PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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2 Apr 2015

On Tripping & Falling.

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Story, Tips | 1

German warning sign. That's what my box looked like! Photo: Wikipedia — German warning sign. That’s what my box looked like! Photo: Wikipedia

Yesterday I tripped and fell flat on my back. Since I’m okay, it’s hilarious.

It’s strange to trip and fall down as an adult. Toddlers fall all the time because they’re figuring out how to walk. Children fall because they’re running and playing. And of course the elderly fall sometimes and that is dangerous and can even lead to death if they can’t get to a phone for help or if the fall is particularly bad, what with all those brittle bones. But to fall all the way down to the ground in one’s thirties is a rare occurrence and disorienting.

Here’s what happened: I had to ship a huge box of wardrobe and quilts to Chicago. I printed out my UPS label and went to take it down to the front desk of my building for pickup. On the way to the elevator, I decided to just push the box with my foot; I had my purse and my computer bag in my hands.

When I got to the elevator and the doors opened, I kept trying to kick the box in but it was getting caught in the space between the hall and the floor of the elevator. I leaned into the box and when I really tried to give it a shove with my whole leg, that’s when I fell, tumbling over the box, right into the elevator. I was “a– over elbows,” as they say; finding myself looking at the ceiling of the elevator. My purse went flying and my computer bag fell with me with a troubling thud.

After I recovered, I burst out laughing. Then I got up to collect my things and myself off. The elevator doors kept trying to shut on that darned box until I finally pulled the thing in. I thanked my lucky stars no one had seen this.

The last time I fell as an adult, I was walking on an icy sidewalk. And in middle school, I was running way too fast and tripped on concrete, flat on my face. I broke my nose or at least cracked it; I never saw a doctor, so I have this strange little bump on the side of my nose that has never gone away. You can’t really see it, but I know it’s there.

Watch your step.

31 Mar 2015

Quilty, My Quilty: The Last Taping Approacheth (For Me)

by Mary | posted in: Chicago | 2

If I had a nickel for every time there was a screenshot created of me mid-sentence, I would be very wealthy and would then pay to have them all removed from the Internet.

When my St. Louis-to-D.C. flight landed late last night, we taxied on the runway; once I fetched my luggage I taxied on home and then I taxied my batooski right into bed.

Tonight and tomorrow, that’s all we got in Columbia’s District before heading onto Chicago to tape twenty-seven episodes of Quilty in three days. That’s just how good we are, brother. The days are long but the days are good and this time, they’ll be extra hard and extra good because it’s my last shoot. Many of you know now that the magazine is closing but they’re keeping the show going and I’m sure the person they put in the host position will be fabulous and do a far better job than I ever did; it’s my sincere desire that this is precisely what happens.

In St. Louis, I met so many devoted Quilty fans. It’s hard to leave. It’s really hard to leave. If I think about it too long, I feel wistful and sorry. But there are projects on the horizon that swoop in and take that maudlin business away and that’s what I grab onto. I can’t talk about anything, yet, because nothing is final, yet; counting chickens before they hatch is like, the worst job you could ever, ever want. Tedious, stinky, and you’re probably gonna be wrong.

I’ll just do the shoot this weekend and go from there.

30 Mar 2015

Matchmakers.

by Mary | posted in: D.C., Day In The Life, Work | 0

Munitions plant worker has a date with her boyfriend. Photo: National Film Board of Canada.

When I visit big groups of quilters to lecture or teach, it’s not uncommon for one or two of the ladies to ask me if I’m single and then, when I reply that yes, I am, they suggest that I date their son.

“Oh, he’s very sweet, very sweet,” they say, and usually something about how handsome he is. I have no doubt all these men are both, but as sincere as they are, it’s probably unlikely I’ll go on a date with one of these sons. I live in D.C., which is a long way from Omaha, say, or Pensacola. Most of the time the proud moms will sigh and say something like, “That is a problem, isn’t it?” Yesterday, this did not deter one mother.

“You are single, aren’t you, Mary? My son’s coming to pick me up after the lecture,” she said, “And you need to meet him.”

“Yes,” I laughed, “I’m single.” To humor her (good-naturedly, of course) I asked, “What’s his name?”

“Brian,” she said. “You’ll love him!”

“Well, I’m sure he’s fantastic,” I said, “but I live in DC. It’s not so convenient to date someone in St. Louis, you know.”

Without skipping a beat, she said, “Oh, he’ll move! He’ll move.”

I didn’t meet Brian. It might’ve been a little awkward, but it’s not that I avoided it; Mom and I were absolutely wiped after our third day in Missouri and we high-tailed it out of there. I should book more gigs in the D.C./Virginia area. There are many moms with many sons and no one has to move.

