PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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27 Jul 2017

Time, The Revelator (‘Reunion Report’ Conclusion, At Least For Now.)

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Paean | 7

High school yearbook photos from 1942, somewhere in the middle west. Image: Wikipedia.

This will be my third and final “Reunion Report.” For now, anyway.

It’s just that there was so much to think about. I had to space things out. I had to plug in the iron, really press and smooth. I can’t figure anything out unless I write it out, as I’ve said. It’s been this way since I was in sophomore study hall, scribbling poems on the rubber sole of my Converse sneakers. I mention this again in case anyone from the reunion started reading my blog and is right now shaking their head, legitimately wondering why I can’t just chill and let the reunion be what it was: a great party. But I can’t help it. A sandwich is never a sandwich around here.

Whatever the occasion or experience, as time passes, impressions solidify, or they cauterize, or they get frozen in amber, or they disintegrate completely. Six-ish days after the reunion, I can finally get to what for me was the heart of it all. The thought started on Saturday evening and survived the night itself, the hangover on Sunday, the mulling, and the return to the city.

Time is the great equalizer. That’s what survived.

Every classmate I talked to last weekend, regardless of the tenor of our conversation — which did range from convivial to dark — was an adult. Time has no caste system, has no opinions about what you do for a living. I talked in the last post about “reverting to type” and I did, but not the whole time. Most of the time, I just felt like a person with people I admired simply by virtue of the fact that we’ve gone through a good deal of life since we were all in a room together. It’s been 20 years. Think of that.

Think of that.

Births. Deaths. Suffering. Ecstasy. Loss. Windfalls. Horror. Bliss. Addiction. Recovery. Jobs. Ruin. Success. Disappointment. Marriage. Divorce. Second divorce. Aging parents. Sibling pain. Fears for children, worry for friends. Disease. Redemption.

Living history, in other words.

The history we’re making and have each made in 20 years, all of us in our different ways (which are the same ways), that is the great equalizer. Time flattens us all and in this case, it’s a good thing. When I go on about feeling awkward, I’m being paranoid and small, even just taking up space to say that. Most of that night, we were all just folks, connected by the fact that two decades after we crossed the stage in the gymnasium wearing long robes and weird, betasseled cardboard hats, we are alive and we have earned — and paid dearly for — the space we occupy.

That’s what I figure. There’s more, but tomorrow I want to talk about how I rearranged all the furniture in my apartment this evening. What else am I supposed to do after seeing the grand pageant of humanity in the faces of my graduating class?

Move the couch, that’s what.

25 Jul 2017

Reunion Report, Part Two: The Fails.

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 6

Yesterday, I shared what I managed to get right at the reunion. Now, it’s time to confess at least a few of the things I got wrong.

Fail No. 1 — I reverted to type.
If you are an adult with siblings, and the bunch of you get together for holidays or large family functions, you likely have witnessed or experienced yourself a “revert to type.” To revert to type is “to come or go back, as to a former condition, period, or subject.”

For example, if your younger brother, who yanked your ponytail constantly when you were growing up but is now actually a mature, stand-up person, totally yanks your ponytail every time you’re both at Mom’s, he’s reverting to type, slipping into the kid brother role he had for so long. Meanwhile, you can’t believe the Typical Older Sister stuff coming out of your mouth. Reverting to type might not feel great, but at least it feels familiar.

Well, I reverted to type the other night. I got nerdy. Nervous. I tried to be funny and sort of was, sometimes, but mostly I was just clammy and didn’t know where to put my hands or how to not say lame things to people to whom I always managed to say lame things. I wasn’t hopeless in high school, but I had frequent clammy encounters. Anyway, it happened at the party and it was weird. I’ve come a long way since high school — so how come I forgot all that stuff when I tried to insert myself into conversations?

Fail No. 2 — I drank too much.
(See: reverting to type.) Not that I drank in high school — I could count on one hand the times I did. No, I mean that because I felt nervous, my cup was never empty. On top of that, I’m on a new medication and I think the combo made me pretty spacey. It’s not like I had a lampshade on my head at the end of the night, but I spent the next day feelin’ barf-o-riffic, indeed. Go high school!

