school and book readin’ means I’m learning new words all the time and I seem to be able to spell them without too much trouble. And some seemingly tricky words have always been no problem for me to spell. I have no trouble with “proverbial.” “Restauranteur.” “Withdrawal.” “Supercilious.” “Chandelier.” “Rhythm.”

“Bed.”

I can definitely spell “bed.” Watch:

B — E — ZZZZZZZZZ

17 Nov 2017

A Moment of Quilt Zen.

by Mary | posted in: Quilting | 3

Oak Leaf Variant quilt by Mrs. M.E. Poyner, c. 1860. Paducah, Kentucky. 74″ x 86.” Collection of Bill Volckening, Portland, Oregon. Image: Wikipedia.

It’s been a long week.

I want to be with you all so much but I’m plum tuckered out. So the best thing to do is to offer you (and my own self) this Quilt Moment of Zen.

You’re gazing at a variation on the Oak Leaf pattern made in 1860 by one Mrs. M.E. Poyner. The quilt was made in Paducah, Kentucky, and measures 74″ x 86.” My pal Bill Volckening, of Portland, Oregon, owns this quilt. I’m sure he’s keeping it very safe.

Nice work, Mrs. Poyner. It looks good enough to sleep under — don’t mind if I do.

zzzzz

16 Nov 2017

I Want The Coat, Part II

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 19

Some Dior, which is also not in my budget. Image: Wikipedia.

I haven’t been back to Neiman Marcus to drool on the coat I fell in love with the other day, but I really haven’t needed to: You guys have kept the item very much in my mind — and I love it!

The huge response to this velvet-quilt dream garment has been super fun. Some PaperGirl readers stoked my desire for that puppy and encouraged me to get it, like Melissa Seegers, who said, “Buy it! You only live once!”

Slightly more of you were reticent about the whole business, seeing as how a person could get an actual automobile for the coat’s ticket price. Not a great automobile, mind you, but if I put $1,850 toward a car I could drive to Iowa a couple times at least, or maybe make it up to Washington Island once or twice, including fuel and McDonald’s.

Pamela Keown said, “Mary! You are a seamstress! All quilters are seamstresses. You can have this coat. Start looking for fabrics. And get busy if you want to wear it this year. If next year is soon enough, you’ve got some time. You CAN DO IT!!”

Oh, Pammie-Pam-Pam. In a fantasy-unicorn-dark-matter-galaxy-of-wonder, I have time to do this and I love your faith in me, but in this galaxy, it ain’t gonna happen. I adore you for suggesting I make a facsimile of a Paris-based, Vogue-darling designer’s velvet coat on my own. It’s a good solution, but it is not the solution for Mary at this time.*

After all the discussion (you know I read all your comments and love them, even if I can’t often respond), I remain resolute: Though it’s true the coat would make me a superhero, it would be irresponsible of me to purchase it right now in my life. I will have to be a superhero in my other coats, which I think is possible. No, there will be no Isabel Marant Log Cabin velvet coat for me, not yet. But I’ll be okay. (Oh, I’m sorry — let me just … wipe these tears off of my laptop … No, no, it’s okay. I’m fine. I’m just allergic … to … sadness. Really, I’m good. Is there a bartender? Anywhere?)

The other fun thing about the coat post was being surprised that so many people were eager to respond with their thoughts on the situation. (Same for the copyediting post!) I’ve written here on the ol’ PG about fashion before, you know; if you click on the “Fashion” category there on the righthand side of the screen, you will see all the posts that I’ve ever written here that have to do with clothes, style, etc. I think this special coat has been the most popular of the Fashion posts and I’m sure it’s because it’s quilty-looking. That’s just fine with me. But it made me wonder if I had another Fashion post in me that would garner this much discussion.

I think I do.

Tomorrow, I’m going to post about the things that look good on me and the things that are a disaster. It’s a balanced list, believe me; at 38, I have a solid understanding of what looks great on me — or, at least, what I feel great wearing, which is usually the same thing?? — and what makes me feel (and look) like the dog’s breakfast.

I’ll bet you’ve got your list, too, but don’t tell me, yet! Tell me when I give you my “style guide,” as it were. That’s for tomorrow.

You know what I love? I love writing this blog. I love that you’re out there and you’ve been out there all this time. We have a good thing going, don’t we, now.

Goodnight,
Mary

p.s. I just thought about how Isabel Marant should offer to send me any quilt-like garments to wear as promotional items!!! Seriously, do you think I should write to her??? Okay, okay: dumb idea. But what if I organized a letter-writing campaign and we flooded her office?? #lol #seriouslythough #maryfonsformarant

*special shout out to Jeanne B. who told me Santa may have heard my plea. Yo, Santa! How you doin’??

14 Nov 2017

What, Me Manager?

by Mary | posted in: School | 7

"Pure Diversity" by Mirta Toledo, 1993. Mixed media on cotton paper — “Pure Diversity” by Mirta Toledo, 1993. Mixed media on cotton paper. Image: Wikipedia.

Last summer, when I joined the staff of the student newspaper at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC), I knew I had scored a cool gig.

What I didn’t know was just how crucial F Newsmagazine would turn out to be in the story of my graduate education. The moment I became an editor there I was given a second, equally-incredible education entirely apart from the one I (literally) signed up for. Also cool is that instead of paying for this auxiliary “mini” education, they’re paying me. Well, barely. But it’s not costing me.

And one of the most surprising gifts I’ve received in the job is getting experience managing a staff. Guess what? Managing people is really hard. It’s exciting, sure. It’s fascinating. And it’s hard.

Someone told me once that in terms of motivations in business, people are ultimately motivated by money or power. That sounds draconian, but I think there’s some truth to it. Ask yourself: Would you like to be in charge at the end of the day — or do you really just want to get your check and head home? Do you feel rewarded being a decision-maker? Or do you essentially want to do a good job and not have to care so much about all the other stuff that in-charge people have to deal with? Obviously, there is overlap and obviously, if you care about power it doesn’t mean you’re a monster. And if you’re a “money” person, it doesn’t mean you’re greedy. This is a broad-stroke thing to mull over, nothing more.

Anyway, I’m a money person. While I very much want to be in charge of myself, in general I don’t need to direct people, lead people, rally people around a common goal. I’m more satisfied with “doing me” and paying my bills and drooling over coats.

But I’m learning how good it feels when you are in charge of doing things in the service of the group, in the service of a staff, however small and rowdy. It’s really cool when people ask me how to do this or that, or what I think about X or Y or Z and then, miracle of miracles, they like, do it? A gal can really feel a different kind of satisfaction when she’s leading the charge — though it’s imperative to remind you that I share the managing editor position with the ethereally-beautiful and embarrassingly smart Irena. If I’m leading any kind of charge I’m charging with this dear friend and colleague of mine, thank the Good Lord.

