Exhibit A. Bride and groom, Moscow, 1990. Photo: Wikipedia.
Not long ago, I publicly noodled on proper attire for my sister’s upcoming wedding. I have made my selection — simple, tailored black frock with pink Yves Saint Laurent heels — and it’s a good thing I have. The wedding is on Sunday!
Even now, I am trundling along on a train to Green Bay, inching closer and closer to the occasion. In a few hours time, I will be scooped up by my elder sibling who is coming in from New York. She has procured a car so that we can drive north to Door County. Once we reach the tip of the peninsula we will drive the car onto the car ferry and float over to Washington Island. And then it’s game on.
My sister and her betrothed have been up on the Island for a number of days, now, getting everything ready. The wedding is taking place at our home there and the kids will get married outside, though I’m not exactly sure where they’ve set up shop for that; they might be down by the water or maybe up closer to the house. Understanding the location of the actual ceremony is on my list of things to do.
The next few days will be dispatches from the wedding. Consider me your Girl Friday, reporting on The Wedding Of The Century. It’s gonna be good, I assure you: a magnificent wedding dress on an exquisite bride, well over 100 guests, a pig roast, and actual, literal fireworks. Seriously, there are going to be fireworks at my sister’s wedding. I know, right?
If you’re the praying kind, pray that it will not rain and that there will not be a bug issue. If you are not the praying kind, pretend you are for two seconds and pray that it will not rain and that there will not be a bug issue. Merci.
Step into my office. Seriously, this is where I’m sitting right now, on the couch facing the mirror.
Glory, Glory Halleuuuuujah, Glory, Glory Halleuuuuujah, Glory, Glory Halleuuuuujah — The Fons is marching on!
I am blissful. I am over the moon. I am a happy, happy child. Yesterday, in the yucky humidity with movers who were both terrifying and slow — I can’t talk about it — I moved my belongings into my gorgeous apartment in the Kennedy Warren. Regular readers know the timeline, but I cannot resist the recap, lest people think that this third move within one city means I am either a) insane or b) being pursued by the FBI.
1. I moved from New York City to a charming townhouse in Capitol Hill.
2. There were sewer rats in the walls and I had to relocate. Obviously.
3. The apartment to which I relocated is furnished — and expensive.
4. I decided to stay in Washington rather than head back to Chicago.
5. I sought out and found this dreamy place and promptly signed a lease.
You wanna know something fascinating? When awake, the human brain produces enough electricity to power a small light bulb! Okay, that wasn’t the fascinating thing I was going to tell you:
A few months ago, I had a yen to tutor students in writing in my spare time. My work with high school students is so rewarding; I know I could help budding writers (or struggling ones) develop their skills. So I applied to a tutoring company here in town. My interview was flawless. My application was impressive. But do you know that I did not pass the background check? It’s true. Me! A quilter! But it’s because I’ve moved so much in the past year! Isn’t that amazing? I’m not sure I’ve ever had a background check done on me, so it’s extra awful that I didn’t pass it. A simple phone call to the agency could probably clear it up, but apparently they charge you for that and I’m too exhausted by my schpiel to bother. But yes, the Powers That Be probably do think I’m running from the FBI. Maybe I should do something really horrible and make it official.
Anyway, I’m practically skipping through the building, running around and exploring everything. Because I don’t have my Internet service set up yet, I’m writing this from the South Lounge. I feel like I’m in the most beautiful hotel in the world, but I live here. There will be a trip to Chicago to get all my furniture, so I’m sleeping on a makeshift mat on the floor.
I had a fantastic night’s sleep. Well, except for the ruckus made by the criminals I’m harboring and the sound of the SWAT team banging on the door.
I do not have even half this amount to pack. I also don’t have my couch, yet. Photo: Steve Ryan, 2006.
My Facebook page seems to be down. I have sent an email to Facebook, but ironically, Facebook does not have an actual face. My filled-out online form may be swimming in the Facebook Sea. Until someone who is not a robot gets back to me, forgive me for the non-updates.
For now, enjoy the above photo of a house being packed up. Do you know what I did today? I packed up my house. My move is in two phases: move my things to my new place (Phase 1) and fetch my belongings from Chicago (Phase 2).
I’m very good at packing these days. Tomorrow night, I sleep in my treehouse. I sleep to wake to a view of the Klingle Valley. I wake to boxes to unpack, yes, but I wake to sunshine. I know, because I checked the forecast.
Goodnight, box. Oh, and the Facebook page. I’ll get to is as soon as I can, and that’s a gay-run-tee!
My sewing table, about two minutes ago. Its state has not changed. Photo: Mary Fons
I hung out with my new friend Carla last night at a cafe where everyone was way, way cooler than I will ever be. Carla and I were jamming on quilt world trends and interests. Carla is a proficient quilter and, in my view, has her finger squished squarely on the pulse of the Internet as it relates to quilts, quilters, and quiltmaking in America in 2015. I am not good at keeping up on all this because I am not good at keeping up on voicemail, let alone what hot UK designer is doing with partial seams. I’m not proud of it, but at least I know who to ask.
