PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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27 Jul 2016

Lollapa-eeewwww-za.

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

This is what's happening in my backyard for the next four days. Photo: Ralf Lotys via Wikipedia. — This is what’s happening in my backyard for the next four days. Photo: Ralf Lotys via Wikipedia.

If you live in Chicago’s South Loop, the last weekend in July is a good time to go visit Uncle Dan and Aunt Carol in San Diego, or finally take that True Manhood Workshop over there in Michigan (you’ve been hearing such good things.) If you can’t leave town, the last weekend in July is a good time to practice your emergency preparedness plan: can you survive four days without going outside even once? Is there enough water? Tea? Are your library books good until Monday??

It’s Lollapallooza weekend.

Since 2005, the four-day music festival extravaganza Lollapalooza has taken place in Chicago’s Grant Park. Grant Park is my backyard. Well, okay: I can’t lean out the window and spit on Grant Park, but I can lean out the window and hock a really intense loogie with a lot of torque behind it and I will totally hit Grant Park. It’s close, is what I’m saying. Guess how many people come to Grant Park for the festival each year? It’s somewhere around 160k.

It’s sorta cool that I might see one half of DJ duo Flosstradamus at my Peet’s Coffee. And I’m always happy that Chicago is a desirable destination for people who like this kind of thing. But mostly what Lolla means (if you’re local, you can call it that) is hordes of people, most under thirty and inebriated, cajoling, shouting, and running in flip-flops through the streets in t-shirts covered with paint, mud, and the insanely long list of bands and DJs playing the show. Michigan Avenue is essentially impassable from today until Monday. State Street is just as bad. Lake Shore Drive is a parking lot from the I-55 feeder ramp to Lake Superior. Sometimes when I tell someone I don’t own a car, they’ll look at me like, “That’s impossible!” and then I look at those people who are trying to get through Lolla traffic and I pray for them.

Our building (and I’m sure all the nearby ones) hires extra security this weekend and there are notices up in the building that remind residents to not let people into the building without permission, even if they offer you the rest of their six-pack of Pabst. One year, I saw some kids walking through the lobby barefoot. I’m pretty sure one of the girls lived here; I hoped that was true, not because I was concerned but because if you’re the kind of gal who likes outdoor summer music festivals and you live in this building, you’ve got it made.

Me, I can’t do crowds. I got spooked at Fourth of July this year and had to leave my friend early. We were in a city park! With families and dogs! If some firecrackers make me nervous, imagine what the throngs of Major Lazer fans would do to me. I can’t do the big show, but in an interesting turn of events I was invited to a party on Sunday that is loosely linked to the Lollapalooza festivities. I think I’ll go. It’ll be a smaller crowd.

I can handle that.

25 Jul 2016

An Open Letter To Receiving Room Guy (Update #3)

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

Safety poster. Image: U.S. National Archives and Records Administration via Wikipedia.

Dear Receiving Room Guy:

If you’re reading this, it’s because I told you I wrote about you on my blog. How many people read it? Nevermind that, everyone thinks you’re great! You say, “How could they think I’m great because of a single blog post?” Well, that’s funny. There’s been some content. It’s kind of a thing right now but it’s going to blow over.

We need to get two things straight right now:

1. I am not psychotic.
2. I am not asking you out.

I implore you to let me explain.

I’m a writer. I write about stuff I see and how I feel about it. One of the things I write is this blog. Often, Receiving Room Guy (I know your name but would never use it without your permission), what I see is people and how I feel about those people is interested. I don’t mean romantically interested; I mean that I am interested in a person’s funny jacket, the contents of their grocery basket, the particular tone in their voice when they said goodbye on a rainy day. These sorts of things never fail to surprise me and surprise is the curious person’s reward. I am a curious person and the world is full of rewards if you look for them.

I’m particularly curious about the encounters I have with people because though there are some real jerks out there, most people are terrific and will make you laugh, think hard, or just feel like a part of the human race.

My encounters with you fall into the “terrific” category – and they have also surprised this curious person, Receiving Room Guy. This is all your fault, when you think about it. You can’t be a pleasant, intelligent new person working in my building who also plays a guitar on the clock who also looks like the guy on the poster in the Louis Vuitton window on Michigan Avenue without me wanting to write about you. So I did. As you now know.

