PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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19 Jan 2016

I Fell Through The Ice.

by Mary | posted in: Story | 2

I'm interested in the guy in the background who looks like he's about to mow down his livestock with a wood-chopping axe. 1820's illustration courtesy Wikipedia. — I’m interested in the guy in the background who looks like he’s about to mow down his livestock with a wood-chopping axe. 1820’s illustration courtesy Wikipedia.

I’m in Door County and will stay for about a week. There are many fun things to see and do up here. The last time I was at our family’s lake house there was a wedding taking place. There are no weddings going on right now because a) no one is engaged and b) hypothermia is real.

Washington Island is cold this time of year. Right now it’s five degrees outside. The Island has a year-round population of 660, which means 660 people don’t think a winter this cold and snowy is that big of a deal, though I think the number is misleading: there have to be some folks who take off for Daytona Beach for, say, the months of January and February. They’d still count as year-round, probably.

But cold and the ice make beautiful air and beautiful pictures, and that I’m here at all proves I like that air and those pictures a lot. When a bright sun shines off a subzero Lake Michigan and you’re on the puffy couch, with tea, counting swans, you don’t mind that you have to wear two coats later and pull on actual long underwear if you want to go on a walk.

Today, I fell through the ice on the lake and that was not great. When I say I “fell through the ice,” I mean that I fell through the ice. And when I say I fell through the ice, I meant that I took one step, then another step, then fell through the ice. I was not submerged. But I went down and I felt water. I was walking on the table rocks at the shore and, like an idiot, pranced over to look at a plant completely encased in ice that looked like glass and did not picture in my mind what the ground is like when it is not covered in ice, itself: big rocks with lots of spaces between them. In the summer, water is flowing around these rocks. Ergo, in winter, ice around the rocks. Ice that will surely be varying levels of thickness.

I’m okay. No blood, just sputtering. And don’t worry, I wasn’t alone. Claus was with me. When he heard the crash-splash, he ran to make sure I was okay but he didn’t come too far out on the ice. He could see I was going to make it. And I did; I made it back into the house and then I made minestrone and everything was fine.

But, for the record, I fell through the ice!

18 Jan 2016

Rave On or: File Under My Misspent Youth

by Mary | posted in: Family, Story | 0

Dancers at a rave. Experimental photograph by Rick Doble courtesy Wikipedia.

When I was in high school, my older sister and I snuck out of the house and went to raves in Des Moines.

My mom knows now. We told her years later that Hannah and I would wait till she and Rebecca (our younger sister) were asleep then open a second floor bedroom window and jump to the ground below. I did that in platform heels, once. Youth is not only wasted on the young, it gifts and forgives and protects the young. I should’ve broken my ankle or my neck. Instead, I just went, “Did you see that?! Did I get a grass stain on my butt? No? Okay, let’s go!”

Raves, for those who were not in high school, college, or the club kid scene in Manhattan in the mid-90s, were just dance parties. It was the music that distinguished them from a bunny hop or a prom or a Sadie Hawkins dance. At raves, this newfangled “techno” music was blasted through giant speakers. Techno — and I’m ashamed to reduce it down so far but it’s late — is an electronic music melange of Chicago house, jazz, deep African rhythms, and the concept that in late-capitalist America, the Body and the Machine are pretty close to becoming the same thing. But it’s got a catchy beat! And you can dance to it! (Seriously: you can really, really dance to it. I learned to dance to it, in fact, and I feel like I can actually cut a rug to most genres of music and I owe this to Fatboy Slim.)

My hometown of Winterset, IA, had a population of 5,000. Des Moines was the closest city and close enough: a 45-minute drive got you downtown. Me, my sister, and our friends — who had snuck out of their houses — had the audacity to take my grandmother’s white station wagon to Des Moines about once a month to dance at a rave. I named my grandma’s station wagon Honky. Honky served us well. We got like eight people in that thing and never had a flat tire.

