PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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27 Aug 2017

My Mother, Princess of Wales.

by | posted in: Family | 8
My mom, in Bristol, 1987. Image: Wikipedia.
My mom, in Bristol, 1987. Image: Wikipedia.

 

I drove over to Iowa City on Friday to attend a wedding with my pal Sevy, who handles the art direction for F Newsmagazine.

Even though I had never laid eyes on either the bride or groom before yesterday — I was Sevy’s “+1” for the occasion — I could just tell Danny and Cate had never looked better. It’s always like that when people get married, especially if their names are Danny and Cate.

And speaking of beautiful people: My mom is prettier than Princess Diana.

I bring it up because last night, after I kicked off my strappy sandals and plopped onto the bed with my guest gift bag (there were Bit-O-Honeys in there; total score)  I turned on the dumb TV and there was a terrible, quasi-documentary on Princess Diana. And even though it was all sensational/sentimental, even though the show had non-experts and hangers-on talking about Diana like they actually knew her or had anything of actual value to say on the subject, I kept watching. Because Princess Diana reminds me of my mom. She always has. Always did, I guess.

You see, when Diana was at the height of her fame and beauty and power, it was the 1990s and I was in high school. No one in my family or friend circle was “into” Princess Diana, per se; Iowa folks don’t get too excited about the Queen of England or her court, because who does she think she is, the Queen of England?? Still, Diana was a big celebrity back then, so she was in our lives whether we liked it or not. I remember being at the Barnes & Noble in Des Moines and I bought a magazine with her portrait on the cover. I think it was Vogue or Time. I don’t remember the magazine but I do remember Diana was absolutely stunning in a black turtleneck. I bought the magazine because the woman looked familiar to me.

Diana had kind of a wide nose. She had fluffy, curly hair, cut shortish; she wore high-waisted shorts with a belt and, when she wasn’t rocking the turtleneck, she often wore blouses with shoulder pads. She seemed tall; she was a mom; she was supes pretty, and she was smart. Oh, and her husband was a jerk. That was important.

Guess who also fit that exact criteria? Marianne. From the fluffy, curly hair to the shorts to the hard work to the maddening husband situation, Diana Spencer and my mom had a lot in common in the mid-1990s. And I swear, they really do share some facial/physical characteristics. It’s the build? The brow? I don’t know. I should ask my sisters.

Or maybe I just think my mom is prettier than a princess and stuff.

It’s a nice thing to think.

 

24 Aug 2017

The Fisher Building.

by | posted in: Chicago, Paean | 14
La Fisher... Be still my beating heart. Image: Wikipedia.
La Fisher… Be still my beating heart. Image: Wikipedia.

 

Remember when I moved 50,281 times in two years?

Fine. I moved five times. It felt like many thousand more times.

And hey, remember back in D.C. when I thought I wanted to try being a writing tutor for high school kids and I aced the interviews and the tests but I didn’t pass the background check because of all that moving around??

Actually, I don’t believe I did tell you, but yeah, that happened. Oh, the poor woman who interviewed me. We were besties by the time I left her office, so I can just imagine how disappointed and weirded out she must’ve been when she read my background check report-thingy. I can see her, shaking her head, saying to her receptionist with a heavy sigh, “I just don’t get it, Cynthia. That nice woman. I wouldn’t ever have guessed she was on the lam. Guess you never can tell.”

Thunk. Recycle bin.

When I finally got back to Chicago — still not sure how I managed that — I swore I’d never leave again and I won’t, not ever. I belong to this city; Chicago belongs to me. So when I say I’ve been fantasizing about moving again, rest assured: I’m talking about moving across town, not across state lines.

‘Cuz there’s this one building.

The Fisher Building at 343 S. Dearborn Street.

It’s strange to have a crush on a 20-story building. It’s hard to explain to one’s friends and family, especially one’s mother. But this is love. The Fischer is my heart’s delight. What’s not to love? It was commissioned by Lucius Fisher, the famous paper magnate. (I love paper!) And who built the place, you ask? Why none other than D.H. Burnham & Co., back in 1896. (I love 1896!) If you know anything about architecture in America — especially Chicago — at the turn of the 20th century, you know ol’ Danny Burnham was kind of The Dude. (I love Dudes!)