But after posting yesterday, I realized I had done a terrible thing. Unless I write this post to you and come clean about this, we can never go beyond talking about the weather – and for a curious person, nothing could be worse. Talking about the weather is like death. Actually, it’s worse. I would much, much rather talk about death than the weather. But if we leave behind the weather, it won’t be too long after that that I will want to tell you I’m a writer and that I write a blog and maybe you’d like to read it?

Under the circumstances, this would be bad. Unless I confess.

If I don’t tell you about all this, we’ll never go any deeper than, “Hey” and “Hey” and “Do you want these pancakes?” and “I have band practice.” We can do better than that. That’s why I gave you my card and told you to read my blog and why, when I said it, I looked at you with a look on my face that said, “I am going to put my head in the oven, now.”

Receiving Room Guy, I never meant to creep you out. I’ve been called plenty of things, but I have never been called “creepy.” And for the record, I feel a little weird – okay, a lot weird – about kinda objectifying you, though if comparing a person to a Greek God is a punishable offense, I give up. I just wanted to write about my life. You’re in my life. Aren’t you so glad?

A brief word on #2:

You are highly ask-outable, which I’m sure you realize, but I have a number of very good reasons why a drink with you, like that, is not on this particular woman’s mind. My reasons for not wanting that are so many and so good, that if there were awards given out for good reasons – The Good Reason Awards – I would clean up. I would be giving acceptance speeches with mascara running down my face every five seconds for all my good reasons. So don’t worry about that. We’re cool.

Are we cool? Are you okay? How are you doing right now? I ordered something from Jet. I’m going to have to get it at some point. I am legitimately going to avoid you for a couple days, though.

However, if you feel like watching a blog post go viral, text me. People will freak if there’s an Update #4.

Sincerely,
Mary

24 Jul 2016

Receiving Room Guy: Update #2

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

Closeup, denim jacket. Photo: Wikipedia.

Let’s get something straight: I am a decent flirt.

I’m not the prettiest girl in the room. I don’t have the sexiest bod. But there came a point in my life when I realized that though I know very, very little, most people don’t know that much more, and if I ask questions, listen to folks, read stuff, avoid eating breadsticks dipped in frosting for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and refrain from taking myself too seriously, I’m a catch! (The same is true for anyone, by the way.) This understanding has given me confidence in conversatin’ with the opposite sex. I fear no dude. Usually.

If you’re just joining us, you’ll need part one of this story and then part two, from yesterday.

Something very interesting happened when Receiving Room Guy put his guitar down. He didn’t go directly for my delivery. There was this discernable moment of, “So… How’s it goin?” But of course I couldn’t possibly let a moment pass without filling it with words, and that is when my flirt game died. My actual sentence was:

“Well… You know, I was just sewing. Upstairs. That’s…my thing. Like, you have a guitar. That’s your…thing. And I sew. I make quilts. I’m on television. I teach people how to make quilts on television. On PBS. Patchwork quilts. You know? Quilts?”

Receiving Room Guy’s eyebrows went up. “Really? That’s so cool. Awesome.”

I nodded, smiling. “Yeah. It’s a…thing.” And then he said:

“I’ve been doing some sewing myself.”

[Go ahead. Squeak with delight. I’ll wait.]

“Oh?” I said. “Well, that’s…awesome.”

“Yeah, you know, working down here, there’s a lot of sewing supplies.” I laughed loudly and said something like, “That’s hilarious!”

He continued. “Well, it’s not sewing, exactly. But I have a denim jacket and I’ve been sewing some patches on it.”

I need to pause here and say that the youth, the long hair, bass guitar, denim jacket, and Michelangelo-level beauty may be portraying Receiving Room Guy a wee dim. Not so, and I don’t think I’m projecting. He’s sharp, and our exchanges in the receiving room are always enjoyable and sort of funny, like the time I got a box of wine – I mean a case of wine, people – and as I struggled to carry it out, I was like, “No, I got this” and he was like, “Are you sure?” and I was like, “It’s a box of wine” and he was like, “Well, if you get crushed underneath it, it’s a good way to go.” See? His eyes are bright, his pelt is shiny. He’s no bimbo.