So thank you, F Newsmagazine Powers That Be, for giving me the opportunity to like, make a meeting agenda. To review processes. To gently remind. To be willing to schedule an important meeting and run it. Thanks for putting me in a position where I can attempt to advise, to correct, to lead, even. I’m not great at it, but I’m getting better.

The stress of making the newspaper on a continual basis is real. There are things I would really like to see change in our process and, if being editor of the paper was my full-time job, I’d change directions in a few key areas. But — and I realize this is going to sound like Cheese City — the job I have at the paper isn’t about me. It’s about the group, and it’s so interesting to practice being a leader.

12 Nov 2017

The Best Nurse I Ever Had

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 15

I found this picture of “Nurse Yamy” in the Wiki file under “Nursing.” I think she looks really nice, too. Photo: Wikipedia.

I didn’t say why I came to Portland and I can’t just yet. Soon, though, and with great enthusiasm, I shall tell you why I came out west and what happened while I was here.

What I can tell you that I’m not scouting for places to live (heavens!); I haven’t fallen in love with a Portlandian (noo!); and I didn’t have a gig or event to do while I was here. Thankfully, I did not come expressly to relive this glorious moment in the Portland International Airport where I slipped and fell and launched wine and pizza three feet into the air. That was cool.

And though I did not come for medical attention of any kind (phew), I did meet a nurse this weekend. The wife of a business colleague of mine, my new friend was a gracious host, a terrific cook, and generally just nice to be around, so when I found out she was a nurse in a delivery ward, I was like, “Well, that is exactly right and everything in the world is as it should be.”

The three of us had some time in the car together and at one point the conversation turned to illness and medical histories. My business associate had never really heard my story and it was as good a time as any to share the whole dealio. I often struggle not to cry at a few key moments of my tale (e.g., when I woke up from the first surgery screaming; when I learned my first ileostomy takedown had failed and that I had to get a second stoma, etc.), but I did all right.

The only time I wavered was when I told the story of the Best Nurse I Ever Had and what she said to me that changed my life forever. At least, it changed the way I saw myself in the story of my chronic illness and the hardest time of my life so far.

Warning: This story involves super gross details. The squeamish should proceed with great caution.

My first surgery as a result of advanced Ulcerative Colitis was at Mayo Clinic in Rochester in October of 2008. The surgeons took out my entire colon (and some other stuff) and fashioned me with an ileostomy. But the surgery was a disaster. (Check those two links up top for the deets, if you dare.) One of the many v. bad things that happened was that my belly swelled up as a result of all the abscesses, which caused a separation between my stoma and the skin that it was supposed to be flush up against it.

This meant I had a moat around the piece of the small intestine that was coming out of my body. What was in the moat? Why, fecal matter, bile, and pus, of course. And blood. And infection. And just … It was awful. The goop had to be cleaned out with a big, long swab and then packed.

As one can imagine, this process was one I did not look forward to and it happened about every other day. (I was in the hospital for a month following that first surgery.)

When the Best Nurse I Ever Had would come in to my room for the cleaning/packing, I would clutch my stuffed horse, Thunderbolt, look at the picture of Jesus on the wall, and keen softly to myself and weep and shudder and pray, pray, pray it would be over soon. Every fiber of my wrecked, emaciated body would be, ever-so-briefly, pure iron. That’s how tense I was, how frightened. She was poking. A swab. Into my body. She was cleaning. Pus. From my belly. My guts. Were outside. My core.

Not great.

One day, the Best Nurse I Ever Had approached me for the procedure, saw me ready to retreat into like, total fear and my mental fetal position and stopped.

“Mary,” she said, “Would you like me to show you how to do this yourself?”

I whipped my head over to look at her. “You’re kidding me, right?” I was already hyperventilating in anticipation of the procedure.

She shook her head. “See, I think you think this is worse than it is. You’ve got it in your mind that it’s really bad. And it’s not good. But it’s not as bad as you think. I think if you do it, you’ll see that for yourself and it won’t be so awful. Would you like to try?”

I burst into tears. “No, no, no, no, no,” I said. “Just do it. Please, please just do it and leave me alone, please.” I wasn’t mean to her but I didn’t have anything to give in the way of kindness. She was giving enough for both of us and I had to let her.

She patted my arm and did the thing. Over the next two days, I thought about what she said. When people say things that are true, there’s a finality to it. There’s nothing you can do, no escape. Not unless you go into denial; not unless you put a ton of effort into belligerence, intolerance.

When she came in the next time, I squeaked out that I couldn’t do it, myself, but that I’d help. Just help her, a little, maybe hold the swab or something.

“Hey!” she said, smiling. “That’s the spirit! That’s great. Okay, let me get out all the stuff.”

When I poked the swab into the separation, I realized that the moat wasn’t bottomless. It had a bottom. The poking didn’t hurt, either, not really; it just felt weird. Because I hadn’t actually looked at it until that point (too scared), I hadn’t seen that it was really healing pretty well on the righthand side. The Best Nurse I Ever Had tore off little pieces of the wound-packing gauze (“It turns to gel!” she said), and I gingerly poked them into the moat. I probably held my breath the whole time.

When we were done and my ostomy bag was snapped back onto my belly, I let out a little laugh and said, “I guess this kind of stuff builds character, right?”

The Best Nurse I Ever Had smiled at me.

“No, honey. I think this kind of stuff reveals character you already had.”

So, that happened. And now I’m super-crying at the Portland International Airport, so I’d better go get some pizza to fling into the air. Thank you, Best Nurse I Ever Had, and thank you, all nurses everywhere.

10 Nov 2017

Your Quilt Horoscope: The Quilt Scout is IN!

by Mary | posted in: The Quilt Scout | 5

Maple Bacon Donut from Voodoo Doughnuts, Portland. Image: Mike McClune via Wikipedia.

Greetings from Portland!

But I’ll tell you more about that later. For now, the first Quilt Scout of the month is so silly, you just have to read it. It’s your very own quilt horoscope, so obviously it’s very important.

Enjoy the Scout; I’ll see you tomorrow, probably with wet shoes and Voodoo Doughnut in my hand. I’m in Portland, after all.

Love,
Mary

8 Nov 2017

I Want The Coat

by Mary | posted in: Fashion | 46

There she goes. Image courtesy the Fashion Gods!

The store was Neiman Marcus. The time was 1:12 p.m.