28 Mar 2015

Smartphones: The Rules of Engagement

by Mary | posted in: Tips | 0

Who needs a lecture about the (fascinating) East India Company? Photo: Wikipedia

One of the more maddening conversations (or is it proclamations?) that I hear these days are among parents lamenting how their kids are always tied to their phones and video games computers and tablets, how social media sucks up all their attention. Stop buying them these devices, then. They get them because parents buy them for the kids. A parent may protest, saying that life is impossible without these tools, that their kids will be hopelessly lame and isolated from their peers without them. A fair argument; now, parents leave those kids alone.*

As it pertains to my life, however, I abide by one simple rule: I only use my smartphone for entertainment or time-passing if what I’m surrounded by is — without a shadow of a doubt — less interesting that what’s on my phone.

Usually, this means that don’t use it that much when I’m out and about. I do check email, I do respond to texts and things; if I’m getting navigation information, of course I use my phone because it’s made of magic. I’m talking about sitting in a coffee shop and burying my head in the thing, or being in an airport and never once looking up because I’m scrolling through Facebook. In a coffee shop, in an airport, in a hotel lobby and other places like these, I’m confident that what I’ll observe around me is more thought-provoking than playing Candy Crush.* Look at that: the woman eating her breakfast alone. The couple arguing under their breath over by the window. The beautiful chandelier. The bellman who is past retirement age but still working as a bellman. What is the world made of? What is American culture? Someone designed and built this building, someone is about to lose their job today, someone is having sex somewhere, right now, in this hotel! Observing the world leads to wondering how we interact. There’s so much to see absolutely everywhere.

Now, consider an empty doctor’s office with a table of magazines offering Newsweek, Golf Digest, and Men’s Health. I might peruse Newsweek for the 6.1 seconds it takes to go through the entire thing nowadays, but after that, it’s Phone City for me. There’s very little to take in in that situation; anything that might be worth it, I’ve already seen. I feel the same way about standing in a vestibule waiting to be picked up. Looking at Instagram seems appropriate there: pictures of quilts and Madonna’s latest selfie are way, way more interesting than staring at a vase of fake pussy willows.

As always, giving advice feels wrong, but a floating a friendly thought for consideration seems okay: consider the bird, not the tweet.

*I’ve never played Candy Crush, so I could be wrong about this, but I’m gonna roll those dice.

27 Mar 2015

“Ew, Oim Frum Englund.”

by Mary | posted in: Travel, Work | 1

Wigwam motel room, Holbrook, AZ. (Not where I'm staying.) Photo: Wikipedia, 2008. — Wigwam motel room, Holbrook, AZ. (Not where I’m staying.) Photo: Wikipedia, 2008.

Mom and I arrived in St. Louis last night around 10pm. Our attractive and capable BabyLock hostess/event producer picked us up and we got to the hotel. The beds are clean as can be, the room is spacious, and you could eat an omelet off the bathroom floor (I will not be attempting this) but I must confess my sails luffed when I saw the name of the place, driving up. It’s that hotel chain that pops popcorn in the lobby. You know the one? It’s a nice gesture, but it makes the whole hotel smell like a movie theater. Bed + buttered popcorn is not a good sensory mix. It reminds me of one of those weird all-night church youth group shut-in things at the local cineplex where everyone is doing things they should not be doing. So much safer at home.

Anyway, Mom and I approached the desk and we’re checking in and the lady helping us has this absolutely bizarre accent. I mean, it’s really unusual. I’ve got a pretty good ear for accents, can usually tell the difference between, say, a South African and an Australian accent. But this one was totally beyond me. In just under two minutes, I decided, “Oh, I see. She has a speech impediment.” And I felt really glad I hadn’t asked her where she was from.

“Where are you from?” my mother asked, cheerily. And then, in a way that would make me gasp with laughter in my hotel room later, Mom said, with absolutely zero trace of malice or entrapment, “I have to ask because your accent… Well, it’s just… It’s unplaceable!”

“Ew, oim frum Englund,” the girl said, suddenly now more affected than she had been before.

Ah. Now I understood completely. This woman, rather than to repeatedly hit her head on the popcorn machine to add interest to her long, dull, Drury Inn nights, decided to affect a “British” accent to help pass the hours. It was not a British accent. It was… It was not a British accent. But that’s cool. My friends and I used to do stuff like that. We’d be at a Perkins in Des Moines, eating cheese sticks and drinking Cokes and we’d decide to pretend we were all foreign exchange students from Ireland and start talking with the worst brogues the world has ever heard.

“Top o’ th’ marnin’ to ye,” one of us would say. Then someone would say, “Eim rrrrrrrrredeah ta arder, Miss.”

“What can I get for you?” the waitress would ask, bone weary, silently pleading to whatever god she prayed to that the Perkins would be struck by lightning and Ray would send her home early. We’d fool around with our accents for awhile, get bored with them, and then go back to being something approaching socially acceptable. For the love of Mike we were so obnoxious. I’m so sorry, Perkins lady.

I texted Mom when I got to my room: “She’s from England like I’m from Malawi.”

Mom’s reply: “Yeah: England, Arkansas.”

We’re on the road together four days. Further dispatches to come.

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