The Symbolic Mask

I don’t like to wear a mask, and I don’t like it when other people wear masks. I want to see faces. Also, masks are inconvenient and uncomfortable.

Yet, as we’re discovering, a mask is so much more than a mask. 

 To some, it symbolizes a loss of freedom. Do we live in a society with laws that can force a person to cover—cover in the same way as the Arab women must cover, which is a tradition that has been regarded by our society as an abhorrence for years? At this point in time, no, there are no such laws, only the pressure of public opinion, which is a considerable pressure indeed; and because of this pressure, it’s not surprising that some take the instruction to cover as an infringement, a cause for rebellion.

As with every push-back opinion, there are nuances. The mask also represents change to people who despise change—and I’m not blaming here, because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s change. Also, the mask embodies another truth that we’re smacked in the face with every day until we’re just sick, sick, sick of hearing it—we failed. Failure. Our country, the best country, isn’t the best. The mask is proof that we’ve been brought low by something so tiny that it’s not visible to the eye. This has led to the ceaseless analysis of the lack of preparedness, the denying, the overreacting, and, in contrast, the failure to act. 

More importantly, the mask has magnified our polarization. Those who refuse to mask take this stance because of their dedication to America and its freedoms. (This is America! You can’t tell people what to wear!) Conversely, those who support the mask value life over livelihood, implying that those who don’t support the mask would gladly see everybody die. 

And then there are the compliant mask-folk who speak in the most heartfelt way about protecting others. Wearing a mask when you’re in a public place isn’t that much to ask in view of what would happen if we all went around spitting on each other. To them the mask represents concern for their fellow humans. Typically, these people have fallen in love with their masks. For instance, this morning, on the broad tree-lined streets of Marble Falls, I saw a woman out walking by herself with a mask on. We have had no new cases of the virus since May the twelfth. In my completely baseless, yet not completely clueless, opinion, if she were to forego the mask during her morning constitutional, there’s zero chance that she’d be exposing herself to the virus; nor would she be spreading it to someone else. 

 On the other hand, considering the suspicion that always accompanies fear, I wouldn’t be surprised if that woman out walking in her mask was doing so, not because she was afraid of the virus, but because she was scared that if she didn’t wear it someone driving by would throw rocks at her. To me, what’s most disturbing about all of this is that the panic found in areas where the virus has penetrated has ended up as a horrifying presence in our sleepy little area of the country where the virus is no more significant than an ant bite on a pinky toe. 

 Here, in the grocery store, the workers are wisely taking care of themselves. Of the customers, some wear masks and some don’t. The people who do don’t glare with nasty judgment at the people who don’t because everybody understands that it seems stupid to wear a mask when you feel fine. I know, I know—it can be asymptomatic; but some people aren’t as quick to adjust as others, and our more stubborn ilk believes that if you don’t feel sick, you’re most likely not sick. Mainly, though, the virus simply isn’t here. But by golly when it does come, the masks are going to be ready. 

 Stylistically speaking, the coverings are an illuminating entity. The people who don them make choices, and these choices reveal as much about who they are as their bares face would, possibly even more so. Gas masks, painters’ masks, masks made from socks and bras—it’s fun. I saw one made of sweatbands fastened together with old-fashioned diaper pins. The most hilarious gear I’ve come across so far was a woman wearing a full plastic coverall that was snapped up the front all the way to her chin and tucked beneath a mouth-and-nose mask that hooked behind her ears, with a dive mask over that, and one of those plastic face shields extending down from her head—which of course got caught on the dive mask; and a rain hat perched on top of the whole shebang. And what, through this outfit, was she telling the world about herself? I’m pretty sure her thinking was that when her fellow humans are falling dead all around her, she’s going to be the last one standing. 

Overall, I’d say that the compliant folk are proving to be more adaptable, which is by all accounts a good thing to be. You may not be scared, but chances are your neighbor is. You may think all this is silly, but an empathetic person caters to another’s fears. Also, bluntly put, the choice is quickly morphing into one between complying and becoming a pariah. Honestly, I’ve got the masks but don’t feel the need to wear them at this time. In my world, sense rules the day.   

This is my face cover of choice—lightweight and comfortable. Not sure how much protection it provides for others or for myself.

Drinking in the Time of Corona

Some are private about their drinking. Years ago I mentioned to a friend that I noticed that she didn’t recycle, and her response was that it’s not her neighbors’ business how much she drinks. Huh. It never occurred to me to care. We put our gin, wine, and whiskey bottles right out by the curb. Were our neighbors counting our bottles while they were out walking their dogs? Did they judge? Probably not; because who does that? My friend who didn’t recycle, that’s who. 

