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18 Mar 2015

Transcription: Cherry Blossom Meeting

by Mary | posted in: D.C. | 0

This is actually a shot taken in New Jersey, but I'm appropriating it for D.C. so take that, Jersey. Photo: Wikipedia. — This is actually a shot taken in New Jersey, but I’m appropriating it for D.C. so take that, Jersey. Photo: Wikipedia.

The following is a transcript from a meeting that took place this morning (March 19th, 2015) at the offices of the Blossom Rights and Standards Committee of The National Cherry Blossom Festival, or, BRSCNCBF for short. Note: all speakers are actual cherry blossoms.

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPTION – 0.00.00.0]

TED: Okay, everyone. Let’s get started. Patty, are you here?

PATTY: Yes, I’m here! I’m in the back! Sorry, I was getting some coffee and the [LOST AUDIO].

TED: Great. All right, I’m going to jump right in, here. We’ve got a couple items on the agenda, but before we do that, uh, Bill… Did you want…

BILL: Yeah, I do. Thanks, Ted. Hi, everyone. I just wanted to start out the meeting with kind of a special announcement. Some of you may have heard that my wife and I are going to be moving and this is gonna be our last festival. It’s been a really hard decision, but we know it’s right for us and —

SALLY: Where are you guys moving?

BILL: We’re going to Tokyo. [Light murmuring, gasps.] Uh… I know that’s a decision that might make some of you, uh, maybe uncomfortable in some ways, ah, but Sandy and I really think it’s right for us and the boys, so… Um… Anyway, thank you all. We’ve loved being in DC all these years. It was a real tough decision. [clears throat.] Thanks.

TED: Okay, thanks, Bill. Thanks. You know we all think the world of you and wish you and Sandy luck and the boys and everything. Allrighty, let’s press on. As I know we’re all aware, the festival starts the day after tomorrow. Did you all know that? [laughter from the group.] You didn’t need a reminder? There are few concerns I’m looking at, but for the most part, we’re probably sitting in a better place than where we were last year. Action items, let’s see —

[Timestamp: 0.08.23.1]

PATTY: Ted, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just want to let you know that I didn’t send it to you, but I got confirmation that everyone’s 1077 Do Not Pick Me forms were filed with the State Department. They did go in last month —

TED: Oh, great. That’s great. All of —

PATTY: All of them, yep, so we’re all good. Part of the confusion, if anyone cares, is that the form used to be the 1054 Do Not Pluck Me form? So it was all screwed up because of that. And actually, some blossoms are still filed under that form, but it’s getting phased out. Anyway, that’s it. Sorry.

TED: No, it’s great news. Thanks. Let’s look at these items real quick: Jerry, tell us what happened with the Bee Department.

JERRY: Um… [papers shuffling.] Hang on… Right, here we go. Uh, I spoke with William over there — I think he’s the —

SALLY: He’s the new guy.

JERRY: Right, right, I think he was a queen hire, actually, but anyway, he said that the torch lights are not getting placed on the west side of the far hill to the west of the Lincoln Memorial? No the bees are all good. No smoke problems this year for them over there, so any blossom over there in… I guess it’s District 8 is not going to have any pollen distribution trouble. Which is nice.

[Timestamp: 0.10.4.1]

BILL: Jerry, is that, are they not doing the torches because of the landscaping projects, or —

JERRY: I think so? But they didn’t go into it. I think so, though, yeah.

TED: That’s great. Thanks. Um, Amanda, tell us about No Blossom Left Behind. Joan, could you grab me that bottle of water on the table? Just throw it. Thanks.

AMANDA: If I make zero sense, just ignore me. I’m sneezing like crazy and I was up all last night with Nick; he’s blooming early, of course, like, now. I’m sleep-deprived. Anyway, donations are still way down, which is the bad news; but the good news is…that…we got the the koi fish grant. [Applause; cheering.] I know. It’s so great. They’re really wonderful, actually. Yeah. They’re all about it. And it’s not just the grant. They’re going to help collect petals from the ponds and everything and uh —

PATTY: Didn’t they say they could get the meeting set up with that pruner, too?

