PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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19 Jul 2016

The Receiving Room Guy.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 6
Could there be love inside?? I'M KIDDING. Also, that's not my table. Photo: Wikipedia.
Could there be love inside?? I’M KIDDING. Photo: Wikipedia.

In April, a small sign went up on the door to my building’s receiving room:

“RECEIVING ROOM HELP WANTED — CALL 773-123-4567”

Two months later, the sign changed:

“RECEIVING ROOM HELP WANTED!!!! CALL 773-123-4567!!!!!”

It’s a tough sell.

In case you don’t know, mid-rise and high-rise condo buildings have a receiving room where UPS and FedEx leave packages and where large furniture deliveries and such are made. Florists go to the front desk, as does food delivery. But for your Amazon and your certified mail, you’ll visit the receiving room. It’s great to have one, because you never get one of those “we missed you” post-its, which always made me feel like the top scoop of my ice cream dropped off the cone.

Working in receiving at my building is not a gig a person with limitless options might choose. Well, it isn’t! It’s a windowless room, for one thing, and that can be hard on a person over an 8-hour shift. And it’s not a tiny space, but it’s cramped with heavy shelves and all surfaces are covered with boxes and things; plus, our receiving room is also the on-site dry cleaner, so there’s a big revolving rack of plastic-sleeved clothes in there, too. The gal who was working there for a long time was the daughter of the guy who runs the cleaners and whenever I picked anything up she looked like she’d rather be working as a dishwasher at Lou Malnati’s across the street.

Then one day about a month ago, the sign was taken down.

I walked into the receiving room and Adonis himself hopped up from behind the desk.

I’m not a hottie hound. (Is that a term?) I appreciate physical beauty as much as the next gal, but I have never understood the screaming mania that happens to some women when they see an airbrushed photo of a six-packed dude on the beach or at the gym. The dashing, Superman thing is nice, but I’m not —

Okay: he is gorgeous, people. 

Absolutely gorgeous. Not a day over twenty-two. Six-feet tall. Beautiful, swarthy, Mediterranean skin tone, a real “Oh-I’m-Sorry-I’ve-Been-Working-In-The-Olive-Groves-All-Day-With-No-Shirt-On” complexion. Megawatt smile. Whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. Longish, thick, dark hair that he ties back in what I understand is called a “man bun” and in theory I do not like this but in this case, I very much do. And he’s so nice. He knows my apartment number by now, so when I come in, he’ll go over to my place on the shelf without me having to say anything.

Whenever I have to look extra nice for a lunch date or a meeting, I’ll make sure to drop by and see if I have any packages. This is because if I don’t, he will think that I always look like a squinty, tired, messy-haired weirdo all the time, instead of just sometimes, since this is the way I typically look whenever I get an email that I have a package and I have two seconds to get to the receiving room before it closes. (This never happened when the owner’s daughter worked there, by the way.)

The other day, I had brunch and did not eat my pancakes. It was a full stack of pancakes, so I had the gal box them up. Upon entering my building – and because I looked adorable – I thought I’d see if I had any packages. I did! And as Adonis was getting my delivery, I thought: “I am going to offer him these pancakes.” Then I thought, “That is so weird, Mary. Do not do that.” And then, before my brain could stop me, I said:

“Hey, I just had brunch, like, just now. I didn’t eat my pancakes. They are 100%, completely, totally untouched. I even dumped syrup on them before the girl closed the lid. I know I’m not going to eat them. Do you want my pancakes?”

This amazing look of like, sheepish gratitude came over his face. He tucked a tendril — he literally has tendrils, people — behind his ear and said, “Actually… Yeah. I’m really hungry. Yeah, I’d love that.”

Look, my list of things to do does not include “Seduce Receiving Room Guy.” The reasons why this not on my list would be impossible to count. But if a single gal can’t give a cute guy her pancakes, well, what good is she?

15 Jul 2016

Keeping My Ears Cool.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Tips | 0
Hey, that's my neighborhood! Photo: John Picken, 2010, via Wikipedia.
Hey, that’s my neighborhood! Photo: John Picken, 2010, via Wikipedia.

Because I’m from a small town in Iowa and I was never super popular in school, I have done many a foolish thing in my life to appear cooler than I am. Certain items of clothing, jokes told in bad taste, middle school disloyalty – they all lay upon the bonepile of attempts at cool.

Walking under the el tracks this morning as a train blasted overhead, I covered my ears. It took me years before I was willing to do this. It’s Chicago, man. It’s the el, man. Don’t be a wimp. Only old folks and little kids plug their ears when the train blasts by. The el is Chicago’s chi: energy traveling through the body. You’re either one with it or you’re not.

I believed this, in so many words, and would endure physical pain when walking in an alleyway if the el came through. (The buildings on either side of an alley trap sound; a train crashing past is loud as a jet landing.)

I’m not sure when it happened, but I finally got over myself and now I put my paws over my ears when I hear a train coming in those situations. The freedom I feel to do this is heady. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t it strange? What we put ourselves through to be acceptable. I used to grit my teeth and bear it when an ambulance passed at close range, too. I had never seen anyone in New York City plug their ears when an ambulance or fire truck would roar past; it must be really uncool to do so. So I didn’t, and would grimace and hurt when that would happen.

You know what’s cool? Since I’ve begun covering my ears for a train or an ambulance, I’ve seen more people doing it. I’ll detect a fire truck down State St., for example, and as it comes closer and goes by, I’ll have my ears protected. I’ll look around and often see a couple other people follow suit. Maybe I just never noticed them before, but I don’t think so. I think sometimes one person has to say, “I’m not cool and I don’t care” and then other people say, “Okay, me too.”