I had only dipped into the place to kill time between a doctor’s appointment and a meeting, and lo! ‘Twas in that space and time that I did spy a garment that I coveted so terribly — that I instantly desired and so intensely — that I am shivering in my yearning, even as I type these words.

The item: a velvet coat, created by French designer Isabel Marant, featuring a dazzling Pineapple Log Cabin patchwork pattern. It’s the jacket pictured above — which I literally cannot look at much longer or I’m going to go dip into my IRA and take out the money and buy it, consequences be damned. What good is retirement money if I don’t look fabulous when I get there??

The official name of the coat is the “Tao Southwestern Quilted Velvet Caban Coat” and was it not made for me? Seriously, don’t you just suppose there could be a tag inside that says, “Made For Mary Fons”?? It’s too perfect, the fashion/quilt blend, the homage paid to the Log Cabin quilt … I am almost hyperventilating. Still!

You know, quilts and fashion have long been involved with each other. Every few years you’ll get a handful of designers who are using patchworky motifs or embellishing with reverse applique on skirts and jackets. Designers like Alexander McQueen, Gloria Vanderbilt, and Ralph Lauren have all drawn heavily on American quilt and patchwork motifs over the years. Ms. Marant is only the latest in a long line of fashion designers who know the color, scale, and shapes found in quilts are pure genius in other applications, too.

[That was me attempting to make a wanton display of fashion lust include some kind of edifying moment. Can I be done now? Good, because I need to talk about the coat some more.]

All winter, I would wear my size 40 coat walking up Michigan Avenue. I would skip a scarf because I would never want to cover up any part of my coat’s glorious piecing effect. Maybe I’d have a little neck wrap or something, just plain black. I would wear a simple black stocking cap on my head and plain leather gloves on my hands. I would love to wear this coat if I were wearing black tights and black shoes! Wouldn’t that just be fabulous??

Okay, so the coat is $1,850.00.

Yeah. That’s really a lot of money. I don’t have it. I mean, I’m just not at a place in my life when I can waltz into Neiman Marcus and buy a coat at full-boat retail. The cost of the “Tao” coat is not quite the same amount as my upcoming biannual property tax bill will be, but $1,850.00 would take a significant chunk out of it. That’s a lotta pineapples. Too many, and I know it.

But a girl can dream. And sigh. And weep. Can’t she? And can’t she just appreciate something without having to own it?

I very, very much want to say yes to this purchase. Right now, though, no way.

Except that .. you guys … It’s velvet!

7 Nov 2017

Aliens Among Us

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 5

Cover of the pulp sci-fi magazine Amazing Stories, October 1957. Image: Wikipedia.

The other day, I met a woman who is fully convinced that aliens are living among us. She was very nice!

As for me, with the aliens and all, I’m not so sure. But I figured maybe she knew something I didn’t, so I poured some more coffee and decided to ask a few questions. It occurred to me it might be imprudent to ask for details about such things at lunch. But I decided quickly that a person who believes aliens are living among us would likely not be shy in answering questions about them.

“Can I ask you more about the aliens?” I asked.

“They’re everywhere,” she said, jumping right in. “We’ll likely never know just where. Many of them don’t have actual bodies — or they have bodies we can’t comprehend.”

I nodded and took a bite of pie. No actual bodies, eh? I imagined a green vapor snaking its way through traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway or floating through State Street, scouting out Christmas present ideas. (Look, if these alleged aliens are in Chicago, that’s the kind of stuff they’re going to be up to: There are 48 days till Christmas, people.)

I asked the lady — who was very sweet and interesting for many reasons that did not involve paranormal activity, I’d like to point out — how she came to know about these aliens.

“I’ve long been interested in the topic,” she said. “And I recently attended a conference in Las Vegas. There were over a thousand people there: physicists, scientists, UFO experts. It’s all very real.” Then she leaned in a little to say, with a raised eyebrow, “We were only a few short miles from Area 51.”

What I loved about her is that she was so into what she was into. Seeing someone really into their “thing” is great. Everyone’s got their thing, and it’s great to see a person committed to that thing. The lady told me about a visit to a psychic and said more about the conference, e.g., how the moon landing wasn’t a hoax, but that there were six or seven alien spacecraft on the moon when Buzz and Neil got there. I told the lady I hadn’t heard about that and she gave me a nod like, “Yeah, well, there’s more where that came from.”

She might be right. About all of it or some of it.

Haven’t we all been wrong about something before?

6 Nov 2017

How Old Are You?

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 12

“Reverie,” also known as “The Days of Sappho,” by John William Godward, c. 1903. Image: Wikipedia.

I was always “young for my age” in relation to school.

This is because I turned five years old just a few weeks before kindergarten was to start. My Uncle Dave — who, fun fact, is my mother’s fraternal twin — had come to visit our family in Iowa that summer and likes to tell a story about how nervous I was about starting kindergarten. I guess I was talking to him about it.

“Well, kindergarten is a big deal,” he said. “Do you know how to count to ten?”

My uncle says that I counted past ten all the way up to 30 before he cut me off.

“That’s good. Can you sing your ABCs?” he asked.

I promptly sang my ABCs for him and like, did a twirl. He rolled his eyes.

“You’ll be fine, kiddo.”

So throughout my grammar school and high school years, I was among the youngest in my class. Then, once high school was over, I went straight into college at the University of Iowa, which meant I was one of youngest in that class, too. And I grew to like it. There was something satisfying about being the youngest in the group, though now that I’m writing about it, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the reasons why I felt that satisfaction. Did I think being younger than everyone else gave me some advantage? What kind of advantage? And if I was winning something, who was losing? Weird.

Well, whatever it was, it’s definitely over. I can’t recall if I’ve mentioned this on the ol’ PG or not, but 90 percent of the people I engage with at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) are younger than I am. Sometimes by kind of a lot. Whether it’s my cohort in the MFA Writing department, the other students in my elective seminars, or the gang at the school paper, the average age of these folks is probably 27, tops. For sure tops.

Which means I’m roughly ten years older than the majority of the folks in my peer group. Most of the time I don’t think about it, but sometimes I do think about it and when I do, either of these thoughts come to mind, depending on the day I’m having:

We are all basically the exact same age.
I am literally a different species than these people.

I mean, we’re all using Snapchat now, sure, but I got my first cell phone in college and these people had them in fourth grade. It’s pretty weird. I just keep wondering what will happen if there’s a party and I start dancing. Will I make a fool of myself? You can really tell age differences with the dancing.

Maybe this has come up for me more lately because I met an interesting young man. I’ve been spending a little time with him.