AMANDA: Yes! Thank you. I almost forgot. Henry is the main koi fish over there and he says he can get us that meeting with… I forget that guy’s name, but yeah. That’ll be a priority when the fest is over — thanks, Patty.

TED: Amanda, thank you. We’re getting so much positive press about No Blossom Left Behind; it’s been really impactful, really disrupting everything, so go team. Now I’d like to go around the room and hear from everyone about the goal sheets I passed out last time. I also want you to remind us all where you are, your District. And let me know if you need comp tickets and how many. I absolutely have to have the requests in today or you’re out of luck. Julie, how about you start?

[END OF TRANSCRIPTION, PART I]

17 Mar 2015

The Day The Panties Died.

by Mary | posted in: School | 1

Underpants hanging on fence, 1972. Photo: Bill Gilette.

As a rule, I try not to feel embarrassed about anything. Look, we’re all complete idiots. We’re ridiculous. Humans say dumb things, trip on the ice, fart. We act like we know something and we get real loud about it and then holy water do we find out we were wrong — and on and on. So to be embarrassed about something is a waste of time. Don’t worry about it. You’re not that special — in a good way.

But this is all Thirtysomething Mary wisdom. When I was young and even more frivolous than I am today, something happened that embarrassed me so bad I was scarred for many years.

My friend Karen and I drove to New Orleans in 2002. Karen and I were neighbors in the same apartment building. We met because a month after I moved to Chicago, I was crying so loudly in my tiny apartment one night, Karen heard me from across the hall. I’m blubbering and sobbing and I hear this knock on my door. I open the door to find the friendliest, most wonderful, most pure-of-heart person.

“Are you okay?” she asked, looking over my shoulder to see if someone was responsible for making me so miserable. She looked back at me. “You want a beer?” And so it was that Karen Kowalski became my friend.

Karen had gone to school in New Orleans wanted to go visit old friends some months later. She invited me, I said there wasn’t anything I’d rather do than go with her, which was true. We got in her red pickup one summer day and set out. It was a fifteen-hour drive from Chicago to New Orleans and we were gonna just go straight through. This was never discussed: not only did we thrill to the idea of being road dogs who don’t need sleep, neither of us could afford a hotel.

We got to the city and I was dazzled. Delighted. I was craning my neck around so much I practically pulled a muscle. We drove straight to Karen’s friends’ house, smack dab on Magazine Street. When we got there, we found that there was a party going on in our honor. Folks were drinking beer on the porch and hanging out in the kitchen. When we pulled up, we were mobbed with people who loved Karen and people who loved me by association. It was great because back then I actually liked house parties.

But I needed a shower. Fifteen hours in the car, remember? I asked the host if I could shimmy upstairs for a quick shower. Of course, she says, and I get a towel and it’s perfect; no one is upstairs and I can do a lil’ rinsey-rinse and go have a beer in New Orleans. So cool. It all seemed so civilized…

Shower done, feeling refreshed, I put on my bra, shirt, and underpants and the jeans I had been wearing. They were in pretty good shape. I head downstairs. I meet folks in the kitchen. I get myself a beverage. Things are good. And I enter a big living room where there are a lot of people sitting around in kind of a (not intentional) circle configuration. Someone says, “Hey, you’re Karen’s friend, right? The Fonz!!!!!”

And just as I’m like, “Yep, that’s me!” and trying to be awesome, the underpants that I had been wearing before my shower suddenly came out the leg of my pants. They had been in the leg of my jeans and now they were on the floor of the enormous living room. Everyone was looking at them. Everyone.

They had gotten shoved into the leg of my pants! What can I tell you? I shoved my leg into my jeans and smooshed ’em down there. As I walked downstairs and through the kitchen, they just moved lower and lower until they had to get out. That thing about wanting a hole in the floor to swallow you up? Yeah. I would’ve been okay with that. I snatched those things up so fast, but it was too late. Everyone had seen my panties come out the leg of my pants and sit in a ball on the floor.

“Heh, heh!” I said, shaking my head, “Well that’s something you don’t see every day! I mean, we see underpants, but you know, well, haha… With the… On the… Okay.” And I left the room, most likely to do a shot.

Comedy = tragedy + time

15 Mar 2015

You Are Not Shabby.

