Why Stuff Matters More and More

When I came across Why Stuff Matters in an Austin library, I was gratified to see that a benevolent librarian had pulled a copy from the dense row of books and showcased it. It is, indeed, an attractive cover. But then reality reared its head—why is it on the shelf? Why isn’t it checked out? Why isn’t a reader right this minute coming to love Jess and Lizzie? Oh, frail ego, the ruin of my sanity!

Though it seems like I’ve been yammering on about Why Stuff Matters for years, in actuality, it was only released in the US this past summer. Because it’s relatively new on the market here, during the next week it will be introduced to the public through a tour of the Lonestar Literary Life bloggers, a group of knowledgeable reviewers who love books, especially books by Texas writers.  

So Why Stuff Matters is fixing to be set loose in all the media outlets. Reviews, author interviews, and guest postings will be included; so please like them, read them, and pass these bloggers’ blogs on. When it comes down to it, a book and an author only become known when positive comments are passed from one reader to the other. Each good review creates a new reader! So please view this endless publicity with tolerance and—dare I ask?—enthusiasm.

Thanks for reading,

Jen 

Adventures in Volunteerism

A local church group approaches my friend, Charlotte, and tells her that their chosen charity project for the Christmas season is to make adult bibs for a nearby old folks’ home; and, as none of their church members have sewing machines, they wonder if she’ll come help them with the sewing. She agrees to it and, thinking that two machines will be better than one, she asks me if I, too, will help out. While my rule is to keep my head down when people ask for volunteers, my most regrettable (and little-known) flaw is that when asked directly, I’m unable to say no. 

So, on the designated afternoon I show up at the small fellowship hall with my sewing machine and all the associated paraphernalia, which I tow behind me in a small rolling suitcase. A sewing machine is a hefty item and, though the burden is obvious, a dozen women seated around a couple of tables impassively observe as I prop the heavy door open with my hip and struggle to pull the suitcase through the narrow space. From the other end of the tables, Charlotte introduces me, and I return the hello nods with a nod of my own. Taking a quick scan, I determine where I’m supposed to be. A machine is already set up on a nearby table and I claim the adjacent space. 

Charlotte seems to be caught up in getting the work organized. She’s arranged five stations—ironing, cutting, pinning, sewing (that’s me), and turning—that’s when you turn the finished product right side out. Huh. I thought she’d be sewing, but instead she seems to be the project manager. I plug in and thread my machine as, behind me, she explains and demonstrates how the tasks are to be done. 

It’s not long before women start bringing me the bibs that are ready to be sewn. And it takes no time at all to see that not only do they not own machines, they don’t even understand the common-sense basics, like how the right sides of the fabric should face each other when you pin them together for sewing a seam; or how you should cut with the grain, not at any ole angle you please. And not only is the cutting jagged, how is it possible that two pieces of fabric, cut from the same pattern, are not the same size or shape? 

It falls to me to redo it all.   

As I’m facing the window, I’m not certain what’s going on behind me, but I hear. The mirth and teasing goes on and on, a soundtrack of never-ending laughter. From a central position, a woman feels compelled to belt out hymns of joy. No cutting or pinning for her; she’s moved by the spirit. At one point, men flow in, which sets the women aflutter. Listening to the ensuing exchange, which is loud and mostly foolishness, it strikes me how much these men think of themselves. God’s gifts. They settle their backsides into chairs, take no part in the work, and go to great lengths to distract the women. 

Meanwhile, with shoulders hunched, I repin, recut, and sew the bibs together. And as I do this, I ponder this mass ineptitude. My experiences tell me that it’s impossible for so many people to be so completely bad at something that’s so easy. What’s going on with these women? Is there some reason why they’re making no effort? Do they not care? Are they really this useless? No, it can’t be. Another possibility is that this incompetence is some sort of pretense, a deliberate ruse. But surely not. Why would someone want to be viewed in this way? I’m mystified.  