We didn’t do drugs. We didn’t even drink. I did a little drinking in high school, but that was always at high school parties on level-B roads. The raves, they were for dancing. We got lost in the music. We got lost in a community that wasn’t our own — and most of us didn’t fit too well in ours and we needed to know that there were other communities that existed. We could be different people at raves; perhaps it’s more accurate that we could truly be ourselves. Though we didn’t use the word at the time, we were fabulous. Oh, we were wearing glittery shirts and way too much eye makeup, so I don’t mean we were fabulous. But these infiltrators, these refugees, these desperate, giddy teenagers were fabulous. You bet your hotpants.

The NBC news affiliate came one night to do a story on this crazy youth movement (?) called “rave parties.” I waved to the camera and my friend Justin and I booty-shaked with renewed vigor from atop the bank of speakers, waving and sticking out our tongues in a rebel sort of way, many, many years before Miley Cyrus was born. That clip of us made the news. I saw the report myself at the five-o’clock broadcast. Guess who watched the ten-o’clock broadcast diligently, every night, in bed? Marianne Fons.

That night, Hannah and I went to say goodnight to Mom, just because “We love you, Mom! We just wanted to see how your day was!” We placed our bodies in front of the TV screen till we heard the report was over.

So far away those lives are, now. But the news archives. They live forever.

15 Jan 2016

Doorknob, Meet Pantloop: A True Tale

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

I come this night with a true tale of a dinner party, a doorknob, pants, and great distress. I got permission from my friend to tell this story.

Not so long ago, I attended a get-together at my friend Nathan’s* house. Dinner was served, there was plenty of wine. Everyone around the table had interesting jobs, so we talked about those. We discussed books. I often look around and can’t believe I’m an adult. I get bills in my mailbox and I think, “I get bills. And I pay them. I have kitchen utensils. I can get myself showered and to the airport on time.” I can’t believe I do these things on my own. At this dinner party, I had that feeling. I was listening intently to someone discussing their recent trip to Bangkok, took a sip of red wine, and thought, “Fons, you are pulling this off.”

Between dinner and dessert, my friend excused herself to go to the ladies’ room upstairs. Keeping tabs on how long people spend in the bathroom is weird, so I didn’t do that exactly, but it did cross my mind at one point that my friend had been upstairs longer than a typical bathroom visit takes. But before I was officially considering it, she came down and everyone had fruit.

I stuck around after the other guests left to help with dishes, and that was when Nathan and I learned what had happened up there. “Did you notice how long I was gone?” Sally asked. I told her that I kinda noticed, but it wasn’t weird or anything.

“Oh, it was weird, all right,” she said. “As I was leaving the bathroom, the door swung closed behind me and my pantloop got caught on the doorknob. Have you seen that thing? It’s this weird curlique doorknob. I twisted around to free myself, but I guess I went the wrong way somehow, because I made it worse. Like, the twist got twisted and I was stuck. I was stuck on door to the bathroom.”

I brought a dish towel to my chest. “Sally no.”

“Yes,” she said, and our eyes got big and mirth began to well up in us and Nathan stopped loading the dishwasher. “I was twisting this way and that way, just trying to get free. I was up there the whole time, stuck on the door! I could hear you all downstairs, laughing and clinking glasses. I’m telling you: I was really stuck. I was moving back and forth and the door was banging… I thought the only thing I was going to be able to do would be try to take my pants off but I couldn’t do that, either — I mean, how was that gonna happen?” We were weak with laughter. Sally squeaked, “Could you hear me? Could you hear me like, rustling?”

I shook my head and wiped tears from my eyes. Poor, poor Sally, dangling like a fish on a hook, only feet above the civilized dinner party, thrashing silently, trying not to curse, Sally — a woman of faith — prayed for divine intervention. We imagined her sweating, pulling, pushing, all in shame, desperate to solve a very strange, very immediate problem.

“Just when I was about to call down, ‘Hey, Mary, can you come up here for just a sec?’ and make it sound real casual, like I wanted to show you a new dress I bought or something, just that moment, I untangled it. I kind of fell forward, but I caught myself.”

I haven’t known Sally too long, but I foresee good things. And as getting one’s pant loop hooked to a doorknob is something that does not happen to grownups very often, I may be able to avoid these “I am an adult” realizations if I hang out with her more. Done.

