Finding Goodies

          Around my area there are several secondhand shops operated by charities such as the Salvation Army, Red Cross, Kidney Clothes and others.  There are also a couple of shops owned by private entities who claim they sell antiques.

          If an antique is gauged by the number of scratches, stains and chips on any one item, they do indeed sell such collectibles.  I personally think the owners either have supreme confidence in their inventory, or have delusions of grandeur, but perhaps that’s just me.

          In Australia such establishments are called Opportunity Shops or, more frequently, Op shops.  There, like the shops here, you can outfit your kids for school or play for pennies, find furniture that with a bit of TLC will do fine in the living room, and even find a nice warm bed for Fido, all for what a single item would cost in a department store.

          I have been known to browse these Op Shops quite frequently and for lengthy periods at each visit.  Usually I leave empty handed because that’s all I’m doing…just browsing.  However, lately my expeditions have taken on a more purposeful tone.  Now I’m looking for real goodies.          Now I’m looking for hidden Renoirs, Chagalls, even a sweet little Picasso would be nice.  What am I finding instead?  Dreadful paintings by people who did not heed their art instructor’s advice to take up cooking.

          My foray amongst the cobwebs and dust of these stores is as a result of seemingly endless reports of someone finding a famous artist’s painting by mere chance.  A woman wants a gilt frame so buys a cheap little painting for a few dollars.  Surprise!  It’s a Picasso and worth somewhere in the vicinity of $1 million.

          What amazes me is that no one notices the artwork was done by a master before it was put on the shelf for sale at $3.  Not the Op Shop sales person, not even the original owner who must have just piled up all the junk into a box and delivered it to the store as a charitable gesture.

          My daughter often finds what she calls ‘little treasures,’ during her Op Shop excursions.  But since these usually require major reconstruction work to be recognizable as whatever they originally were or what someone with a great imagination can turn them into, they don’t have a lot of appeal for me.

          Still, having failed at finding the lost paintings of Rembrandt at my local Goodwill store, I have now decided to alter my search from paintings to first edition books.  Surely somewhere amongst all the moldy, dusty piles of paper stacked in bookcases, I’ll be able to find that long sought after first edition copy of one of Tolstoy’s masterpieces.  What do you think are my chances folks?

I'm taking a break from this blog of mutterings and mumblings.  I've decided to do some major traveling for the next year or so.  Who knows I may experience some adventures I can recount on my blog.  I also need to get back to my long neglected memoir...get the darn thing finished once and for all.  It's been fun...but now, au revoir :)

         

Gliding To A Standstill

          Back in days of yore when I was making a living modeling, there were occasions when my strut down the runway was exciting.  Actually in those days we didn’t strut so much as glide.  Strutting was considered unladylike, and a graceful glide the epitome of modeling finesse.

          At the time, an organization called the Wool Board was to young models then what showing the clothing of the very top designers during Fashion Week in NY would be today.  Only the cream of the modeling crop was asked to participate in runway shows for the Wool Board.  And only the Wool Board was high enough up the design chain to have important personages, top ranking designers and even celebrities as guests to their shows.

          The preparation for the Wool Board shows was extensive.  Days of fittings with nips and tucks happening as one garment after another were fitted to each model.  Then hours of rehearsals as we were sent down the runway in order of the program guide. 

          All accessories for each garment were provided by the designers…hats, bags, scarves, even shoes.  And each piece gave the designer’s masterpiece the added oomph they thought it required.

          So it was one year we were excited to learn that the Duchess of Kent would be one of the guests at that year’s Wool Board show.  The Duchess of Kent!  She was a royal… okay perhaps gzillionth in line to the British throne, but still… certainly one of the tiara set.

          The designers nearly went ballistic prepping for the show.  The models were in such a tizzy I thought we’d all collapse in the dressing rooms before we even made it to the runway.

          But the lights dimmed, the show began… and off we went. 