The conversation turned at one point to my own position in the quilt blogosphere. (I didn’t bring it up, please note!) It was uncomfortable to hear that in Carla’s estimation, I could do a lot better with sharing my quiltmaking process, the projects I have going, the day-to-day life I have as a person who regularly works with fabric and thread.
“It does seem that your projects sort of emerge when they’re done,” Carla said, munching a pear from her salad. “People like to see process. They want to know you better as a designer, I think, as a fellow quilter.”
Thus, a picture of my sewing table. My sewing table is also my table-table. I have no other table in this furnished apartment and it’s a good thing, too: to have a second table just for breakfast, say, I’d have to stack it on top of this one and then where would I put my washer and dryer? What you’re looking at up there is a fresh crop of fabric purchased in Kansas City; materials from the class I taught at the DC Modern Guild a couple weekends ago; my sewing machine; a candle that should not be there; flowers from my friend Jason that are very nearly dead but so beautiful I can’t toss, yet; and under all that, my mat, seam ripper, rotary cutter, a pattern I’m drafting, and previews of art for my upcoming fabric line.*
My design wall is directly behind the table and there are several things happening there, too. If PaperGirl were a vlog and not a blog, I would show you a full tour of my sewing area, but PaperGirl is not a vlog, will never be a vlog, and while we’re on the subject, I will never say “vlog” out loud, nor will I ever write it, ever again. Humans are capable of making good choices, as it turns out, and not allowing “v*og” into the vernacular is proof of this.
In the months to come, I plane to do a bit more curtain-drawing in this manner. There are big projects afoot and I’m champing at the bit to share about them. But don’t be surprised if one of these days “PaperGirl Too” pops up and Pendennis and I take you through how to make the quilt perpetually on my mind.
My flight from Kansas City to Washington yesterday was remarkable, as in, “I am compelled to remark” on my flight. If only I had a blog! Hey, wait a minute…
Approximately 96% of the people on the KC –> DCA Southwest flight were police officers headed to National Police Week in Washington. I sat next to a chaplain, behind a cop, and to the right of an undercover guy (more on him in a second.) If they hadn’t all been in such a good mood, I would’ve been nervous. There’s nothing like a planeful of cops to make you second-guess your record. That parking ticket in ’99. I didn’t pay it. I didn’t pay!! Don’t take me away, officers! I’m a good citizen, I swear!
It was an unofficial party plane, man. People were calling to each other across the aisle with questions like, “Are you guys staying downtown or in Arlington?” and “Is Rick coming or not? No? What a [bleep]!” Our plane probably sounded a lot like — and I say this with love — a tour bus leaving that very hour from, say, Little Rock with a group of middle school students on their class trip to Washington, DC. It was all excitement, anticipation, and fun. It got more fun when the stewardesses started beverage service, if you know what I mean.
President Kennedy signed into law a remembrance day on May 15th for servicemen and servicewomen who have died in the line of duty. That was in ’62; the first National Police Week began in ’82. There are activities and memorial events held in the city during this time; more than 40k police come to Washington to participate each year. The cops and service-people on my flight were, not surprisingly, mostly Kansas City-based and would represent their state during these events.
I don’t know that I’ve ever met a more congenial, raucous person than the undercover guy sitting near me. Physically he was a tank. If I took a running leap and body-slammed him (I would never do this nor recommend that anyone do this) I would bounce off with a “ping!” and be dead. He was covered in tattoos and had a goatee. He was using chewing tobacco, too, which I had never seen someone do on a plane. When my purse fell into the aisle, he picked it up for me. When he saw a baby board with her mama, he said, “Here comes trouble!” He talked to everyone in a six-seat radius and everyone was entertained — even the chaplain, who could’ve done without the profane words the guy wove (seamlessly) into his vocabulary.
When we landed, the stewardesses thanked the police for their service over the PA and wished them a good trip. Thunderous applause. We deplaned and I entered the jet bridge and walked up the ramp. When I got to the entrance to the gate, I gasped.
There to greet the plane was a line of policemen and policewomen in full memorial uniform. They lined both sides of the gate, standing silently to honor the officers coming off the plane. The black of the cloth was midnight dark, the gleaming metal of the badges, medals, and stripes polished to a shine. Everyone wore their caps or helmets. I didn’t feel worthy to walk through first (I was sitting at the front of the plane.) I bowed my head and blinked my eyes to stop the stinging.
I realize America’s police are under scrutiny right now. There are problems — big ones — and they must be considered and we must be fearless in our examination of process and ethics in this piece of our government. Regardless, we are in debt to the vast, vast majority of our civil protectors All around the airport, people were staring at the display, craning their heads to see, thinking there was a dignitary surely on the flight that had just arrived.
They were mostly right. But there were two hundred dignitaries, not just one.