About ten years ago I fell into a wine habit. A bottle a night. That’s either three glasses or four, depending on how big your glass, how high the wine level. I’d start at around five and tip the glass for the last time at about nine, so the bottle lasted me all evening. Because we were living in Singapore, and we walked or relied on public transportation, I was so active that I gained no weight from my regular imbibing. During this period, when people asked why I always turned down potatoes and bread, my standard response was, “I prefer to drink my carbs.”

When we returned from Singapore, moved out to Marble Falls, and began running our errands in a car rather than on foot, it was inevitable that my weight would start sneaking upward. I’m not a fanatic about weight, neither a whiner nor an obsessor; but if you come from short round people you get fat if you don’t keep a wise eye on it. So five years into the Marble Falls life, it occurred to me that the prudent thing to do would be to look up the number of calories in a bottle of wine. Oh my! In all honesty, this is about the thirtieth time in my life that I’ve come to realize that what goes into my mouth has something to do with the needle on the scale. A repetitive epiphany. 

So, realizing it was time to let the wine habit go, I stowed my electric corkscrew in the high cabinet; and I put the stylish silver wine rack on a shelf in the garage. Of course, because I’m a rational person and a rational person rationalizes, I came up with all sorts of exceptions and excuses. I would still drink socially—who wants to be the abstemious person in the group? And, as a reward for abstaining for a week, I would allow myself a martini on Saturday nights. Oh glorious Saturdays. The taste of the vodka brought delightful shivers; and I swear I felt each limb and muscle in my body relax as the alcohol traveled through my veins. Inevitably, soon it was two martinis, at which point Saturday became my night to drink. 

Nevertheless, in three months I lost fifteen pounds and was back to my Singapore weight. Felt good. Clothes fit more comfortably. 

And then came The Virus. The constant dissection of it. The miserable blame that came with it.  The numbers and the comparison of numbers. People wearing masks throwing suspicious looks at those who didn’t. Workers not working. Not even able to go to a movie or enjoy a meal in a restaurant. 

And I’ll also point out that during this time of closure, when dental offices, hair care and dog grooming services, and clothing stores were blocked from us, Specs and Twin Liquors remained open. We were stoic when it came to the inconveniences, but if they’d closed the liquor stores there would have been riots. 

Anyway, with doom everywhere, what can you do but drink? 

What used to be a wine habit has turned into a gin habit. What started out as one gin soon became three. 

This is too much drinking; and the needle is once again creeping. Also, having once been owned by wine, why would I now want to be owned by gin? Well, because of The Virus. If society is in ruins, if we’ve lost our money, pleasures, and freedoms, why not indulge?

No. Be strong, Jen. The world falling apart is no excuse for weakness. Self-control is what’s needed. 

So, in the name of discipline, I’ve come up with a new plan—and it’s a good one. A month off and a month on. Of course, the rule about social drinking will stand—during the non-drinking month if we’re asked to someone’s home, most likely for an outdoor event, to share a glass of wine, why then of course I’ll have the wine. To not do so would be rude. Also, during the off month, I’ll go back to my martini Saturday nights. As a reward. 

But on the non-drinking month if I have a bad day, or if things go awry in the world, then I’ll give myself permission to have a drink, because drinking is a good way to handle sad times. Sometimes a person needs a drink. And that’s all there is to it.  

A drink with old friends.

Fabric History

My mother learned to sew from her mother, who made a living as a seamstress and was highly regarded by Amarillo’s wealthier families. I didn’t know my grandmother well, but one thing I did know was that she sewed for the Whittenburgs. She thought it was a big deal and when she mentioned it, which she often did, we were expected to act impressed. Namedroppers abound in Amarillo. 

And I learned to sew from my mother. When I was in the school play in eighth grade I wore a dress I made myself. There was a feeling among some that wearing homemade clothes was something only poor people did. Ordinarily I was concerned by what other people thought, but like I said, my mother sewed. And my sister sewed. And I sewed. We were a clutch of femininity joyously surrounded by bolts of cotton, spools of lace. Cloth World was our favorite store. Also, because we didn’t buy off the rack, there was no risk of running into someone who was wearing the same thing we were. And it wasn’t like we were going around in feedbags. 

 Once, when my mother was in her sewing room, the girl from around the corner was over. 

“I smell vinegar,” she said. 

“My mother is ironing pleats into the dress she’s making for me.”

“Really? I want to see.”

So I took her in to see my mother, and that’s exactly what she was doing—standing over the ironing board and spraying vinegar to sharpen the folds. Even though I explained that the smell of the vinegar evaporated with the steam, from then on, every time I wore that dress, that mean-spirited girl told everyone in the vicinity that I smelled like vinegar. I dislike her still. It was a lovely dress and the pleats in the skirt were perfect. 