          For one of my outfits, I’d been given a little silky terrier puppy as an accessory to walk with down the runway.  The puppy was a light brown color; my beautifully constructed suit was a lovely cream with dark brown shoes, bag and gloves.  I thought I looked superb… the height of elegance plus the addition of the puppy would set me and my outfit apart from the others.  What brilliance!

          I even had visions of the Duchess asking to actually see my garment up close and perhaps even being so enamored with my modeling abilities that she would buy the outfit.

          As I took my first pass down the runway, without any warning at all and right in front of the Duchess, my cute little pooch decided this was the perfect time and place to squat and pee.  Horrified I tried to tug the little thing to walk…away from the puddle on the carpet.  The doggie just sat and stared up at me.

          What did she want?  Surely she wasn’t expecting a treat? Or was she getting ready to do more than just pee? 

          I glanced red-faced at the Duchess who was laughing uproariously.  Well, all right then.  Not so bad after all.

          Still with dogs you never know…all my modeling gracefulness, my smartie pants poise, flew out the window as I picked up the pooch tucked her under my arm and strutted off to the dressing rooms.

          I guess I should be grateful my doggie accessory was a girl and not a boy.  I shudder at the thought of a boy doggie lifting his leg and letting a stream of pee fly right into the lap of the Duchess or even worse… into her face!  Yikes.

         

         

Winning It All

          There are some people who are incredibly lucky.  I am not one of those people.  I’m not even simply unlucky.  I’m so far off the luck scale that if it were an eye chart, it’d be invisible.  As a result, I never participate in anything that requires simple luck to come out on top.

          My son, on the other hand, wins anything and everything he happens to glance at.  Case in point….as a young lad of about ten he accompanied us to a company Christmas party.  For the enjoyment and excitement of all the kidlets who were attending, the company had purchased a Christmas stocking which was to be raffled later in the day.

          The stocking was gigantic.  It was at least ten feet high and about five feet across.  It was loaded with everything a young child might wish for…electronics, board games, toy cars of various makes and models, dolls, baseballs and basketballs, a couple of tennis rackets, books, soft toys, candy by the boxful, even clothes. 

          As each child entered the premises, they were given a ticket for the draw.  My son was given ticket #1.  Now I ask you.  If someone gave you the very first ticket off a batch of several hundred, what would you think were your chances of winning?  My son, Mr. Confidence personified, kept telling me that he was going to win and would not be greedy but would share his winnings with his sister.  Very noble thought, but I hated to burst his bubble by telling him his chances of winning were about zip.  Come on…he had ticket #1!!!

          But no, the luck fairy smiled and my son won the stocking!

          In another instance, a TV game show asked viewers to send in questions to be asked of contestants.  Each question used but not correctly answered by the contestant, would win for the question submitter between $20 and $50; the question placed in the middle of the board would win for the submitter, $500.

          Need I even say that my son submitted one question and out of the thousands and thousands that were sent in, his was chosen…and chosen to be the $500 question?  The contestant failed to answer correctly and my son was 500 smackeroos richer before the end of the show.

          On the other hand, one of the first times I ever participated in anything to do with luck, I was about twelve.  My Mamma had taken my little sister and me to a local Fair.  The place was loaded with gorgeous artisan created goodies.  Everything from beautifully knitted sweaters, scarves and beanies to elaborately embroidered table cloths, cushions and of course dozens of pottery items just waiting for a home.     

          Our two shilling entry fee had also garnered for each attendee a ticket for one of the items on display.  ‘Everyone wins something,’ yelled the Fair’s organizers.  Sounded like a ‘can’t miss’ situation to me.  Woo hoo!

          In among all the bounty dazzling our eyes was a small cage with a cackling and very much alive chook inside.  Chook is Aussie speak for a chicken that is past the cute, fluffy yellow stage.  As we passed the cage, I glanced up at Mamma and said, ‘I don’t care what I win, as long as it isn’t that chook!’