*Names have been changed.

14 Jan 2016

Thieves.

by Mary | posted in: Chicago | 0

"Beware pickpockets" sign. Photo: Wikipedia — “Beware pickpockets” sign. Image: Wikipedia

Are you in the market for a bed? I’d love to sell you one. If you’re one of the two scam artists who tried to rob me this week, I’d love to poke you in the eye, which is the PaperGirl way of saying: [REDACTED] you.

I have a beautiful oak bed I need to sell. The bed is modern minimalist in style. Oak. Gorgeous, deep brown finish. Low to the ground. A fantastic bed. I got it on Overstock for a head-slappingly good price and I have the receipt to prove it. But that’s not all. I have a dreamy, cloud-like mattress to sell, as well. It’s a Charles P. Rogers “Estate 5000,” which clearly means it’s good. These things were purchased and used by me for exactly three months while I was in Washington, D.C. Remember, all my furniture was here in Chicago. The first months I was in D.C. I rented furnished apartments; when I moved into the Kennedy Warren, furnishing was on me. I needed a place to sleep, so I bought the bed and mattress.

I came home, though, so now I have these enormous objects in my hallway. They must go. I made cute signs and posted them on my building’s bulletin board, but that was three weeks ago and no bites. So, Monday evening, I posted an ad on Craigslist. Together, the bed and mattress are worth many hundreds of dollars, which is important to note because my experience with Craigslist would’ve been different if I was selling a collection of half-grown Chia Pets for four dollars.

Immediately, I got emails and texts from people who said they wanted to buy my stuff. I was thrilled! I communicated with the one guy — not a great speller, incidentally — who wanted the mattress and a gal who wanted the bed. Strangely, they both were out of town and told me they’d have a mover come get the furniture. Seemed reasonable. One offered to PayPal me. That seemed fine. PayPal is safe. One said she’d do a cashier’s check, which was okay with me, too. Those are legit. I’d love to tell you I was unsure about either of them, but I wasn’t. I was excited to sell my stuff and reclaim my hallway.

Clicking to edit an ad on my Craigslist page, I clicked the “Avoid Scams & Fraud” tab. Everything they warned against was happening to me: text messages with bad spelling, asking for my PayPal account number, the cashier’s check option (Craigslist says these are always, always fake), and the employing of a third party (e.g., a mover, a friend.) I felt sick. I was totally playing into scam artists’ hands. Once I understood what was happening, I texted each person back and said, “You’re trying to steal from me. I’m not interested in speaking with you. Good luck.” No response from either “buyer” since then; I have the hunch I was right.

I’ve had my purse stolen. I’ve had two bicycles taken. And my car was towed once by legendarily evil Lincoln Towing Service in Chicago, which is a kind of larceny. The feeling one gets when one has been suckered, or fooled, or taken advantage of, or relieved of personal belongings without consent is a feeling akin to having a nightmare. Because like a nightmare, when you’re stolen from — or about to be stolen from — you’re disoriented; you’re confused; it’s spooky; there’s a kind of dread and vulnerability present; there are boogie men.

When I blogged about my condo up available for rent last summer, it worked: I got tenants. Maybe this will work, then: I am selling a bed and a mattress. Facebook message me if interested.

13 Jan 2016

Small Wonders Wednesday: Solve The Puzzle + Win!

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

The block is four Snowball units sewn together.

Okay, comrades. Here’s the game.

In the block above, I’ve used five different fabrics from my Small Wonders “World Piece” line. (NOTE: The green solid is not from the line, so that one doesn’t count.)

The first person to correctly identify the fabrics I used and emails their answers to me at smallwonderswednesday@gmail.com gets this totes adorbs baby quilt from my China line. The quilt was made by me in November, with quilting and binding love from sweet D.C. Carla. Hi, Carla!

I had to pre-wash all the blocks I made, so don’t judge the wrinkles! I’m going to quilt that out.

Good Luck,
Mary + Pendennis

I'm stoked about this quilt, which I'm calling, "Twinkle." — I’m stoked about this quilt, which I’m calling, “Twinkle.”

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