This young man is not quite as young as this young man, who, by the way, moved back to Miami some months ago. I never said too terribly much about the end of all that but I can tell you that though I grew to care for him a great deal and will always care for him a great deal, things ran their course. (Someday I’ll tell you more about all that when you and I get a margarita. It’s a great story that you could only read part of for a number of reasons. Maybe I should start a second blog: PaperGirl AFTER DARK!)

Anyhow, this newly-met young man definitely had a cell phone in fourth grade, you know? There’s a difference between me and him in terms of life experience and perspectives and all, and it’s way too soon to tell if this will be a barrier or a boon. All I know is that I have been going on some really lousy dates lately and then pizow! Here’s this great person and I like to talk to him and stuff.

So we’ve been talking. And I’ve been wondering how old anyone ever really is, in the end.

5 Nov 2017

‘Bluebonnets’ For Texas

by Mary | posted in: Paean | 10

A field of bluebonnets near Marble Falls, Texas. Image: Wikipedia.

The bluebonnet is the state flower of Texas. I just learned that.

A few hours ago, I learned there was a shooting in Texas today. Today is Sunday. The shooter opened fire inside a church in Sutherland Springs. Twenty-six people are dead, many more injured. By morning, I’m sure that number will change, which is to say the number will rise. The number will sink into further sadness and then it will be lost to the next news cycle. This is madness.

Like most states, Texas has a state song. But it also has a flower song.

In 1933, Texas adopted “Bluebonnets” by Julia D. Booth and Lora C. Crockett as the “official state flower song.” (This was House Concurrent Resolution No. 24 of the 43rd Legislature, in case you’re wondering.) The song’s lyrics are beautiful. I haven’t looked up the tune, yet. If it’s too tender, if the melody sounds less like a celebration and more like a eulogy, I’ll lose it.

For now, I’ll just read the words to Texas’s “official state flower song” and maybe you want to read them, too.

Bluebonnets
by Julia D. Booth and Lora C. Crockett (1933)

When the pastures are green in the springtime

And the birds are singing their sonnets,

You may look to the hills and the valleys

And they’re covered with lovely Bluebonnets.

Blue is the emblem of loyalty,

They’re as blue as the deep, deep sea,

Their smiling faces bring gladness,

For they bloom for you and for me.

Bluebonnets, so gorgeous and stately,

In your mantle of blue and of green,

In the spring when you’re in your full glory,

You’re the loveliest sight ever seen.

You’re beautiful when you sway in the sunshine,

You look like waves of the sea,

Ah, Texas was wise in her choice of a flower,

So we offer our homage to thee.

CHORUS

Bluebonnets, blue lovely Bluebonnets,

More beautiful than all the rest.

Texas chose you for her flower,

And we love you best, Bluebonnets.

2 Nov 2017

Well, Something’s Not Right.

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 13

Aurora calculator, with Error and Memory. Image courtesy Wikipedia.

Friends, countrywomen. Gentlemen. Kids.

As you can see, something is very funky with the ol’ PG, here. I updated a bunch of the things WordPress told me to update and here’s what I get. I tried to fix it yesterday and the whole thing went offline. This gave me just a touch of cardiac arrest. Just a smidge.

I should be printing out every single post. I can’t do that right now. I just can’t. But when things go wrong, I feel my entire life collapse before my eyes. What if PaperGirl disappeared? All these years of being here with you, gone in an instant? I would not recover well from that, y’all.

Anyone got time to make a lot of copies? Put ’em in a nice binder? Send them to the PaperGirl mailbox? It could be … fun! Really! And then I would be able to sleep at night! Wouldn’t that be nice?

I have absolutely no idea how to fix what’s wrong, here. If anyone out there is a WordPress whiz or knows one would could help me, please let me know. I’m desperate. (You may remember a similar desperation during this delightful email situation.) You know how some people are so severely allergic to nuts, if they even breathe in the dust of a single peanut, they’re in danger? That’s how I am with tech problems. Server crashes, data zaps, blog bugs, cell phone fails — this awful, awful stuff is my own personal kryptonite. My peanut dust kryptonite. Kryptopeanut? Whatever you call it, I feel strangled and cry a lot when these things happen.

Fixing this problem may mean I’m offline for a spell. I have so much to tell you, though! That’s why this stuff is the pits: Don’t these binary numbers realize we all have things to do? Anyway, I’ll do my best to get the ol’ PG put right as soon as possible so that I can pass along some exciting news.

It may or may not be heart related. Oooh …

29 Oct 2017

Philip Larkin’s ‘Days’

by Mary | posted in: Philip Larkin | 9

Yes, that is a cow and a puppy. You are welcome. (Thanks, Wikipedia.)

Tonight, my friends, we are visited by Philip Larkin. No, not the puppy I’m still dreaming about, but work from the late poet himself. It’s a day for poems and “Days” is one of Larkin’s best, if you can choose bests from a body of work like that.

As for Philip Larkin (aka “Philip Barkin”) the mini-Maltipoo puppy, I sent an email today to a breeder. Don’t get wag your tail just yet, though; there’s still miles to go before I’ll be typing up the ol’ PG while a puppy licks my toe.

I’ve had the chance to revisit my research lately, though, that is true, and I just watched 20 minutes of puppy videos on YouTube. If my desire for Philip is like, a flare-up of some kind, I have officially left remission. I want my puppieeeee.

Anyway, here’s “Days,” as exquisite as the face of a 4-week-old puppy, just in a different, more existential, melancholy way.

Days
by Philip Larkin

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question

Brings the priest and the doctor

In their long coats

Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin, “Days ” from Whitsun Weddings. Copyright © Estate of Philip Larkin. Source: Collected Poems (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2001).

28 Oct 2017

When Slippers Kill

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 9

THESE CUTE SLIPPERS NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE SLIPPERS OF DOOM. (Slippers of Doom not pictured.) Image: Wikipedia.

A few days ago, I talked about how I have what could be called “home clothes.”

House slippers, a common element in your average loungewear ensemble, were not included in the description of my loungewear, however, because I’ve never been that into slippers. But just a few days after that post, what did I find when I reached into the depths of my closet to switch over my wardrobe from Warmish to Coldish?

I found a pair of slippers.

I had forgotten about them. They were your average pair of slippers. They were normal-looking, nothing suspicious. Navy blue, moccasin-style, fleece-lined with a decorative leather lacing. The soles were made of plastic. I think I got them at the Gap or something? You know the kind.

“Sweet,” I thought, and promptly put these ‘slips on my feet. Sounds good, right? Yeah, well, these slippers are trying to kill me.