Charlotte settles behind her machine every once in a while, but only for a few minutes at a time because she’s constantly being called away to help with questions—how do you put more steam in the iron? Why is this pin not sharp enough to go through? Can stripes and polka dots go together? 

I listen to her as, patient and warm, she does for someone what they should be able to figure out for themselves. She possesses a forbearance that is beyond my comprehension. 

She approaches, puts a hand on my shoulder, and bends down to whisper into my ear.

“You might as well go ahead and turn these, too,” she says, placing a bundle of inside-out bibs beside my machine. “Would you mind?” 

Apparently turning bibs right-side-out is also beyond their abilities. I feel abused. My mood’s so foul that I’m unable to produce a civil reply, so I simply offer an affirmative jerk of my head. 

I work and work, never looking up. The singing woman continues to sing. People continue to chatter and laugh like they’re at a party. Mutilated and poorly pinned pieces of fabric continue to appear beside my machine. The reason for the men’s presence becomes clear when sandwiches and punch are brought out. The scrape of chairs is followed by a vocal migration to the other side of the room. No one offers me a sandwich. No one offers me punch. Repin, recut, sew, turn, set aside. Do it again. 

An hour-and-a-half later someone announces that it’s time to call it quits for the day. I begin gathering and packing my things. No one says good-bye. No one says thank-you.

“We made twenty-two bibs today,” one of the women declares. “Good for us!”

And I think, yeah, good for you, as I once again fight my way out the door. Dejectedly, I tromp to my car and load my stuff in the trunk. 

Whatever rant you imagine David being subjected to when I get home, multiply it by fifty and then add some. 

Two days later I help with the new community garden. Nine people show up. Ten tons of decomposed granite are spread. A pole barn is erected. Everybody works hard. The volunteers are respectful toward one another. There’s no singing or joking, just practical people content in their efficiency, satisfied by working toward a worthwhile goal. David is in charge of the project and, due to his dedication and organizational skills, it’s going to be a terrific source of nutrition for all the folks in the county who can’t always afford what’s on offer at the grocery store. I’m a hell of a lot prouder of the work I did for the garden than I am of the work I did on those bibs.  

We spread the decomposed granite which will make up the floor for the pole barn and the shed.

People cooperated and the work got done. Perhaps the tall people were of more use than the short people in certain areas.

Of course, there are always ladders.

The Dallas Trip

I should arrive at the Dallas Galleria around noon. I don’t have to be anywhere until tomorrow morning, which means my shopping will be relaxed. Though some think of malls as the bane of modern man, I went without them for so many years that I grew to appreciate the draped mannequins, the warm aroma wafting from the cookie place, the angled patterns of light, and the splishing fountains. And this time of year it’s all about Christmas, and who doesn’t enjoy that? This afternoon I will view and try on dresses for Sam and Julia’s upcoming wedding, which will take place in February on the property once owned by Stephen F. Austin, widely known as the Father of Texas. It’s an impressive location and they’ll say their vows surrounded by live oaks, pecan trees, and the snuffling and lowing of longhorns. 

David thinks I’m silly for dwelling on the dress: most men would think so. But there’s a hierarchy to be considered, a tradition voiced by no one and adhered to by women everywhere. 

The most prized tier belongs to the bride. This is her day and she has the final say in all decisions. Colors, flowers, food, location—all stand in evidence of her wisdom and good taste. Though she might disdain vanity and trends at other times, on this day she will be admired for her notable grace, charm, and, most importantly, unsurpassable beauty. This beauty is not to be challenged, and though Julia is gorgeous and not fearful of competition, there is still the everlasting law of the hierarchy that must not be tested; and to this end, while all other women in attendance should take care with their appearance, they should not take the utmost care. 

The second rung is taken up by the bridesmaids, in this case, ten of them. (Oh, Julia!) I know none of these young women, but I can imagine them—giddy, loyal, supportive, and, because Julia and Sam are who they are, representative of many cultures and nations. Indeed, they are flying to Texas from all reaches of the planet. These bridesmaids will apply their makeup and tame their hair in a modest fashion. If they are tempted to glow with happiness or excitement, they will respectfully subdue themselves. Under no circumstances is a bridesmaid to out glow the bride.