The Fisher’s spindly, golden, neo-Gothic beauty takes my breath away every time I’m near it and I try to be near it a lot. I squeak with glee every time I see the sun glinting off its broad windows; the whole structure looks like it’s beaming golden light. And oh, the facade. There are extravagant carvings in the terra cotta: aquatic creatures (fish, crabs, etc.), eagles, dragons, and other mythical creatures! Could you die?

I want lots and lots of money. Because there aren’t condos in the Fisher; only apartments. And they’re like $2,500/month for a two-bedroom — and at this point in my life, if I’m paying $2,500/month for a floor and a roof, I’d like to be slowly owning that floor and that roof, you know? So this is all just a fantasy.

Lord, I want to live in the Fisher Building. Because if I lived in the Fisher Building, everything in my life would be perfect. Nothing bad could happen. I’d be The Woman I’ve Always Wanted To Be. I’d be an adult, someone who’d never eat a liiiitle more Red Velvet Cake Ben & Jerry’s ice cream while I’m blogging, even though I put it away 30 minutes ago like a virtuous person.

I do not live in the Fisher Building, though, and I can’t, probably not ever, and I am not virtuous.

But I can gaze.

22 Aug 2017

School’s Coming! School’s Coming!

by | posted in: Day In The Life, School | 6
The Art Institute of Chicago as it looked in 1908. The lions were there, but compare this picture to the way the city looks almost 110 years ago? Incredible. Image, Wikipedia; annotations, me.
This is the Art Institute of Chicago as it looked in 1908. The lions (aka, “My guys!”) were there, but compare this picture to the way the city looks almost 110 years later and you’d faint. The School’s buildings are across the street, as annotated by the arrow pointing off the frame. Image: Wikipedia; annotations, me.

 

School’s starting in two weeks and I am so excited I am vibrating.

Yes, I’m halfway through my graduate program at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC), the school within the world-renowned art museum in the heart of the Chicago Loop. It’s a heavenly place. My first year was a shimmering dream. Now, that shimmering dream just about killed me — I did 17 gigs last year while managing courses and the newspaper — but I loved every minute of the race. I have every intention of loving the second year’s race even more. You’ll see.

Incredible, how I’m halfway done. Didn’t I just tell you I had been accepted? Didn’t I just go into the wrong building on the first day and hike up 14 flights of stairs in a dress and heels so I wouldn’t be late??* The nature of time itself was one of my reasons for entering into a graduate program: I knew that two years would flash by regardless, so why not do what I’ve always wanted to do? Why not scare myself to death? Why not go into painful debt? Exactly! If the time is going to pass anyway, why not have a graduate degree to show for it? Sometimes, I am right about things.

I’m also getting ahead of myself. I have a long way to go and a lot of work ahead of me before I get to twirl down the primrose path with my diploma. Quite the visual, but they say it’s best to stay present in the moment, so… Can I tell you what classes I’m taking?? Well, since you twisted my arm…

Writing: Seminar: Literature of the Senses — Prof. England*
We will look at a wide range of poets and novelists and their explorations of the five senses: Proust on scent; Thomas Mann on music; Lady Murasaki and various poets on color; Colson Whitehead and Arthur Rimbaud on synesthesia. We will also turn to essays in popular science in order to enrich our own vocabularies: Luca Turin on perfume; Oliver Sachs on music. Students will write one critical paper and a variety of creative exercises. 

Writing: Process/Project Workshop — Prof. Nugent
This is a class for students to work on a single, extended writing project… Your project can be made up of many disparate parts, but those parts should be part of a single whole. [This course is] a forum for articulating and discussing ideas and process… While the class will include presentation and discussion of your work, we will approach it from a process-oriented perspective that focuses on open-ended questioning and exploring, rather than intervention and critique. 

Master of Fine Arts: Interdisciplinary Seminar — Prof. Anne Wilson
The purpose of this course is to provide an informal critique situation where students from various disciplines meet once a week to present and discuss their work. The faculty leader facilitates the discussion, which is designed to help students articulate a critique of their own work as well as the work of other students.