For my fourteenth birthday my mom made me a black pin-striped suit. Very classy. 

“I love my birthday suit!” I declared happily—and then didn’t understand why my family was laughing at me. Imagine, fourteen, and not knowing that “birthday suit” meant naked. 

Some of my projects were disasters. One summer during my high school years I purchased a couple of yards of cheerful red fabric—considering the era, it was probably that awful double-knit. Jumpsuits were in style at the time and that’s what I had in mind, but in the end that no-nap red, thick and ungiving as neoprene, made me look like a giant tomato. It had a wide sash at the waist, big bow in front—way too busy for my stubby form. Eventually it went in the trash, never having been worn. See, being able to try something on is the advantage of buying ready-made—cutting into a piece of fabric is a commitment conceived in ignorance. It took me years to be able to look at a pattern and envision. I was seduced by thin models, fitted bodices, and inset panels. 

And now, during this period of quarantine, I have turned to sewing. I was brutal in cleaning out my closet this spring, and I need to replace the tops I got rid of. Because, on account of the virus, I can’t go to the stores in Austin, I ordered fabric from a couple of websites and I’m quite happy with the results. I’ll post pictures!

At this point, though, having used all the fabric I bought online, I dig through all my scraps and realize that I still have a meter-and-a-half of the silk I bought in Cambodia. I purchased the same amount in buttery yellow, dark green, black, and gray. I made a top out of the yellow, but it quickly thinned and fell apart. It was so delicate that, in order to have held it together I would’ve had to’ve zig-zagged the whole thing on to a backing. And I wasted the green and black on a ridiculously oversized vest that looked more like a costume than something I’d wear in the course of a day. 

But still left to me, a silvery gray. As I mentioned, the silk isn’t of the highest quality; in fact, it’s so stiff and papery that it barely qualifies as fabric. This remaining piece is already half frayed away; and woven into this, as with the others, are all sorts of nasty organic bits—black hairs, human or otherwise; bugs, grasses, scabs, and twigs. When I think of silk I think of pliable softness beneath my fingers, luxurious and costly; but this fabric was woven by filthy hands in a roadside shack with a dirt floor. I have no idea what to do with it. 

Another brief anecdote: While living in Kuwait I attended a lecture sponsored by The Kuwaiti Fabric Institute. The speaker for the evening was a Pakistani, a dignified scholar, there to give a history of Pakistani Carpets. A few minutes into her talk she was interrupted by another woman, also well-dressed and dark, who posited that Pakistani carpets couldn’t hold a candle to Turkish carpets. Instant fury! I’d gone expecting a boring lecture about dies and designs, but I ended up being treated to a nose-to-nose screaming match. What fun. A moderator had to step in. Carpet passion. Who knew?

I ordered this from Joanne’s. Rayon, very comfortable.

Here’s the top I made from it. A stylishly sloppy look.

Here’s another top I made recently. Lovely fabric. You can’t tell from this, but it’s got metallic threads running through it that are sometimes green, sometimes turquoise.

The Cambodian silk. This sure looks like hair to me. The zig-zagged edge it so keep it from fraying.

Here’s what I did with it. Every little rough spot represents a gnat or bit of grass that’s been woven in. Seriously, it’ll probably fall apart after only a couple of wearings.

Drawer of Shame

If, when reading one of my books, you come across a character with cluttered kitchen countertops, you’re safe in assuming that this person is flailing in every aspect of her life.  For instance, in this excerpt from my Fran Furlow sleuth series, Fran’s nemesis, Wendy, has gone missing. Check out what Wendy’s thirteen-year-old babysitter has to say: 

“Did she say who she was meeting?” I ask Billy.

“A client, that’s all.”

“How was her mood—excited, nervous, maybe impatient?”

“Well, to be honest, she always seems weird to me.”

“In what way?”

“She’s so scattered.” He gives a confounded shrug. “I mean, she calls herself a life coach, but piles of overdue bills and notifications are all over the place, and you’d think someone who tells other people how to get organized would know to put mayonnaise and milk back in the refrigerator.”

A boy after my own heart. I’m forced to bite my tongue to stop from joining him in a rant.

Not always, but often, my fictional opinions reflect my actual views. And my belief is that a messy space reflects a messy life. 

So why did I allow a drawer in my kitchen to become so packed with random disorderly sticky stuff that its existence brings disgrace to our household and renders my personal credo meaningless?  