After he told me that he has been sewing for Lord’s sake, I thought of one, single amusing thing to say as I stabbed at the iPad on the counter where you sign for your package. “Well,” I said, stabbing, “If you ever run out of sewing supplies, you should, you know, ask your boss. But if he runs out of sewing supplies, you know, let me know. I have a lot of, like, thread and stuff.” He laughed and I felt very much like I needed to leave that place while I was ahead.

Receiving Room Guy handed me my package and I wished him luck at band practice on my way out. (He told me at one point he had a private lesson and then band practice; this was after I blurted out at some point, “Areyouinaband?”) When I got to the elevator I literally smacked myself in the forehead. When did I lose the ability to talk to a person who is cute? With a dawning horror I wondered if it was because I’m older than him – by a lot, probably. Is that why getting older is hard? Because you revert to junior high school around cute boys?

There’s one more piece to the story. Tomorrow, the last piece (so far.) I’m telling you right now: you have a part to play tomorrow. I’m going to need you guys, so get your thinking caps and your advice gloves on. Advice gloves? Advice pants. I’m going to need your advice.

Just one more thing:

He has a name, you know. But I’m not going to tell you what it is. Wanna guess? Ooh! Guess! That’ll be fun. It’s good, too; if you just list male characters from Danielle Steele novels, someone will hit it eventually.

23 Jul 2016

Receiving Room Guy: Update #1

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

Wrapping from my package and the twistie tie I literally wound around my finger as I was talking to him. What the?? Photo: Me. — Wrapping from my package and the twistie tie I literally wound around my finger as I was talking to him. What is happening to me? I am not this person! Photo: Me.

My thoughts on death. My musings on Faulkner. The people have spoken and the people say, “Whatever, Mary. Tell us more about Receiving Room Guy.” When I posted about the young man working in my building’s receiving room this summer 324 people “liked” it on Facebook. (Faulkner “like” count: 38.) Who am I to blow against the wind?

It’s a good thing that there has been a huge development. Two, actually.

First, I went in the other day to pick up a book I ordered. Receiving Room Guy was on the phone at the desk. I could hear through the receiver that on the other line was his boss, a man with a thick Korean accent. Receiving Room Guy reached over to get my envelope and made a face that said, “I’m stuck on this phone, I’m sorry!!” I flapped my hand to communicate, “That’s totally okay!” and I left. I thought it was nice that he felt bad about being on the phone. If I were in his place, I would’ve made the same face – especially if I had his face, which must be very fun to have. If I had that face, I’d just stare in the mirror all day and make it do things and be surprised that I couldn’t make it look anything but gratuitously attractive.

That was the first development. A moment of “I like you enough to wish I wasn’t on the phone when you came in so that we could’ve exchanged pleasantries.”

The second development came about two hours ago. Everything I am about to tell you is a true fact.

I open the door to the receiving room, go up to the counter. Behind the counter, off to the right, is Receiving Room Guy picking a bass guitar. It was a slow Saturday afternoon, you see, so Receiving Room Guy was using his time to practice his bass guitar because Receiving Room Guy is clearly reading the You Can’t Write This Stuff Handbook and I guess he can’t bring his baby kitten to work, so it’s bass guitar practice time. His long hair was not pulled back, so it was like, on the verge of falling in his face when he looked up and smiled at me. And so it was in that moment that all interesting, witty, or intelligible things I have to say left my cerebral cortex.

“Wow!” I said, noticing the embroidered guitar strap, clearly indicating Receiving Room Guy has a sensitive, introspective side. “Is that a bass guitar?” (See? I told you. Hang on; it gets worse.)

“Yeah,” he said, taking it off, looking shy. I caught him in the act, I suppose.

My knowledge about bass guitars begins and ends with this: they plug in. Without a cord that hooks up to an amplifier, they make next to no sound. But the thing is, Receiving Room Guy’s bass looked super weird, like Brooklyn hipsters made it out of reclaimed park benches and organic unicorn hair. There were no visible electric hookups, no nodes. So I said, at the risk of asking the dumbest question I have ever asked in my life:

“At the risk of asking the dumbest question I have ever asked in my life: is it… Wireless?”