This morning, I did my usual thing. I got up, prepared the tea tray, took my medicine, lit a small candle on the coffee table, and settled in for some morning reading on the couch. I was wearing my slippers and felt happy about that.

At some point while I was reading and slurping, I wiggled my toes in my slippers and, “Ah!” I said, because in wiggling my toes I broke the plastic on the bottom and stuck my whole toe through the dang slipper! And it scratched me! My slippers were busted and my toe was aggrieved. You think you’ve got a lagniappe situation and it turns out to be a real crock.

But that was nothing.

I set down my tea and reached down to my toes — hey, I’m flexible — and checked to make sure I wasn’t seriously wounded. (It didn’t look that bad but what about rabies??) I pulled off the slipper and tossed it to the side and where did it land?

It landed on the candle!

“Ah!” I cried, and grabbed it immediately, losing my place in my book and snapping the lead on my pencil in the process.

“That’s curtains for you!” I said to the slippers, and I marched them right over to the trash can. I paused over the recycling bin (which is really just a Trader Joe’s bag, let’s be honest) but I decided murderous slippers are best not recycled into a water bottle.

It has only now struck me that it is Halloween!

27 Oct 2017

Clean Copy

by Mary | posted in: Word Nerd | 20

Ah, line edits. I know the feeling. Image: Wikipedia. — Ah, the red pen! I love it. Image: Wikipedia.

When I look back at entries from several years ago — like this one about the name of this blog, or this one about QVC handbags — it’s hard for me not to want to fix stuff. I feel like I hand over pretty clean copy here on the ol’ PG, but there was a time when I thought I should go back to the very, very beginning entries and revise/edit everything, but then I realized that I wanted to at least try and have a Normal Person Life.

It’s funny, though, because these days I actually feel happy to see how far I’ve come as a copy editor.

Because while it’s important to me that my style and syntax have improved (I think they have!) and while I hope my sentiments and how I express them have matured (have they?), clearly seeing that I’m picking up AP style skills is great news. All the sentiment in the world won’t connect with anyone if the writer doesn’t pay attention to the readability and consistency of her copy. And good copy editing is crucial to the writer as she tries to say what she wants to say. It’s all in the commas, man.

It’s funny, but it’s not my writing classes that get the credit for this improvement: It’s due to being an editor at the school newspaper, of course. When I was editor of Quilty magazine we had lots of eyeballs on all the text, obviously, and we were greatly aggrieved when we found a typo after the issue was printed. But rigorous, Associated Press-style copy editing isn’t the focus at most craft publishing houses, so if I were to go back through all those issues, I’d probably catch stuff.

Though I am well aware there are typos from time to time in PaperGirl, I’m confident that my hyphens, capitalizations, quotations, numbers, titles, etc., is as good as I can get it without the help of an outside editor. And I keep learning.

Just for fun, below are a few examples of sentences I wrote in an entry in 2013 — and how I would edit those sentences, now. If you are into this kind of thing, you will be really into this. If you’re not, you will be like, “Mary, you are sweet but never give us copy editing examples ever again. Maybe consider describing paint drying.”

I know.

But for my fellow Word Nerds, enjoy. Just remember that I would surely make deeper edits on these sentences if I were working up a serious draft, but for now, the eagle-eyes out there will see the changes and it might make you smile.

All this stuff matters, it really does.

THEN: I bought $50.04 worth of hunter orange today to protect my kith and kin.
NOW: Today, I bought 50 dollars worth of “hunter” or “blaze” orange to protect my kith and kin.

THEN: [The] past few days have been ever-so-slightly tense — and it ain’t because we’ve been playing 6 hours of Yahtzee every day.
NOW: [The] past few days have been ever-so-slightly tense — and it ain’t because we’ve been playing six hours of Yahtzee every day.

THEN: She was beautiful; pleasantly plump, with the creamy skin one can only achieve by being fed cheese curds from infancy.
NOW: She was beautiful. Pleasantly plump with the kind of creamy skin one can only achieve by being fed cheese curds from infancy.

Writing is so fun. Agh! I love it!!! 😀

25 Oct 2017

Puddle Watching

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 6

rainy day wiki — Rainy day. Image: Wikipedia, who else?

It’s been raining and raining this week.

As I walked through rainy city yesterday (and the day before, and the day before), my thoughts were swirled up in the sounds of the cars swooshing through the streets and the pat-pat-pat-pat of the rain over everything. My brow was furrowed (and wet) as I dodged puddles and tried to squinch myself under my umbrella to keep my purse from catching the runoff. Whether you’re a writer or not, rain is what you call “evocative.” It evokes, or brings to mind, much. Here are three things that came up for me:

Puddle Duck
I live in Chicago, downtown, pretty far up in my mid-rise building. In the city, surrounded by skyscrapers and other mid-rise buildings, it can be hard to tell if it’s raining if the rain isn’t hitting your window and streaming its way down the glass, which it rarely does. (In fact, if rain is coming at the buildings sideways, the storm is bad enough that you’ve probably been aware you’re experiencing inclement weather for awhile.) So while it’s true that no matter where you live, rain can be weirdly invisible if you look up at the sky or deep into the open horizon, in the city, if you haven’t checked with the weatherman, it’s particularly hard to tell if you need your umbrella before you go out.

So I look down at the puddles on the street.

Way far down, I can see if the puddles are blip-blopping as a result of the rain hitting them. If the puddles are spattering and dancing around, it’s raining; if they’re still, it’s not.

Maybe everyone does that. No one ever taught me to do it, though, so whenever I check the puddles for rain, I feel very … I feel like I’m surviving, like I might actually be the kind of person who could read signs in nature and live another day. It’s got something to do with my ancestors, maybe. Maybe they watched puddles for rain. It might sound silly, but it’s this small, nice thing in my life.

Wet Menace
When the rain kept coming, I thought about my incredible brother-in-law, Jack, whose father (and Jack and my sister Rebecca, in turn) dealt with terrible, ruinous flooding in his home downstate. Illinois experiences bad flooding when the rain won’t stop and I wondered about people not so far away from me who were totally derailed from X, Y, and Z because the basement flooded, or the basement flooded again, or the mold got worse.

I thought about how rain is so beautiful and important, but that if it doesn’t stop, it’s a menace. (My post on Houston was not so long ago.) It’s so terribly heartbreaking and confusing when what you like becomes a weapon; when what makes you feel good and excited becomes a frightening force. Rainshowers are supposed to bring May flowers.

Noisli, I Love Thee
There’s a thing I love. It’s called Noisli. You could call Noisli a “white noise website,” though that’s my term; they might call it something else. You get to program your very own white noise blend to fit what you are doing, e.g., working, writing, resting, etc. There are pre-made blends for productivity, for relaxation, and so on.