I’m so excited about the Literature of the Senses class, I started reading the books this summer. The Process/Project class is writer heaven. And the Interdisciplinary Seminar might sound less sexy than the other two, but I’m over-the-moon about it, maybe more excited about it than anything. Professor Wilson is a fiber art rock star (I had a class with her in this spring) and I would follow her to the end of the world. Wilson’s classes are serious: We will discuss complicated ideas, we will be expected to do a ton of work, we’ll read till we drop, and I, for one, will eat it up. I’m in grad school! Crush me with books! Crack the pedagogical whip! Isn’t that what I’m paying for, for Lord’s sake??

Of course, I’m paying for more than that. I’m paying for two of the best years of my life.

 

*Course descriptions slightly edited for length.
**And when I petted Butter at the animal therapy day, was it a subliminal push toward Philip??

21 Aug 2017

My Teapot, My Life, or: This Is Actually a Big Deal

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 9
I wear a hat just like this when I have my tea. Painting by Lilla Cabot Perry, 1900-ish. Image courtesy Wikipedia.
I wear a hat just like this when I have my tea. Painting by Lilla Cabot Perry, 1900-ish. Image courtesy Wikipedia.

 

Sometimes I’m chatting with a person and it comes up that I keep a blog and have kept it, faithfully, for many years.

The person with whom I’m chatting usually says, “Oh, that’s interesting. What’s your blog about?” And that’s when I must go through the pain of telling the truth, which is that “I write a blog about my life.” It’s not that it’s painful (for me) to write a blog about my life; it’s painful to watch the person’s eyes glaze over because the word “blog” is pretty awful and the words “about my life” strike fear in the hearts of men, often for good reason.

So before the glaze sets in, I rush to assure them that PaperGirl:

  • is allergic to the overshare
  • is sometimes funny, sometimes sad (see: “about my life”)
  • is politics-free (unless absolutely necessary)
  • is never lengthy for length’s sake
  • never concerns itself with, like, what I had for breakfast

That last point mentions breakfast only as an example of something that might be interesting to me but, unless I had a real zinger of a breakfast, probably wouldn’t make for gripping copy. (Note: I have had actual Zingers for breakfast and that would be a great post.) The point is that I try to keep posts out of the realm of the banal unless the banal has become extraordinary.

And this may have happened and it actually pertains, sort of, to breakfast. So here we are.

Readers of this blog know that I have my Earl Grey tea every day. I roll out bed and shuffle to the stove and put the kettle on practically before I open my eyes for Lord’s sake. I use loose tea and steep it in my little red pot and when it’s ready to drink I put in half-and-half and honey and stir it with my spoon and if I am out of honey, I use maple syrup, which I used it in a pinch one time and it was A Very Good Idea and it all goes on my tea tray and I take it to the living room and I read and I drink my tea and then I can face the world. That’s my tea thing and I have been doing it most every day* for 15 years or something unbelievable like that.

A few days ago, though, I purchased a coffee-making machine.

It’s not a coffeepot. It’s not a Keuriggy-schmiggy thing. It’s not one of those fancy glass whatsits all the cool kids — like my brother-in-law — have and wipe with care and take insurance policies out on. No, I got a machine that makes coffee in a particular way that I love.

I got a Senseo coffee machine. Do you know this thing?? Made by Phillips. My Aunt Leesa has one at her house and when I visited her a few years ago — and when I visited her again last spring — I was blown away by the cup of coffee that coffee robot thing made for me. Whenever I think about having a coffee, I think: “Boy, I could really go in for some of that Senseo coffee right about now. Oh, well.”

For one thing, I have my tea thing and it’s part of my soul at this point. Plus, the Senseo robots are expensive already, but then you have to get these old-school pods that only work in that machine — and the Senseo robot doesn’t take any other kind of robot pods. But I had a price-watch thing set for eBay, so I was able to pay what seemed doable, finally, plus I had a credit in my account. So the cost was lowered enough and bam: I did it. My Senseo arrives tomorrow and I can’t wait to have my first cup.

Don’t ask me why I am doing this. There’s nothing wrong with my tea service, per se… except that maybe there is, if I’m looking elsewhere.

I love my little teapot. But maybe it needs a break, just like you and everyone we know.

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