          Some hours later as we bumped home in the half empty bus, I stared at the cage on my lap and the quite angry looking chook staring back at me.  The one and only time in my life I ever won anything and it had to be a live chook!

          But she did taste quite nice when we had her for dinner some days later, so I guess it wasn’t a total loss.

         

         

Arabian Nights...And Days

          I happened across a very old movie on cable the other day.  It had the broad shouldered Jeff Chandler playing some kind of Arab sheik and the gorgeous redheaded Rhonda Fleming as a princess, or whatever the female version of a Sheik happens to be, of an enemy tribe.  I’m assuming she was a princess; she had enough diamonds and pearls on her body to fill several display cases at Tiffany’s and I’m thinking a lowly peasant woman would not be as well dressed.

          With so much of the Middle East in the news these days, what fascinated me about the movie were the costumes. 

          Gorgeous diaphanous material draped over Rhonda’s hips and layered to the ground; a tiny sleeveless silk top with plenty of décolletage and a bare midriff showed off her figure to perfection.

          But the piece of garb that had me truly mesmerized was the miniscule piece of transparent material that covered the lower part of her face.  This flimsy bit of chiffon was supposedly there to hide her face from men and the rest of the world…a Muslim tradition.

          Even back when I was a kid and lapped up these Sandie Arabia movies by the bucketful, I thought Rhonda’s facial covering was a bit strange.  I mean I could see her face through the material, so what was wrong with Mr. Chandler’s eyesight?  It’s not as if I wanted her to have a dish towel hooked around her ears and under her eyes, but it just didn’t seem realistic the way it was.

          Of course this was Hollywood’s version of what Middle Eastern women wore and, since in those days we knew so little or perhaps more correctly cared, about what they actually did wear, apart from the face covering, everything else seemed an exotic plausibility.

          What a shock it was for me to discover that instead of silks and see-through chiffons, what Middle Eastern women actually wear more resembles a black plastic trash bag, tied in the middle with a hunk of rope.

          And to add insult to visual injury, instead of a miniscule piece of transparent tulle draped below her eyes, there is a tea strainer sown into the eye area of a thick, black curtain covering her face.  I don’t think even Mr. Chandler would be able to distinguish anything there.

          Now I have to wonder…are Middle Eastern women dressed like old black potato sacks because they actually all do look like Rhonda Fleming and their men want to keep that a secret.  Or, do they more closely resemble Marjorie Main of ‘Ma and Pa Kettle’ fame (look it up people) and who wouldn’t want to keep that quiet?  It certainly is a puzzlement.

         

         

Missing Stuff

          My very best friend, Irene, is lucky enough to be able to travel the world for several months of each year.  Her expeditions so far have taken her to some exotic places…a cruise up the Rio Negro with a self caught piranha for lunch; walking across the pristine snowy, vastness of Antarctica counting the penguins; and, watching the sun rise over the Taj Mahal are all now exciting memories for her.

          Like most women, Irene is also fond of good jewelry.  There have been many occasions we’ve had to stop and stare at some fabulous stuff in the windows of expensive jewelry stores, usually just to drool and perhaps dream.

          So it was some years ago, Irene came to visit with us in Northern Virginia.  Since this was her first time to the east coast, it was incumbent upon me to show her all the ‘places of power’ in DC and generally play tour guide.

          We had a great time walking around all the monuments on the Washington Mall while also pushing back tears at the overpowering pull of the black granite wall of the Vietnam Memorial.  We toured the Capitol and admired the White House and we stared at the magnificence of the Supreme Court Building.

          Of course, tours of the various buildings of the Smithsonian were a definite must.  We started with the Air & Space Museum.  Between marveling at the fortitude of Lindbergh to fly his flimsy Spirit of St. Louis into history and actually touching a rock brought back from the moon, and then being able to climb into the seemingly miniscule space capsule that brought the astronauts back to earth…it was an exciting day.