Fail No. 3 — I didn’t take many pictures. And I didn’t tackle the hosts to thank them for everything before I left. Super lame.
Okay, so that’s two in one. I probably wasn’t the only reveler who sort of drifted off as the party broke up, but that’s not usually my way. And though I can’t do much about the first thing, I’ve got an idea to remedy the second.

Now that done a little get realin’, it’s time to brush my teeth and go to bed. Oh wait:

Fail No. 4 — Definitely did not brush my teeth before I went to bed Saturday night.
I was so good about that in high school.

24 Jul 2017

Reunion Report, Part One: The Winners.

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 4

I really need to start taking more pictures. This is a high school reunion photograph from 1947. They look pretty good — but we looked better. I'll see what I can do. Image: Wikipedia. — I really need to start taking more pictures. This is a high school reunion photograph from 1947. They look pretty good — but we looked better. I’ll see what I can do. Image: Wikipedia.

The reunion was not about me.

But while I process the trillions of impressions I had that night, about that night; while I reflect on the brilliance and fascination of the people who were there — which is, of course, what the reunion actually was about — I gotta buy myself some time.

And so, a pair of lists: What I got right, and what I got wrong, at my high school reunion. First up, because you should do the worst first, and because good news is harder to write than bad, here’s what I got right a couple nights ago.

And so, a pair of lists. Namely, what I got right — and what I got wrong — at my high school reunion. First up, because you should do the worst first, and because good news is harder to write than bad, here’s what I got right a couple nights ago.

Itemize with me, won’t you?

Win No. 1: I went with Sar.
I could start a whole new blog and call it “SarahGirl” or “PaperSar” and write it for the next ten years and still be unable — as a writer, you understand — to portray the wonder and depth of that woman. When I say she is my “first friend,” I mean it in the literal sense: Sarah and I knew each other in utero. Her mom and my mom have been friends longer than the two of us have taken breath.

At 5:30pm on Saturday evening, I picked Sar up at her house. Sar’s house: the house six blocks away from the Fons’s. A house I know so well, I could find it blindfolded. The house that still has the same phone number after all these years — and you better believe I still know that sequence by heart. Sar and I went to the party together and we left together. Obviously.

Win No. 2: No wardrobe malfunctions!
Darlin’, you haven’t had a wardrobe challenge until you’ve had to figure out what to wear to see classmates from 20 years ago, in a meadow, in 90-degree weather, with the very real possibility that you may consume heroic servings of vodka lemonade, not that I would know anything about that. Think about it: You must look cute, but you can’t wear your criminally hot YSL pumps — what are you, nuts?! Hello, gravel roads?? Start over. Okay, next up: You must stay cool, temperature-wise, but showing too much skin? No way, and besides: mosquitoes.

After three changes*, I went with the following: pale pink chinos; crisp white shirt w/tiny red clip-dot; super-fancy, slingback Oxford loafers I got super-cheap on clearance; and sensible-but-beguiling gold Jason Wu hoop earrings. Oh, and a watch I borrowed from my mother’s jewelry box, except it wasn’t keeping time. The battery was dead. But of course, on Saturday night, I didn’t care what time it was. And I put it back before I left.

Win No. 3: I made it.
A few months ago, I shared about my friend Heather. In that post, I confessed that while I’m not a bad friend — what would that even mean? pom-pom sabotage? hair-pulling? — I could be a more even one. Smoother, you know? It’s like, I want to show up more; I just don’t always know how. My point is that this weekend I knew how. I made it to the field, you know? I got on the train.

Tomorrow, the paces. Also, I mised you.

*four

20 Jul 2017

“Sar’s Picking Me Up At The Station: A Song In Four Verses

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 9

Osceola train station. Not pictured: Sar. Pictured: Some Dude. Image: Wikipedia.

Yesterday, I was crackin’ jokes. A few days before that, I was going on about television. What is this, an entertainment blog? Am I here to amuse?? Let’s get one thing straight: I’m deep. I’m deep!