 

14 Jul 2016

Uncle, Uncle: My Shoulder Is Not Okay.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Sicky | 0
Just look at dem bones! X-ray, chiropractor; photo of x-ray, me.
Dem bones. X-ray, chiropractor; photo of x-ray, me.

“Claus,” I said, “My shoulder hurts really bad.”

In May, the dull ache in my shoulder had gotten bad enough that I had to say something. It had hurt for a couple weeks and just when I’d think, “Aw, I’ll be alright,” I’d move it in some totally acceptable way and realize it was not getting better. Claus gave me a couple massages and that helped, but then he moved back to Germany and now what? I thought.

When I was working in Iowa, I saw my friend Julie, an orthopaedic surgeon. “Julie,” I said. “My shoulder hurts really bad.” She gave me some stretches to do and that helped, but then I went back to Chicago and now what? I thought.

Then a tiny section of my thumb went slightly numb. That was about a month back. Not numb exactly, but numb kind of. Then I woke up in the night from the ache. Then I realized when writing in my journal in the morning that my hand was not quite as strong as I remembered it being. Then, the last straw: the terrible ache extended to my upper arm and I woke up three times in the night from the pain. It’s hard for me to find a good position in bed at night. Okay. I call. It’s time.

Instead of taking the bus up to the hospital where I get all my glamorous medical care, I thought I’d try something else first. Because it’ll be my luck that I get an MRI and suddenly have surgery scheduled for next month. I’m good like that. I decided to get a first opinion and made an appointment at a chiropractor downtown. I’ve never seen a chiropractor before.

My step-dad swears by his; he’ll holler upstairs to me when I’m home at the house, “Mar! I’m headed to the chiro to get cracked! You need anything at the store, honey?” Mark’s back is considerably bigger than my shoulder and he gets good results, so why not.

It’s wild how divided people are about chiropractors. I wrote day before yesterday how I won’t comment on political issues on my blog; this includes my official position on chiropractic care. All I’ll say is that when I left, after stimulation nodes had been placed on my shoulder for 30 minutes, after the nice lady had made my spine do its best impression of Jiffy Pop, and after I opted-in for a 30 minute chiro-massage, my shoulder did feel better and I’m grateful. But I also emailed Julie; chiro or not, I’m going to get a third opinion. (The second opinion came from my neighbor; we were chatting in the elevator this morning and I told her about my shoulder. “Oh, just get a cortisone shot,” she said. “You’ll be fine.” Janine is a real estate agent and has nine earrings in her left ear.)

I took a picture of the chiro’s computer screen when she left the examination room. That’s my shoulder/neck x-ray. Isn’t it amazing? I’ve had a string of a few bad days this week and it was strange: when I saw my straight spine and that there wasn’t broken glass in my shoulder, I felt better. When you’re stressed about this or that, when you walk around with chronic pain and dread that it’s worse than you think, think on this: the back of your skull is lovely.

 

12 Jul 2016

How I Feel About [INSERT POLITICAL FIRESTORM HERE.]

by | posted in: Uncategorized | 0

 

Political poster, England, 1905. Image: Wikipedia.
Political poster, England, 1905. Image: Wikipedia.

The tensions in my city are palpable. And that’s just Chicago.

There is upheaval and seismic news every day, everywhere. How much the news affects you personally determines how you feel about it. Well, all the news feels personal lately. The racial turmoil. The presidential election. ISIS. Mass shootings. Brexit. My head spins every day, right along with yours. But you don’t know how I feel about any of this stuff because I don’t talk about it here.

You don’t know if I support Trump or Hillary or someone else. You don’t know if I’m marching in the huge protests that are taking place every day here. You don’t know how I feel about the European Union and yes, I do have feelings about it. I didn’t blog about Treyvon Martin or the shootings in Dallas this week. I didn’t blog about Pulse, nor about San Bernadino last year.

Something will happen and I will think, “Today’s the day. I have to say something about [INSERT POLITICAL FIRESTORM HERE.] Surely now, surely after this, I have to say XYZ.” But every single time, I stop myself. Why?

Because you don’t come to me for politics and you shouldn’t. I’m not a political writer. I’m just a blogger you like. I’m a quilter, too. I’m not a person with the background/credentials/experience to speak intelligently about politics. “Well, a lot of people speak about such things without background/credentials, etc., Mary! It’s never stopped them!” You are correct. Unqualified people going off in an un-moderated public forum about things they feel strongly about and have little context or facts for is free speech and yay for free speech, but it doesn’t mean it’s helpful. It’s certainly not a reason to go for it myself.

I will not use this public platform to add another emotional screed, manifesto, rant, or praise song to the din. I won’t publish anger, fear, sycophancy, or an impassioned call to arms. There are enough of those on either side of everything already. It’s not my role. When I try to be something I’m not, the failure is total. I’m not qualified to write intelligent, informed political commentary so I won’t write it – not here, anyway. I have seen the damage done when people (including me) get irresponsible with a public platform for their opinions. I see the absolute, utter futility of those Facebook rants back and forth – I want no part of it. I recuse myself. The stakes are just too high.

My political leanings and opinions determine how I act in the world and how I vote. I am proud to be a U.S. citizen and I will conduct myself as such. But you’re not going to hear the details here. At the very least: this stuff is private. Or could be. That is still an option, you know.

I hear some of you wondering, “Just when, Miss-Recuse-Yourself-Pants will it be bad enough for you to say something, to stick your neck out?” This is a valid criticism. Some might even be angry that I won’t “go there” with so much happening. There may come a time when staying silent is more damaging than sharing with you how I feel about an issue. But I have started to “go there” about 90 times over the course of writing PaperGirl – 80 of those times in the past couple weeks – and every time, I stopped. So far, it just hasn’t been the right thing to do for me. 

Do what’s right for you.

 

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