As to the mothers; third and fourth levels, respectively. The bride’s mother must present a more restrained countenance than the bridesmaids; and she must be slightly more lovely than the groom’s mother. Worth noting, though, is that on this third tier, the issue of color comes into play. The trim color Julia has chosen is dark green—pine, not Kelly or hunter. It’s a sagacious choice, right for the season and universally flattering. But what color does that leave for the mothers? What color will compliment both the wearer and the deep green?

“It’s just a dress.” David’s voice is in my head. “No one will be paying attention to you anyway.”

Oh, but they will be if I show up in a loud or clashing color.

Though Julia’s mom, Khim, is British, her heritage is Malaysian, which means dark hair and eyes. Her hair is short and her cheeks are soft pink. A retired midwife, she radiates calmness and contentment. She takes things in stride. And like me, she’s an open book. With her there are no undercurrents or agendas. I wonder where she stands on the issue of color. The way I see it, there are truly only three choices—a dusky rose, a pale silvery gray, or a multi-colored pattern, floral or geometric. Because Khim would look truly lovely in antique rose, I’ll leave that alone in case she wants it. And because busy prints look like pajamas on my squatty form, a pastel gray is my goal. As to style, I’ll simply have to see what the stores have on offer. 

It’s a disaster. Four hours, sore feet. In and out of every store that has dresses. Ruffles and pleats. Fronts that gape, waistlines three inches too high, trims that don’t match. Sequins, sparkles, and fluorescent pinks and oranges. Zippers on the outside. Fake jewelry sewn into the neckline—why? Unexpectedly, this year’s dominating colors are pine green, which is inappropriate because it’s what the bridesmaids will be wearing, and black, which is inappropriate because, well, it’s black. Defeat. 

On the way to the hotel I stop for take-out nachos. At the quick mart next door to the taco place I buy a Guinness. I check in to the hotel, eat while I watch TV, and go to sleep. 

The next morning I give a talk to a readers’ group that’s paying me enough to cover the hotel, gas, Guinness, and nachos—plus the added benefit of getting to publicize my books. Five years ago I would never have pictured myself sharing my novels, opinions, and experiences with twenty-five women. But I’ve done it several times now and I don’t hate it. In fact, it’s gratifying to be greeted by people who are enthusiastic about my work and want to know what I have to say about creativity, inspiration, and discipline. Hey, I have an ego. I never knew. 

That being said, though it seems like I’ve been publicizing these novels forever, Why Stuff Matters was actually only recently released in the states. So there’s fixing to be a big publicity push. Soon Why Stuff Matters will be everywhere. If you haven’t bought it, buy it. If you haven’t written a review, write one. Please. If you belong to a reader’s group or if your library invites guest speakers, I’ll go anywhere in Texas. Publicity is vital to the life of a book and the strength and longevity of a writer’s career. Mic drop. 

This is the theme color for the wedding. Sometimes cameras and ambient light don’t work together to give a true picture, but this is clear enough to give an idea, right? This color is being called “teal” in the stores, which I find puzzling. I think of teal as being more of a turquoise, a light shade of blue-green. Thoughts?

Bye and Hello

For years I was a drinker of wine. Every task came to an end at five, at which time I relaxed with a glass of Zin and let the television entertain me. There’s no denying that this was an early hour to suspend useful activity. My days were in the shape of wine glasses, full and round in the middle, and tapering to a focused circle at the top. By the time the evening was over I’d consumed a bottle. 

This is a trait of mine: I form habits and become obsessed. 

I recall how, when I smoked during my college years, I checked my purse again and again before going out, making sure my twenty little friends were in there. And then I’d be hit with panic after I closed and locked the door; and I’d grope around in my purse until I found them. Extreme alarm again at the base of the stairs; whew, there they were. And then dark anxiety in the car; and at that point when I located the pack I kept it in my grip for the rest of the evening. This was not healthy behavior. 