Guess what kinds of sounds you can play?

Distant thunder. Light rain. Heavy rain. Stormy sounds. And nothing — nothing — gets me more focused, in the mood, and generally more okay in every way than the sounds of a thunderstorm in the distance/outside my window. Noisli makes that happen and I’ve been writing so much lately, I’ve been doing a lot of stormy sound effects stuff. Really, you could say it’s raining all the time around here, and that’s good right now.

Note: No one paid me to say that, but Noisli, be my guest: I’ve got tuition and property taxes to pay in the next two weeks and I have a feeling there are a few of my readers who will adore your brilliance. Just sayin! I accept donations!

23 Oct 2017

Wallpaper, Hang It All

by Mary | posted in: Art, Paean, Tips | 11

1024px-Carberry_Tower_-_Monarch_Double_Bedroom — Not my bedroom. BUT IT COULD BE. Image: Wikipedia.

I want to hang wallpaper.

Correction: I want a professional wallpaper person to hang wallpaper for me. I love the way wallpaper looks. It’s like fabric, right? Printed cloth for the walls. I’ve shopped and found some I like very much; it’s now a matter of getting it ordered and installed.

My love for wallpaper runs deep. Out on Meadowlark Farm, when I was a small, small person, I ran through room after room of tiny floral prints on all the various wallpapers of our farmhouse. (I do recall one wallpaper featured a big paisley, though; forgive my parents for decorating a house on a budget, in the mid-1970s.)

The kitchen got a buttercream yellow wallpaper; the upstairs bedroom got navy blue wallpaper with tiny pink rosebuds and leaves. There was another, paler blue in the living room, and I remember fiddling with the seams that ran down the wall. Thought I don’t specifically remember getting in trouble for picking the peeling paper, that obviously must’ve happened.

Wallpaper makes me think of my mom.

I believe she and my dad hung the wallpaper together out on the farm, but I wasn’t around yet to see either of them papering any walls. When it comes to Mom and wallpaper, my mental image involves her alone: not with Dad. I see Mom scraping wallpaper off the walls of our new, not-yet-inhabitable house in town after Dad left us for the last time and we left him for good. I’m just sure she scraped wallpaper by herself, standing up on a ladder; I’ll have to ask my mother if she hung new paper after she was done. Sometimes, you can’t remember these things.

I can tell you, however, that if she didn’t hang paper, she painted. And then she went off to make money to feed our family. We had support from our friends and Gramma, but when I think about my mom during the time of the divorce and our move into town from being out in the country, I picture my mother scraping wallpaper on a ladder in a bare room. Then I see the whole house, and how wonderful she made it by the end.

Hm.

When I started this post, I only wanted to write about how I want wallpaper in my condo, how I have wanted to put some up for a couple years, now. I wanted to ask if anyone in the Chicago area could recommend an honest/speedy paper-hanger.

My intention wasn’t to talk about my childhood, or the pain of my parents’ divorce, or the memory I have of a very lean and scary time when Mom had the weight of the world on her shoulders and my father disappeared in a cloud of confusion and angst. It wasn’t my intention to write about any of that; I just wanted to talk about the wonders of wallpaper.

(Maybe I did.)

23 Oct 2017

More Beauty In Our World: ‘Curated Quilts’ Has Arrived

by Mary | posted in: Quilting, Work | 5

Way to go, girls. The debut issue of Curated Quilts is here. Image courtesy Curated Quilts. — Way to go, girls: Behold Issue 01: Linear Quilts. Image courtesy Curated Quilts.

Wonderful things are happening in the quilt world.

All around us, quilters and the people who love them are creating new places for us to learn, grow, be inspired, and gain new perspective on this thing we love so much. Every once in awhile, I’ll hear a quilter grumble how “the quilt world isn’t what it used to be” and I actually agree, though as far as I’m concerned, it’s better than ever.

There’s a new publication out on stands now called Curated Quilts and you should get a copy. It’s true that not long ago, I entreated you to investigate another quarterly publication I felt worthy of your time and resources. That I’m coming to you with another suggestion is proof that what I said above is true: Good stuff is happening in print, people, and I refuse to withhold my praise!

Curated Quilts (CQ) is a 90+ page, advertisement-free publication brought to you by Christine Ricks, (graphic designer and creative director of Missouri Star Quilt Company’s publishing division), and my pal Amy Ellis, who was a terrific guest on Love of Quilting some years ago and who I tapped to write a column on domestic machine quilting for the original Quilty magazine. These girls are legit, is what I’m saying.

Christine and Amy have done something wonderful with their brand-new magazine: They’re organizing each issue of CQ by quilt type. Issue 01 is “Linear Quilts,” for example, which means that the strippy quilt, the bar quilt, the however-you-call-it quilt with lots of vertical or horizontal lines is the focus of the issue. (Issue 02 is “Log Cabin,” so you get the idea.)

While Curated Quilts is geared primarily for the modern quilter, the fact that they hired me to write historical perspectives on each issue’s chosen quilt style shows Amy and Christine are thinking broadly and thinking big. And, as I have said before, even if you don’t make modern quilts per se, there is so much to learn from this ever-widening corner of the quilt world. The moderns are a force, and watching what they do gets more exciting every passing year. I think I’ve made exactly .5 quilts that could be considered “modern” — I put an asymmetrical back on a quilt, once! — but that has no bearing on my ability to glean much from my modern sisters and brothers. It’s surely the same with you, too, or it could be: As quilters, we’re all people who make useful covers for others out of cloth and generosity. Style is secondary.

Curated Quilts is available at the website, though I’d love it if you’d ask your local quilt shop to order it for you; we gotta support our shops.

A heads-up regarding the price, which is higher than your typical quilt magazine: Like Quiltfolk, Curated Quilts doesn’t include any advertising whatsoever — and make no mistake, advertisements are what fund magazines. Without ads, you have to structure a publication’s business plan differently, i.e., rely on a higher sticker price and hope for a healthy subscription list. What the reader gets in return for her money and her good faith is nothing short of a zen-like reading experience, a magazine that is more like a beautiful book (but cheaper!), a magazine that will look so pretty on your coffee table, your sewing table, and then on your bookshelf, lined up with all the other issues to come, that you will quickly get used to the difference.

That I get to write about quilts for these exciting, emerging, game-changing publications is a dream come true. Heck, I never even dreamed of it, exactly, but I’m so grateful. We should all be very excited when these kinds of projects are launched because it proves the health of quilting in America.

But you don’t need to pick up a copy of Curated Quilts on principle. Pick it up because gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.

