That’s my puppet, Nathan, who is high-fiving life, sitting on the six quilts that have come home. Photo: Me
I got back from Florida yesterday. The entire flight and the entire cab ride, I thought about the box that UPS said was at my building. Until I touched the quilts that were diverted, lost-ish, and otherwise frightened out there in the Big Bad World, I could not rest. I was picking at my cuticles, which means I was truly in crisis. It’s a bad/weird habit that calms me down when I’m freaking out.
When I got home, I beelined to the receiving room. The state of the box was terrifying; corners were chewed, quilts showed through on three sides. But my quilts were there. Safe. And I am happy. Sending quilts will forever now be scarier than it was before, but what can you do? Well, a few things: I can reinforce the box. Sprinkle holy water all over it. Insure it. Raindance around it, maybe. Hire a Chicago bike messenger, maybe; those guys are fleet of foot and deadly when crossed.
Get your cheeseboard out because I’m about to serve up some cheese: this is what I wanted for Christmas, Santa. I appreciate it.
You don’t know me. I’m in the area for work. I leave early tomorrow morning but before I leave Florida, I need to talk to you.
Lindsay, I stole your deli items.
My host took me by the Publix near the place I’m teaching to grab something to eat. There wasn’t much time. When we got there, I made a beeline for the Deli & Bakery section of the store.
There were tureens of soup. I got a portion of the turkey-kale-sweet potato, which I recommend to you the next time you’re in the Publix that I know for a fact is your grocery store of choice.
Just below that long deli counter, there on the right side, there were great piles of pre-cut meats and cheeses. I like a bit o’ thin-sliced chicken breast. I like a lil’ thin-sliced Swiss cheese. So I grabbed a bag of each. With the soup and then some kind of chocolate afterward, well. A perfect lunch, and it had all come together quickly. (I had chocolate in my purse already.)
Lindsay, that was your chicken and cheese. I had no idea what I had done until I got back to my hotel room and tore into my grocery bag. In the world today, apparently you can order portions of deli meats and cheeses online, go to the store, and have no wait to collect your meat or cheese. You thought ahead. You planned. You made deli selections and what did I do? I took them. I took your chicken and your cheese and I am horrified.
Because you were mad. When you got to the Publix later and dug around in that bin for your order, dug around like a badger in heat, Lindsay, because that’s what I would’ve been, a badger in heat, looking for cheese, well, you probably got real mad that your order wasn’t in there. I don’t blame you one bit. But it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine. I didn’t know your name was on the label. I’ve never seen anything like that and I sincerely apologize.
I do need to tell you, with all seriousness, that that was the best deli meat I haver had in my life.
With Warm Regards,
Mary Fons
Editor’s Note: It’s the “Tuscan Smokehouse Chicken Breast,” for those who have a Publix nearby. Delicious.
Netta, me, and Mark, Christmas 2015. Photo: Netta, me, and Mark.
Nine lives ago, I got an email from a nice guy named Mark. Mark read my blog. (This was around 2006.*) We didn’t know each other; he just stumbled upon PaperGirl and liked it, so he told me. I said, “Thanks!” and so began a many years-long friendship with Mark and, by extension, his awesome wife Netta. Mark and Netta live in Florida and have three adult kids.
Over nine years, I’d say I’ve gotten fifteen? twenty? emails from Mark and I’ve sent about as many. We’re not prolific pen pals. But we’re pals. Real pals. It’s just the way it is. Mark and Netta send me a cookie-fudge-nut tray every Christmas. Mark hired me to write a poem for his daughter years back and one for Netta this summer. I’m sending them a bundle of Small Wonders fabric as soon as I get home and stay home for five seconds. They sent a $100 gift card when I moved to D.C; I told Mark I bought a flower vase, a can opener, and dishtowels, all things I needed. I’ve sent a number of gushing thank-you cards to these people. The relationship I have with them is like a neat star that appears in the sky every few months. Never met ’em.
I met ’em last night.
Mark and Netta live in Florida, remember? Well, I announced I’d be in Maitland and who do you think sent me an email saying they weren’t too far from me and could we meet for dinner? My pen pal!