You know how deeply happy you were as a child when you gave your mom or dad a picture you drew and they put it on the fridge? That overwhelming sense of pride and accomplishment washed over me when Receiving Room Guy looked at me and said, impressed, “Oh, no, it’s not; see, it’s got the hookup right here. But yeah, actually, there are wireless bass guitars now, but only the really fancy rockstars have those ’cause they’re like, thousands of dollars.”

Total. Score.

There is much, much more to tell you. This is like, not even half of what happened just now. But you know what? You’ll have to wait. I know when I’ve got a content tiger by the tail. In fact, I’m chuckling to myself as I write this because I know what I’m going to tell you tomorrow and you have no idea how much you’re going to love it. Until tomorrow, my little FedEx envelopes. My little Target boxes. My little Amazon returns.

Zap!

21 Jul 2016

Summer Lovin, Had Me Some Coffee.

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

Little do they know they're about to be eaten by a Bengal tiger! Just kidding. Photo: David R. Tribble via Wikipedia. — Little do they know they’re about to be eaten by a Bengal tiger! Just kidding. Photo: David R. Tribble via Wikipedia.

The title of this post may pique the interest of those excited about my summer crush, working in the receiving room as we speak, but I’m afraid I have not yet gotten any surreptitious pictures, nor have I been asked out for a second round of pancakes. In fact, Overstock.com alerted me that my new bathroom rug has been delivered but I cannot go down there looking like this. There’s too much work on my desk to stop and get cute right now; I’ll have to get my package tomorrow. Love stinks!

Love doesn’t stink for everyone, though. All around me, I see summer love blooming. Oh, I see bedraggled people emerging from the subway in 100-degree heat and I see women depressed that anything they did to their hair before they left the house vanished on contact with the outside world, but I see love, too.

Yesterday I watched a coffee date that went very, very well, for example.

I was working in a coffee shop in my neighborhood. The girl and the guy looked to be on summer break from college. The girl had done something to her hair that I knew she was trying for the first time, a kind of bouffant avec ponytial that got a little too excited but saved it at the last minute. The guy was a standard-issue, cargo short guy; sandy hair, Cubs t-shirt. They sat down at a table near me just after I had gotten myself settled and I heard enough of the conversation to understand they were meeting for the first time. Either it was an online thing or they had mutual friends who put them in touch. In my heart of hearts I wish they were pen pals. This is unlikely.

From where I was sitting, I had a clear view of the girl. It was hard not to look at her because everything about her was saying, I really really really really really like you and it was an interesting study in body language. She was leaning ever-so-slightly forward. Her eyes were big and shiny. She was either actively smiling when her tablemate was talking or she was on the verge. At one point, Dude must’ve said something that was sad or bad, because she made a “Noooooo!” face and cocked her head to one side. Then she stuck out her lip and she sighed, shaking her head. A minute later she was laughing again.

I wondered if the guy knew how well he was doing. At one point, he got up to use the bathroom and the girl waited a moment or two, looked behind her to see if he was gone, then pulled out her phone. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard as she surely texted her best girlfriends that he’s hot, he’s nice, he’s funny, etc.

Is it a terrible, terrible thing that I felt depressed? It’s not that I envy the situation – I do not. I am allergic to love right now. I need a break from the Ferris Wheel of The Heart after these love affairs. No, I was depressed because – I’m such a drag – the puppy-dog looks don’t last. Even if these two people fall in love, get married, and live together till their dying days, the eyes-as-big-as-saucers thing has a shelf-life. First-blush love is fabulous. It’s addictive. It’s an atom bomb of happiness. And then the spaceships of infatuation take off again and you have to make things work for real.

My birthday is on August 6th. I like the age I am. It’s a little weird to be in the second half of my thirties, but I wouldn’t go back for anything. Still, insights like these come with a ruefulness and I find myself crossing my legs in my cafe chair and wondering if that on-again off-again pain in my knee might be a real issue someday.

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