I wrote the following jaunty tune on the train to Iowa tonight, which should be abundantly clear. (I’ve come here for my high school reunion, remember.) You will be happy to know that I sang this actual song to its actual subject while we waited for the train to clear the tracks outside the Osceola station. I should’ve warmed up, but that would’ve been hard to do in coach.

As you sing this song — to yourself, please — a couple notes:

1) Text inside the square brackets should be understood as information outside the lyrics of the song — a kind of aside from me to you. I probably don’t have to say that, but I’m thinking you’ll need all the help you can get with this.

2) The meter does work, but only if you put the emphasis on a specific word in each line. It has been noted for you with a bold underline. What can I say? I’m a generous person.

That’s it. Have fun. And hey: The next time someone you love comes to pick you up at a dinky train station 40 minutes from town and waits around an hour for you to actually get there, I recommend writing her a song. It gives you something to do and your friend gets a Snickers bar — if you do it right.

Sar’s Picking Me Up At The Train Station And I Can’t Wait To See Her. Sar, My First Friend and Bonus Sister In This Life, I Love You More Than I Will Ever Be Able To Properly Express And I’m Sorry My Train Was An Hour Late
by Mary Fons

I’m on a train to Iowa, Iowa, Iowa,
I’m on a train to Iowa, going to my house.
I’m gonna sleep in Iowa, Iowa, Iowa,
I’m gonna sleep in Iowa, because I am a mouse.

[whatever, let’s just keep going]

My kin’s from the Heartland State, Heartland State, Heartland State,
My kin’s from Heartland State; we’re lucky so n’ so’s.
So I’m goin‘ to The Heartland State, Heartland State, Heartland State,
I’m goin’ to the Heartland State, ‘cause that’s the place to…goes.

[stop asking questions!]

Ohhh!

Been on this train for six full h’ars, six full h’ars, six full h’ars,
Been on this train for six full h’ars, I’m ready to be there.
‘Cuz when I get to Iowa, Iowa, Iowa,
Oh, when I get to Iowa, I get to see Sar!

Sar’s the best gal in the land, in the land, in the land,
Sar’s the best gal in the land, and that’s for sure a fact.

Ohhh!

[Allargando!]*

Thank you, Sar, for pickin’ me up, pickin’ me up, pickin’ me up,
Thank you Sar, for pickin’ me up —

I — brought yoooou — a snaaaaaaaaack!

[produce a half a Snickers, end of song.]

*Italian music term meaning “slowing down and broadening, becoming more stately and majestic, possibly louder”

19 Jul 2017

I Wrote a Joke! I Wrote An Actual Joke!

by Mary | posted in: Joke | 20

A dino!! Photo by Ashley Van Haeften courtesy Wikipedia.

I wrote a joke! I wrote a joke, I wrote a joke, I wrote a joke!

This is huge! I’ve never written a joke before!

And when I say I “wrote” a joke, I mean that just now, as I crossed the room to get something, this joke came to me. It just came to me in my actual brain. Scout’s honor, I have not heard this joke, not ever. I have never heard this joke and that means that I wrote it, right?? Probably other people have written it, too — it’s not too wild n’ crazy— but if other people have come up with this, I have never met those people or, if I have, they did not tell me this joke. And seeing as how I like to tell jokes and seeing as how plenty of people know what I do for a living, if this joke existed before this moment, doesn’t it stand to reason I’d have heard it by now?? Yes! So I’m claiming it!

Don’t get too excited. This joke is not going to set the world on fire. But it’s not too shabby for a first-time joke writer! Are you ready for this??

Q: What’s a writer’s favorite dinosaur?
A: The Thesaurus.

The Thesaurus!! Dinosaur! Writers…!! *

I kill me!

Oh, man. That was great. That was just great, that moment. I wonder if it will ever happen again. I don’t care. Thesaurus! What a knee-slapper.

I’ll be here all week.

*Ugh! Now I’m wondering if the punchline should be just “Thesaurus.” And you tell it like, “The. Saurus.” You know? With a clean break between the syllables. You tell me: Is the joke better if the answer is “The Thesaurus” or “The. Saurus.” And you’d have to do a little mischevious waggle of the head when you tell it with the second option. If you tell jokes a lot, you know what I mean. Writing jokes, people. Not easy.

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