          But, by the time we had scoured all over the American History Museum, seen Dorothy’s ruby slippers, the inaugural ball gowns of many of the First Lady’s and even stood silent and in awe as the original Stars and Stripes was revealed without its Perspex protective shield, we were pooped and ready to return home.

          As we exited the building and being a good host, I asked Irene if she wanted to continue into the building next door; The Natural History Museum. 

          ‘What’s in there?’ she asked. 

          ‘Don’t know.  Rocks and stones, I guess,’ said dumb, dumb me, really too tired to care at that stage.

          Well, tired as we were we decided to give the Natural History Museum a big miss.  And in so doing, two women who could spend hours with their noses pressed to jewelry store windows, missed out on seeing the Hope Diamond, some of the Crown Jewels (on loan from the UK), many of Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond pins, tiaras, and necklaces and a history of how diamonds are created.

          Sometimes it is best if you find out exactly what you’re going to miss out on before you give a place the flick, isn’t it?

The Hope Diamond

                            

Lovin' It...The Red Corvette

          At the far end of the North Shore is a little village called Haleiwa (that’s Ha-lay-eeva).  It is full of artisan shops, restaurants, galleries and the usual tourist traps.  Visitors love the area because to the casual observer it reminds them of the old Hawaii…a time when life was a little slower and the only important thing was great food, the brilliant sun and the blue, blue sea.

          I often drive my visiting guests to Haleiwa for lunch.  The drive itself is beautiful…a country road with the aquamarine ocean on one side and majestic mountains on the other for close to an hour.   

          One of our favorite lunch places to dine is at the very beginning of the village and we usually prefer to sit outside on the lanai where we can see the passing parade.  This is where we saw ‘The Car’ the first time and many times since.

          Our server told us The Car had become quite a fixture, parked outside the restaurant nearly every day of the week.  So much so, tourists had been known to frequent the restaurant just to get a look at The Car.

          The first time I saw The Car, I was so fascinated that a girlfriend and I hurried through our lunch so we could introduce ourselves to the owner and find out more.

          ‘The Car’ is a bright red Corvette.  The owner is a University professor who uses the restaurant as a sort of ‘office away from home’ each day while having his lunch and preparing for his classes the next day.  He admitted with a great laugh that his car had become quite a talking point around the restaurant and in fact, the Haleiwa area.  I would think so.

          I asked him what his wife thought about it all…the car, the notoriety, the tourists ogling her husband’s car.  He smiled and admitted she thought it was all a wonderful joke.  He told us his wife drives an SUV with a vanity plate that states:  ‘Lovin’ It.’ When he parks The Car next to his wife’s car in their double garage, passersby grab for their cameras and start snapping away.

          I can see why.

Me and The Red Corvette

 

 

 

          

Calling Customer Service...Hellooooooo

          Nearly all organizations have a customer service department which is created mainly to drive customers up the wall with frustration.  I’m not sure what the qualifications for these particular jobs are, but a lack of common sense and an ‘I don’t really give a fig,’ attitude, seem to be the main requirements.

          Two nights ago I noticed my DVR wasn’t working properly.  It was in fact recording a beautifully blank screen.  Further fiddling with remotes and screen buttons had me deciding that one of the HD channels was indeed completely blank.  At the time I thought it might be something to do with the cable provider rather than my TV set, and decided to leave it until the next morning.

          The problem was still evident the next day so, silly me, I called the customer service number.  I should have known it was not going to be a great experience as soon as the young lady answering the phone asked me ‘on which island do you live?’  These kinds of questions always bother me.  I figure if they’re somewhere they can’t see my caller ID, they’re in a time zone that can’t be of much help.

          I wondered if she was sitting on a mat in India but no, she was not.  As a matter of fact she informed me, she was sitting on a chair in Canada.  Good to know, but again, not much help to me in Hawaii.

          Ah, but how wrong could I be?  This young lady had all the answers.