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

This would be money. Photo: Rose garden at Castle Bank, Kirkcudbright; harbor view.

Far worse than the feeling I had other day was that I allowed myself to indulge it for longer than .05 seconds.

I’ve connected with lots of fantastic people here in D.C. (quilters, I’m looking at you.) Lately, I’ve been spending time with a group of people who I would describe as fancy. These new friends are warm, they’re smart, and they’ve been extremely successful in their work. As a result of this last, their homes are — the two I’ve been in, anyway — exquisitely beautiful and well-appointed. Enormous art that costs more money than many folks take home in a year hangs on the walls; the lights are low. The wine glasses are fishbowl-size. The tiles in all five bathrooms are heated. The stereo system apparently works by way of air molecule; wherever you go in the house, Carla Bruni sings to you at a soft level that is surely scientifically-proven to be best for optimal aural pleasure. There are bidets, guest houses, pools. Stuff like that.

So I’m standing in the living room of one of these houses the other day and I suddenly felt a deep and terrible longing. And I felt like a guttersnipe. I’m just some dumb kid from Iowa. I’m a writer. I make quilts. Who cares? Sure, my shoes were fabulous, but I felt like a real phony-baloney, like okay, I have this great pair of shoes but these people have closets and closets of shoes and they don’t even think twice about them and here I am, excited about my dumb ol’ shoes. Envy, as it turns out, is less a toothy, green-eyed monster and more a sad, black mold over the heart. My life seemed small and I felt so far, far away from the life I saw before me. And I wanted that life. And I felt shabby.

And then I got mad. At myself. Really, really mad.

Unbelievable. How dare I? How dare any of us compare our lives to the lives of others in this way? Look, I’ve earned my place on this earth. To allow myself to feel less-than compared to anyone (even if they have their own table at Daniel) is a grave offense. It’s insulting; it’s also whiny and indulgent. I told myself to knock it off — and if you’re given to this kind of thing or have experienced it lately, you knock it off, too. To smack around or otherwise disrespect your hard-won experience, your unique outlook and perspective, to throw your life’s portfolio in the garbage or hide it behind your back because you want to be someone else, this is the only thing you should be ashamed of. Not your shoes. Not the space you take up. But at turning your back on who you are and what you’ve earned.

I love my quilts. I love my poems; after I left where I was that day and got over my damned self, I found myself loving them more. I’m proud of what I’ve done in my life so far and you should be proud of what you’ve done. It matters. You don’t need an invitation to a gala or a Maserati in the garage to be crucial.

My apartment is only a few square feet bigger than the master bathroom in the house where I was, no fooling. But it’s mine. And when I take a shower, I get just as clean.

13 Mar 2015

The Honorable Maid’s Conundrum.

by Mary | posted in: Family, Fashion | 1

That's me, second from the left. Photo: A bride and her attendants in New Ulm, Minn., in October 1974. — That’s me, second from the left. Photo: A bride and her attendants in New Ulm, Minn., in October 1974.

The engagement happened. The smash hit party for Rebecca happened. The next big event in my younger sister’s nuptials will be the wedding itself. And I need something to wear.

My sister Rebecca, who has been and always will be cooler than me by a long stretch, knows better than to put her Maid of Honor in something she has chosen herself. Being that I am her Maid of Honor, I love her for this. Because when I was married, I got swept up in the whole “let’s put girls who are different in dresses that are the same” thing, and that choice has been filed in my slim folder of regrets.

Rebecca will have no bridesmaids, just me. This fact, and the freedom she’s giving me to select my outfit have caused me a lot of brow furrowing lately. This is the most important wardrobe decision I’ve made in many years. I mean, it took me some time to decide what I’d wear on that date with the doctor, but this feels more special, somehow. (Dr. Lame-o is totally out of the picture, by the way. I’ll tell you later.)

Here’s what we know:

1. Not only would it be disgusting in the extreme to wear something that would distract from the bride on her wedding day
2. …it is impossible to wear something that would distract from a bride on her wedding day because no woman is more beautiful than a bride on her wedding day. I have seen zero exceptions to this.
3. It’s still possible to make a very wrong choice, here.