Saturday night, I met my friends at a cute Italian restaurant in Maitland. Mark got a bowl of fettuccine alfredo big enough to have a zip code; Netta and I realized we were both the middle daughter of three. I ordered the snapper special; Mark spoke about the qualities of a successful marriage. Our waiter was over-attendant; I cried about different stuff. I told them about my dad; they asked the right questions. I listened to their stories about love and family, how they’ve done it and how they might do it differently, or the same, if they had the chance to do it again. It wasn’t “like we were old friends.” We are old friends.
Mark, Netta, thank you. Again. For everything! Are you kidding me?? You send me fudge-nut trays and you let me blow my nose on a napkin within thirty minutes of meeting each other face-to-face! The counsel, the kindness… It’s good to know good people.
Here’s to the next nine years, you two. Merry Christmas.
*That’s right: the ol’ PG is almost nine years old, if you count a couple years in there when I had to go dark. There’s a bit about that here.
A Courtyard Marriott in Germany. Mine doesn’t look like that, but it really is a nice hotel, honestly. Photo: Wikipedia
Courtyard Marriott, you’re so sweet;
I’m lyin’ in my bed with slippers on ma’ feet!
In the mornin’ I’ll make coffee in your little coffeepot —
And I’ll stay forever, okay, well maybe not!
Courtyard Marriott, you’re so fine;
In the place downstairs, you even sell wine!
I’m not the type’a girl to get drunk late at night —
But I’m gettin’ super grumpy, so maybe I just might!
Ohhhhhhh —
Courtyard Marriott, won’tcha tell me please,
Why is it when I stay here I always gotta freeze —
‘Cause the last time I stayed here it was the same thiiiiiiiiiiing — Your air conditioner wasn’t working right and I tried to turn it off or turn up the temperature and it didn’t work then and it’s not working now and I’m so cold that I’m using an extra blanket and I know what you’re saying, “Why don’t you just move rooms?” but it’s late and I’m tired and my stuff is in the drawers and in the closet and you should see the bathroom sink covered with all my toiletries and I just can’t dooooooooooo iiiiiiiiiit!
This is a real picture of a SNAKE EATING A TOAD. This toad had a worse day than I did, I’ll give you that. Also, I’m sorry I just made you see this. Photo: Wikipedia
Some people have real problems. That’s a fact. I know it.
But today is not my day. I dropped my coffee twice. My sister and her husband had to cancel our dinner plans next week and I was so stoked to see them. I had a terrible row with Claus last night (which I had to wake up to today, so it counts.) Generally, I am disappointed with myself and some of my life choices, which is far too complex to go into here, but trust me: I’m a big dummy.
And then there was the little matter of getting to the ticketing counter here at Midway and discovering I left my ID at home. Oh, no! Oh, yes! I went to dinner last night and carried a small purse that only has room for the essentials: ID, debit card, some cash, and my best red lipstick, of course. Well, I forgot to put my ID back in my regular wallet. Not good. When I realized this, I burst into tears at the curbside check-in. I actually put my head down on the counter and wailed.
“Hey, hey,” the curbside check-in guy said. “Calm down, calm down. You can fly without it.” My head snapped up. “Really?” I said. Really, he said. Indeed, with a bunch of other things (credit cards, insurance card, student ID) and a serious pat-down, I was allowed in. Oh, but that’s not the end of it: I remembered that I have to rent a car when I land in Florida tonight. It’s crazy, but a car rental company wants you to possess a driver’s license. Who ever heard of such a thing!
I went to the Southwest ticket counter, burst into tears. I actually put my head down on their counter and wailed a second time. Then, a ray of dirty, gray light: there was a 6:15pm flight to Orlando posted. If I could get on that flight, I could take the train back into the city, get proof of ownership of myself, get back on the train, and try it again. If there ever was a more despondent woman on the Orange Line el, I’ve never seen her.
I’ll be in Florida for six days. I’m always grateful to be able to visit BabyLock dealers and quilt guilds to talk about this thing I love so much. But six days is long. All the quilt teachers out there will say, “Preach, sister!” when I say that while it is lame to forget your ID at home, when you teach on the road (especially for six days) there are so many, many, many things to remember — and you can’t really mess up because you have no backup. All of us have a story or two about sheer panic on realizing X, Y, or Z teaching tool is sitting on the dining room table, 2,000 miles away. Sometimes you’re the seam ripper; sometimes you’re the seam.
There’s a Southwest gate agent who has been whistling a jaunty tune while I wrote this. At least that’s nice.