          It appears that my inability to get the HD version of one of my favorite channels was because there was a cell phone tower blocking the signal.  Apparently this tower was built overnight by some very speedy, hardworking gentlemen, because there certainly wasn’t any interference from anything or anybody for the several weeks, even years prior.

          But, just in case, my DVR box was rebooted and rebooted.  I think three times in all by the secret signal direct from the provider.  Then, a short time later and while watching Fox news, the poor news anchor was left with her mouth hanging open while my DVR box rebooted itself with no request from me or anybody else.  Half an hour later it rebooted itself again. 

          Another call to Canada produced even less joy.  It seems no one in that vast country could fathom why my DVR box would do that.  You know you’re in real trouble when the best the customer service person can offer is: ‘gee, I’m not sure why it does that.’

          Finally, it was determined that an actual technical person would have to present himself at my house to fix the problem.  Of course that couldn’t happen for at least two weeks.  So now what?  I know there are a gazillion other channels to watch, but I love all the shows that are broadcast on the channel that doesn’t work, so bite me!

          I guess I’ll just have to stay grumpy until the cable guy arrives and fixes what I’m sure will be something incredibly simple.  Either that or spend more time with my Kindle.  Not a bad idea at all eh?

         

You've Got A Friend

          Friends are wonderful.  Really good friends are exceptional.  Locking your car keys inside your car is dumb but it all works out if you have at least one of the former.

          These days I usually hit the gym as the chickens are just waking up and before every muscle bound gentleman can commandeer all the equipment to show off his body building prowess.  I suppose I could excuse my dumbness by suggesting that I’m half asleep, but that wouldn’t be true.  Just dumb dedumb dumb dumb.

          My car is an ancient model.  Not quite a covered wagon but not far off.  It does not open and close with lights flashing and bips from a key fob but uses the time honored ‘key in door lock’ system to open the doors and a quick thump with the side of the hand to lock them.

          I’m still shaking my head at my ability to glance around and ensure all the doors were locked then lean down to pick up my gym bag while placing the car keys on the passenger seat.  Why did I do that?  It’s not like they were heavy.

          Then, a dainty hop and skip out of the car, slam the door and stare open-mouthed at the keys still sitting on the seat inside the now locked car.

          Immediate panic mode!  What to do?  I knew I had another car key at home.  But ooops, my garage door opener was sitting inside my locked car attached to the sun visor and now seemingly laughing at me.  I had no other keys with me with which to get into my house.

          Ah, but I had given a spare garage door opener to my neighbor.  I would call her and all would be well.  But alas, no.  My neighbor is one of those people who only has a cellphone.  A cellphone which is never on so messages are the only things that are transmitted.  Bummer!

          On the other hand, what did it matter? My gym is a good five miles from my house.  I wasn’t about to walk home…not with the skies threatening a downpour at any minute.  And even if I did?  What then?  Sit on the kerb looking like a homeless old bag lady? 

          But then I remembered I had access into my neighbor’s house for just such an emergency.  But at what was seemingly the crack of dawn, how was I going to get there? 

          I called a girlfriend hoping against hope the phone would not be answered by a very sleepy voice.  Thankfully she was up and about to have her first cup of coffee when I called.  Her immediate response to my blathering was:  ‘I’m on my way.  Be there in ten minutes tops.’

          A ride home, a quick break-in to my neighbor’s house to get my garage door opener, pick up the spare car key and a ride back…within 30 minutes all was well with the world.

          Some little while ago I wrote a post about “Mary” being a grand old name.  It could be said that my friend Mary is also a ‘grand old dame,’ but more than that, she is a first class lady with the most generous nature, particularly before 7 in the morning. Thank you, my friend.

Cigarettes, Gardenias and Fishnet Stockings - Part II

          By the time I had finished my circuit around the mezzanine and was heading back down to the lower level, there was a sudden commotion behind me.  I turned to see flames from the barbeque grills had attacked the ceiling beams and these were already on fire.  It was stunning how quickly the flames took hold and traveled along the ceiling.