Way to go, girls!

21 Oct 2017

Monkey’s Choice

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 4

The monkey, the mind, the mischief. Photo: Me.

I am too tired to finish the intricate, brilliant, genius post I was working on just now. I almost fell asleep and did one of these:

“So I was saying to the nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn”‘l;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;”

… which is what happens when a gal nods off mid-keystroke.

Yes, it’s been a long day of press for the newspaper and it’ll be a longer one tomorrow. And since I’m doing the reset diet thing, which saps energy at the beginning of it, I’d better change my strategy. I think I should toss it to Pendennis tonight and ask him to give you a few archive selections.

As I’ve mentioned here and there, Claus and I talk. Sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. He said something yesterday that was really hard to hear because it was so lovely and sweet and romantic. I think I said something like, “Claus! Stop it! Oooh, I hate you, I hate you!” but I think he knew what I meant.

Anyway, Pendennis dug up a Claus-related post to start with; this is the post about the robbery we experienced in San Francisco on our long trip across America two summers ago.

What else has the monkey picked? Let’s see … Oh! He says you should go back to the whole “I’m leaving New York City” thing and the day-by-day roll-out of “Where will I move next?” proposition. If you’ve never read through that PaperGirl era, you’ll enjoy it. Start here and keep reading the days following it.

And speaking of that era: Remember my rat infestation?

G’night,
Mary

20 Oct 2017

The Reset Diet Begins Tomorrow

by Mary | posted in: Sicky | 21

Thank you, thank you, to the ladies I spent time with in Michigan yesterday. What a great day it was! The leaves on the drive up and drive back were stunning — but they had nothin’ on you, girls.

In other news, I did a lot of food prep in the kitchen this evening because tomorrow, difficult as it’s going to be, I will begin a round of my dreaded-but-amazing “reset” diet. I’ll tell you what I mean in a second.

My guts have been having a hell of a time this year because I’ve been eating with no regard to my intestinal health. Being so gimpy in the gut department, I’m supposed to avoid certain things and generally eat foods that have been stamped “anti-inflammatory.” Yeah, well, guess what my favorite lunch is when I’m zipping from one thing to the next? Pizza, of course — and we’re talking a cheesy, saucy slice from Pauly’s around the corner, not some kind of gluten-free, “mock” pizza made on a cracker and a prayer. (You think that’s gonna get this woman through two classes, an advising session, a trip to Michigan, and three writing assignment deadlines? Ha!)

Beyond that, I’ve been enjoying a falafel here, a coffee and almond croissant breakfast there, and so on. Not a lot of veggies. Lots of pasta. And oh, the sugar … Sophie gave me a whole bag of candy corn punkins’ last weekend and they’re gone, now.

The good news, I guess, is that at least I don’t see that my wack-a-doo grad school diet has gone to my hips; this is probably on account of all the walking and/or literal running I do every day to get to all the places to do all the things. The bad news is that intestinally-speaking, I’ve hit the wall. My tum hurts all the time and I’m so sick of constantly excusing myself to go to the bathroom. I take medicine for this stuff but my belly situation doesn’t have to be this tough. I can manage a few things, diet-wise, and make it better. So it’s time.

The last time I did the Specific Carbohydrate Diet (SCD) was a couple years back, when Yuri and I were in New York City. I was having a very, very hard time with my health situation at that point, so I did the reset and yes, it helped. Read this and you’ll understand what I’m beginning tomorrow.

I’m telling you about this because I need to stay accountable — and I also need support. Embarking on this “medicine” is not easy. When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll be waking up to a long week of nothing but hamburger, homemade jello, and homemade yogurt. And chicken broth. That’s pretty much it, and it’s not so fun.

Except.

When you bear incessant knocks and rumbles in your belly like I do; when you are exhausted/demoralized from the daily effort of endless bathroom trips; when you want to remember what it was like before you had a bowel disease that took you down hard, a tough diet doesn’t feel so tough.

It tastes like relief.

18 Oct 2017

Big Rapids, Slight Hiccup

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Work | 11

The lovely Comstock Mansion in Big Rapids, Michigan. I don't know what the Comstock Mansion is and I do not have the energy to look it up, but it is very nice. Image: Wikipedia. — The lovely Comstock Mansion in Big Rapids, Michigan. I don’t know what the Comstock Mansion is and I do not have the energy to look it up, but it is very nice. Image: Wikipedia.

Tonight, I sleep in Big Rapids, Michigan — but I’m not supposed to be here.

I’m supposed to be sleeping in Atlanta, Michigan, but it ain’t gonna happen. You see, I have a gig tomorrow in Atlanta, Michigan, and don’t worry: I’ll get to the church/quilting retreat on time. But I had no choice but to stop and sleep.

See, I left Chicago at 4 p.m. with six hours of driving ahead of me. (Trust me, it worked out to be quicker than flying and driving.) I knew it would be a long haul, but I felt good about things when I got the car all packed up. I had a book on tape. I had a falafel sandwich. But things didn’t go well getting out of the city. I didn’t get free of the traffic snarls until it was going on 6:00 p.m. or so and then my toll pass thing didn’t work and I wasted more time at two different toll booths and — ugh!

As I did and redid the math to see when I would finally get to my destination, I watched my good night’s sleep slip, slip away. I started to feel true panic and dread.

When I don’t get at least six hours of sleep, I feel ill. As in nauseated. You know that feeling? Most people do. And to have to be “on” for a day of teaching and lecturing? Heck no. That’s like operating heavy machinery under the influence. People can get hurt out there, including me.

So when I realized I’d be getting to my hotel after one in the morning because of the time change, instead of crying (more) I called a Holiday Inn Express a little over an hour from the McDonald’s parking lot where I had parked for a minute to figure out my life. I got a room. I booked the room.

After I got off the phone, I had one pang of buyer’s remorse: Couldn’t I make it, though? Was I just being a baby? I mean, this $149 + tax is gonna come out of my pocket; the organizers shouldn’t have to pay for this travel snafu, I figure.

But then I thought about safety (my own and others’) on the road. I thought about putting my head on a pillow. The choice to stop and sleep was the right one, that seems clear.

And I know I’m a lucky gal to have such options.

Goodnight, Big Rapids,
Mary

16 Oct 2017

Puttin’ On The Ritz (I Mean The Sweatpants)

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 14

I haven't gone for pastel flannel pajamas ... yet. Photo: Erich Ferdinand via Wikipedia. — I haven’t gone for pastel flannel pajamas … yet. Photo: Erich Ferdinand via Wikipedia.