It’s my habit when having guests to give them my kitchen. Some women are protective of their refrigerator and oven, pots and bowls; but the kitchen isn’t where my heart is, so I’m liberal in that area. So, when the after-wedding guests visited us for a few days, I was happy to turn the cooking over to the culinarily adventurous millennials. But when one of them—dark curly hair, constant smile—started toward that drawer, I leapt across the room in full panic, arms stretched out in an effort to stop her motion while emitting a horrified, “NOOO!” 

Poor girl. I made her jump

“Not that one,” I told her. “That’s my drawer of shame.”

Her look told me she thought I was crazy. And to prove it, she bent over, opened the drawer, and immediately recoiled in shocked revulsion. The rest of the kitchen is so neat, so organized! What happened here? 

It started out as a cookbook drawer, but I’m not gifted or patient when it comes to reading instructions and combining ingredients, so the cookbooks taunted me. Perhaps the gradual dropping-in of all the extraneous items was a subconscious attempt to cover them up. Nevertheless, the cookbooks were slowly buried by plastic forks, birthday candles, plastic plates, baskets, flexible and inflexible kabob skewers, toothpicks, a strainer, napkins, two broken cork screws, three sleeves of disposable cups, and extra oven mitts; also, a baggie with the peeled-off labels of wines we enjoyed; and a metal basket with a handle that’s an accessory to a never-used appliance that went to Goodwill three years ago. 

So, during this soul-sapping period of isolation, cleaning out that stupid drawer is a task I decide to take on. While on television the governor of New York endlessly laments his state’s plight, I pull everything from the drawer, lay the items out on the counter, spray the interior with cleaner, and scrub the whole splotchy storage area. 

How’d I end up with so many throw-away dishes, cups, and forks? Was I at some point obsessively fearful of not having enough plastic tableware? Because I don’t want to think about or see this nonsensical collection, I climb a ladder and poke all of it on a shelf so high and so far back that it’s not visible from the floor. I find appropriate spaces and niches for a few other things, too, but most of it goes in the trash. 

The cookbooks. Did you know that every time you order steak or seafood online, it arrives with an instruction booklet? We have, over the last five years, accumulated twenty of these advisory pamphlets, all of which we tossed into the drawer. Now, into the trash they go. 

Considering that I’m not an avid cook, it’s inexplicable that there are at least fifty loose copies of recipes printed from websites. Also, recipes on lined paper penned by so many friends who were a part of my life for a while, women who did love to cook and, when I praised their efforts, painstakingly and without request from me, took the time to write the ingredients and directions out by hand. 

Gathering recipes and selling cookbooks was a fundraising fad for a while, and I always bought them to support whatever cause—two from Cairo, others from the American Women’s Club of The Hague, the American School in Scotland, the Beaconsfield Women’s Guild, and the Home Counties Chapter of the RSPCA. Halfheartedly involved in these groups, I was often asked to contribute recipes, at which point I unabashedly copied others’ recipes from other books to donate as my own. One of the books, a wedding gift that’s travelled from country to country for over thirty years, holds only blank pages, offering me the pleasure of documenting my own gastronomic experiences and favorite recipes. The pages are still blank.

Oh, but here, the biggest treasure, fallen to the bottom, up to this point forgotten and covered with unwanted paraphernalia—a beautiful tome compiled and edited by Anthony Bordain. Seeing it, I recall receiving it as a gift, and what a delight it was to receive this physical and inspirational manifestation of a man I admired—right here in my kitchen, his food wisdom available to my flicking fingertips. And happily, the gladness I felt in getting it as a gift the first time revisits, and I am once again uplifted. As I said, a treasure. Alas, I have forgotten who and when. But I can promise this—with this second gifting it will remain on top, handy and appreciated. No more letting it get covered with crap. If you’re the one who gave it to me, please let me know. I’d love to say thanks again. So, a lesson learned. Don’t bury valuable stuff beneath mundane stuff. 

Here it is. Shameful.

My kitchen is this shiny and organized any day, any time, likely because I spend so little time in it.

The Joy of Cooking, which David possessed before I came along, has ancient greasy food gunk all over it.

I can’t look at this cover without humming a happy tune.

Written in my mother’s hand, the out-of-order instructions are a clear indication of how muddled she always was. She pulled it from an issue of Redbook in the 60’s. It’s absolutely delicious and I was asked for the recipe every time I made it, and my response was always, “It’s the only cake I know how to make, and I’ll happily give it to you as soon as we’re transferred to another country.” Hah. That never happened—but here it is for anyone who wants it. What the instructions don’t say is that it should rest in the refrigerator for a couple of days before eating.

This brought back memories of going to a Thai cooking class in Bangkok with cousin, Georgia, and sister, Resa. That was one good time!

This is what happens when you remember you need plastic forks while you’re at Costco.

All done, never to be messy again.