And more recently I was every bit as fixated on the wine and the clock. When the time came, I poured. I would go to ridiculous, fanatical lengths to make sure I was home by five for my red libation. If plans intervened I’d have to mentally stoke by reminding myself that it was only a short postponement and that the wine would be waiting, a loyal and patient friend. 

Until, as happened with cigarettes, I grew weary of being a slave to the grape and I put the habit in a mind drawer labeled “Things I Used to Do.” As with smoking, I turned away abruptly and painlessly. Good-bye old friend. I’m through with you. 

That’s it? You’re done? David wanted to know. Yep, that’s it, I answered. 

But hey, I reassure myself, I loved to smoke and I loved to drink and maybe someday, when I no longer care whether I live or die and my health has moved beyond reclamation—maybe then I’ll once again park my butt in a broad-cushioned chair in front of the TV and smoke and drink, devoting myself to my wasteful pleasures as the grinding world circles doggedly outside my door. 

Though I’m not there yet. No, where I’m caught now is in that awkward period where I shock myself when I look in the mirror. Where’s pretty Jenny? Where did the wrinkles come from? What are those sags at the edges of my mouth? How many creams can I slather on to my throat before causing a rash? 

A Texas woman doesn’t give in easily to the wicked infringements of age. A woman of boldness and strength has a duty to fight for that thirty-year-old that’s trapped inside. 

Concerned, perhaps overly so, I study my face in search of the most offensive among all the wrinkles. And there they are—the deep downward trenches on my upper lip. Results of those few years of long ago smoking? Perhaps it’s caused by the many years of fluting. Most likely, though, they come from a lifetime of whistling. Yes, I’m a whistler. I have a low-pitched singing voice, passable when it comes to ballads and hymns in a minor key, but lousy for anything cheerful. A merry mood calls for a merry melody. Was the joyous pursing of my lips worth the furrows? I’m too distraught to decide. 

Like a lost baby chick I run from friend to friend, pointing desperately at my lip—what do I do? How can I stop this? I look like Marge Simpson’s sisters! Everybody I ask says, “Collagen or botox, that’s all you can do.”

I make an appointment for a consultation at a dermatologist’s Medi-spa in Austin. Upon my arrival a woman greets me and invites me beyond the secret door. Her face is so taut from botox that I honestly can’t tell if she’s twenty or sixty. Am I looking at my future? 

Happy to serve, she gives me two painful injections in my upper lip and tells me that the results may not be apparent for several days. This was unexpectedly expedient. I went in to discuss it and came out having received the treatment. So easy, and not nearly as expensive as I feared. I’m excited to see the results.

“Oh, and you might develop a lisp,” she tells me as I’m walking out the door. “There may be drooling.”

With my arms full of the magic lotions and additives she was kind enough to sell me, her words cause me to falter. But then, head high and shoulders back, I keep moving forward as I process what she’s just said. Drooling? Lisping? Hah. If that were true, half the people I know would be lispers or droolers. 

In the end, no drooling. Also, no whistling. But what has been altered is the way I pronounce the letter P. My upper lip now lacks the suppleness required to press firmly against my lower lip so that my P’s come out like spitty percussive W’s. 

And, oh dear. A publicity round for the US release of Why Stuff Matters is coming up and, in aid of that, I have a speaking engagement in Dallas next week. Until now I never gave thought to how many times P’s pop up in the everyday scope of words. How foolish will I sound? I guess I’ll find out. 

On the upside, since quitting the wine I’ve lost fifteen pounds. Wine, it seems, is fattening. Who knew? 

An excellent wine at an excellent price. Available at Costco. Most importantly, a high alcohol content.

See? Though the lines at my lips aren’t as apparent as reality in this photo, and perhaps you think I should have tended to the deep lines between my brows. Maybe those’ll be next.

The publicizing goes on and on and on. This is the last of it until a new book comes out.