I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point I became the kind of person who comes home from a long day and immediately changes into “comfy clothes.”

My comfy clothes are basically a pair of either tattered navy blue or black sweatpants and a former boyfriend’s white Oxford shirt, which is missing 2.5 buttons and no longer smells like his cologne, which is either good or bad, depending on the day I’ve had. I also have in my Comfy Armoire a sweater that is so ragged and busted, it is literally no longer a sweater. It is some sort of knitted object with sleeves.

No, I won’t win any fashion awards in my comfy getup, but that’s the point. It’s not about impressing anyone. In fact, it’s the privacy that feels so good, the “I don’t care and I don’t have to” thing. This transition — changing from whatever I was wearing “out there” into something more comfortable as I look ahead to an evening full of homework, YouTube, the ol’ PG, and various other tasks — has become one of the most glorious moments of my day.

I was trying to think why the “let me slip into something more comfortable” thing feels so new to me, because it does. It’s grad school.

Because I’ve been working for myself since 2005 as a writer, performer, and quilt person, and while a lot of my work is in front of (a lot of) people, a good deal of my work is done on my own, in my house. I have worked in offices, but not a lot of offices and not for long periods of time. I don’t do well in captivity.

But going to school is like going to work and I like to look presentable, you know? Actually, I like to look better than presentable, since it is my belief that wearing a smart outfit with polished-up shoes will carry a gal through any challenge (or victory!) the day may throw her way. The clothes make the woman, that’s what I say. (The other reason I like to dress up when I go out for the day, which might sound funny, is that putting thought into what I wear “out there” shows respect to the city I love so much. I like to meet Chicago looking my best. Is that cray-cray?)

All this is well and good, but these days, by the time I get home it’s like, “I need to take off these pumps and hang up these trousers now. No, now.”

I fling everything off and change into my lounge getup. I get out my laptop. I grab the chips and the salsa. I collapse on the couch. In my fantasy, of course, little Philip Larkin jumps up into my lap. (I’ll have an update on Philip soon, by the way.) And there, home at last, I can relax and unwind and drip salsa on my shirt.

Which I assure you will happen again. Because it happened just now.

15 Oct 2017

The Scout is IN! ‘On Proust, Procrastination, and Piecing’

by Mary | posted in: School, The Quilt Scout | 1

Ol' French Fry himself. Image: Wikipedia. — Ol’ French Fry himself. Image: Wikipedia.

What in the world does Marcel “Ol’ French-Fry” Proust have to do with patchwork? You’d be surprised. Find out all about it on my latest Quilt Scout column for my friends over at Quilts, Inc.

Also: I have 348 pages of Remembrance left to read before Tuesday night. See ya!

xo
Mary “The Quilt Scout” Fons

13 Oct 2017

Conversation With a Spambot No. 82261

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 5

I get spam.

A few months ago, I got so much emailed spam that it shut down my inbox and it was horrible. The only thing worse than having an avalanche of email is having no email at all. That’s some spooky Halloween stuff, let me tell you. Usually, though, I have a manageable-but-still-life-depleting amount of spam and, like everyone else, I just have to delete it.

My blog gets enough traffic that now I get spam comments, too. Not that many; WordPress has pretty solid spam filters. But when a couple came over the transom the other day I thought I’d have some fun with them. Not the same kind of fun I had with this internet-age S.O.B. (a bit of mischief I’m still quite proud of, honestly.) No, I thought it would be amusing to have a conversation with one of these comments, just between me and “him,” right here, so as to highlight their absurd nature and to get my mind off the stabby feelings.

I’ve taken the spam comment verbatim from the source. It’s not a long spam comment, so the conversation will be brief — this time. I’ve got a few other spambot comments stockpiled for a special occasion. Next time, I might not be so nice.

CONVERSATION WITH A SPAMBOT
by Mary Fons and Unidentified Spambot

SPAMBOT: I see you don’t monetize your blog

MARY: Do you actually see things? Or are you just chains of code trash written by some sorry soul for reasons few of us shall ever understand?

SPAMBOT: don’t waste your traffic

MARY: If by “traffic” you are referring to my readers I object. Are you suggesting I plunder my readers’ trust and time for my own gain? And what sort of gain are you suggesting I’m wasting? A pox on you, sir!

SPAMBOT: you can earn extra bucks every month because you’ve got hi-quality content.

MARY: You legit just said “hi-quality.” With an “h-i.” At least you’re right about the quality — or are you “rite” about it?

SPAMBOT: If you want to know how to make extra bucks,

MARY: I’m listening.

SPAMBOT: search for: Mrdalekjd methods for $$$!!!!!!

MARY: Wow! You are like, super legit and not sketchy at all. I’ll be in touch!

SPAMBOT: Really??? It worked???

MARY: Nope.

12 Oct 2017

A Tale of Three Desks

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 12

Hey, I like that desk, too! Image: Wikipedia. — Hey, I like that desk, too. Image: Wikipedia.

I have three desks!

One of my desks is really just a lap desk. Claus gave it to me when he left for Berlin last year, and I suppose this thing is not really a desk. It’s a tiny beanbag with a piece of wood stuck on it. But it does the job. I’m using right now, in fact. Yes, I think it counts as a desk, so let’s call this beanbag thing from a man who broke my heart Desk No. 1.*

Desk No. 2 is a for-real-real desk that lives in the hallway. There’s a wide hallway in my condo between the entryway and the main room. When I moved in, I knew I had to do something with the space, but it took some thought. The hallway isn’t wide enough to like, make into a third bedroom, but I soon realized it would makes a terrific workspace if shelves could be built-in. So that’s what I did, thus, Desk No. 2 is part of a custom-built wall of bookshelves and workspace. Groovy.

Desk No. 3 is a table by the window. With a lamp. And a tray for bills and things.

What in the world does a girl need with three desks? Variety! Yes, I use all my desks because I have needs. Sometimes, I find I write schoolwork better at Desk No. 3, there at the window. I never write blog posts there, though; it’s just never seemed like the place where I should be for this part of my day. I do a good deal of writing for Quiltfolk at Desk No. 2 — but I whipped most of the piece about Joan Flasch sitting right here with the beanbag.

If you count my space at the F Newsmagazine office, I have four desks. If you count how sometimes I eat chips and do stuff at the table where I eat chips, I have five desks.

Is it too many? I don’t think it is, but it strange to find oneself saying, “I have three desks!” It could be worse. What if I said I had five recliners? Five blenders? Five beds?

*What??

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Author Archives: Mary

Philip Larkin, “Days ” from Whitsun Weddings. Copyright © Estate of Philip Larkin. Source: Collected Poems (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2001).