I need to be classy, naturally. But I ain’t wearing a dun-colored St. John’s suit. I’m thirty-something, not a wizened great aunt. The ever-perfect black dress is out because it feels a) a bit severe; and b) funereal. Yellow is out because yellow is too conspicuous, for one thing, and years later someone who didn’t know my family might assume my sister’s favorite color was yellow (it isn’t) or that yellow was part of her wedding color scheme (she has none.) Here are other things other colors communicate:

RED: “Hi, I’m Mary, the Whore of Honor.”
GREEN: “Hi, I’m Mary. Yes, I look terrible in green but it seemed safe.”
BROWN: “I’m depressed. What? Oh, sorry. My name’s Mary.”
WHITE: “No, it’s a joke! Get it? Like, white wedding??”
ORANGE: “Hi, I’m Mary. I’m the Maid of Honor. I dressed my bridesmaids in orange when I got married. I’m divorced, now. I really hate the color orange. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

My rigorous thought process on all this has yielded what I believe to be the two top contenders: a pale pink or a deep navy. Right? Beautiful, conservative, classy. Yes, but it’s not that easy. My wardrobe challenge doesn’t end there. There’s the matter of style and cut. I want the dress to be architectural, but not Gaga architectural. I want it to be feminine, but not soft. The matter of “softness” was the one guideline my sister gave me. “I know you’ll pick the right thing,” she said, “But I guess… I want to be the soft one that day, you know?” Yep. So no lace, no chiffon overlays, no bows on straps or anything.

And I wanna be kinda hot. I mean… It’s a wedding. But “looking hot” lands way down on the list and one must remember the “What We Knows” listed above.

So, with vorpal sword in hand, I snicker-snack through the jungle of the Internet, seeking the perfect frock, for the perfect couple, on their perfect day. Jeeves, bring me my perfect credit card, darling.

12 Mar 2015

Wordy.

by Mary | posted in: Poetry | 0

"Don't talk to me. I just spilled an entire bottle of India ink on the letter I just wrote and now I have to start over. Please go away." (Illustration: Charles Dana Gibson, 1905.) — “Don’t talk to me. I just spilled an entire bottle of India ink on the letter I just wrote and now I have to start over. Please go away.” (Illustration: Charles Dana Gibson, 1905.)

My intention is to post on the ol’ PG at least six times a week and usually do. The past couple weeks have been a little thin, though I think I’m back in the saddle. The trouble is not that I haven’t had anything to say: I have too much.

I’m soaked with words lately. Work is going along, I’ve been traveling, etc., but my nose has been poked into a book at every opportunity. The 250-page journal I began two months ago is nearly out of pages. Poetry has been coursing through my veins. I’ve re-memorized Eliot’s Prufrock and have been reciting it as I tidy up the house or wheel my luggage to the train. I brushed up all my Parker. I’m planning to pull out my favorite Philip Larkin pieces and make sure I’ve got them down pat and I’m 90% on my favorite James Dickey poem, The Sheep Child. (Read that instead of the paper tomorrow morning. You’ll weep into your Cheerios and it will be totally worth it.)

I could be satisfied by the presence of these gems in my head. But those words have company, however shabby; I’m turning out new poems at a clip I haven’t seen for years. I don’t believe in writer’s block, and the concept of some hot muse coming to see you (or not) is for entertainment purposes only. But I’m the first to admit that sometimes the poetry is with thee, sometimeseth iteth noteth. Trying to force poetry is like trying to force yourself to paint a beautiful portrait. You can only do the best you can do: it’s either there that day or it isn’t, and even a lifetime of technique may not save you. So you wait and hope you have a few more portraits in you.

If I were a full-time writer, I think I’d go absolutely nuts. If the full-time living in my head didn’t kill me, the poverty would. But I think about Scottish poet William Soutar a lot. He was going about his life, doing his thing, making big plans. He loved poetry so much and wrote it when he could. Well, when he was around thirty, he was diagnosed with spondylitis, a disease that would paralyze him and render him bedridden for the rest of his life.

When he got the diagnosis, Soutar stood a moment and then said, “Now I can be a poet.” He didn’t have any excuses anymore. He was free to do what he needed to do.

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