          Immediately there was panic.  People screaming, trying to get down the steps and out the front door were being impeded by the people on the ground floor trying to do the same.

          I had made it to the private side room and as calmly as possible I tried to encourage the customers there to take their things and exit the building.  I was not being brave.  I truly thought that this was a little fire the fire department would put out quickly and we’d all end up in the boss’s office laughing and joking about the drama of it all.

          It was only seconds later that I suddenly felt burning in my eyes and thick black smoke enveloping me.  I couldn’t breathe.  There was no air.  I grabbed a handful of the velvet curtain and pressed it against my nose and mouth.  The smoke was so terribly thick I couldn’t see even a foot in front of my face.  I think it was then that I realized that this was not going to end with jokes in the boss’s office, and that my life was in actual danger.

          Dumping the cigarette tray onto a table I dropped to the floor and started to crawl towards where I thought the front door might be.   Suddenly there was a shattering of glass and I heard a voice yelling, ‘Fire department…is anyone still in here?’

          Thank the good Lord, you bet there is!

          The voice directed me to get on the floor and crawl towards him.  Well, I was already on the floor and, although it was a little easier to breathe down there, I still couldn’t see anything but vague outlines of the legs of chairs and tables. 

          I kept crawling until suddenly there was a big arm grabbing me and pulling me outside.  Coughing and spluttering I joined the rest of the patrons on the footpath.

          The Embers  burned to the ground that night.  Walking past the charred and boarded up building the next day, I paused to read what some wit had scrawled across the front door.  The Ashes, it said.  Too true.

         

Cigarettes, Gardenias and Fishnet Stockings

          I’ve mentioned before that Australians have always been madly in love with America and Americans.  This love affair with America causes Australians to consider anything and everything American superior in every way and highly desirable.  Before the advent of visiting superstars and million dollar concerts, that perception extended to the local entertainment industry.

          The Embers, was a newly opened nightclub in a near city suburb.  It was popular because it was the only real nightclub at that time in Melbourne.  The club, complete with romantic lighting, a small stage for entertainment, and an equally small dance floor, was the epitome of what Australians had seen in all the movies coming out of Hollywood.  It was a huge success.

          To propagate the illusion of American-ness, the owner of the club, decided to hire a cigarette girl.  Cigarette girls in the movies of the day, were pretty young things who dressed in short skirts, fishnet stockings and carried a tray hung from their necks filled with the most popular brands of cigarettes.  It must be remembered that everyone smoked in those days.  Particularly young people who thought cigarettes gave them an air of sophistication.

          I was offered the job of cigarette girl at The Embers  as a result of the owner having seen me doing my bit on a daily TV variety show.  The ‘bit’ was probably me standing like a palm tree next to the host, but who cared.  I had a regular evening job which is what I’d been looking for for a while.  Of course the club’s owner was completely unaware of my very young age.  After all, I looked closer to 22 than 17 and I wasn’t about to discourage anyone from thinking I was a mature adult.

          I thoroughly enjoyed my job.  At first, since I was working on commission, my pay packet was a little lean.  But I convinced the owner that he should allow me to sell fresh flowers as well as the cigarettes to increase my profit margin.  Since it would also increase his profit, he agreed and each evening I loaded up my tray with not only cigarettes but also lovely fresh gardenias.

          It was easy to sell the flowers.  After all, what man trying to impress a new girlfriend is going to say ‘no’ when asked if he’d like to buy a gardenia for his lady?  On slow days when there weren’t enough couples to sell flowers to, I’d approach a table of men and ask them to buy me a gardenia which I would pin to my neckline.  Some evenings I had a complete lei of gardenias pinned around my neckline.

          During the months I worked at The Embers, I saw many talented American performers.  Billy Eckstine, Bobby Van and Ricky Nelson were some of the bigger names.  Of course there was the has-beens and the never-were’s from the US as well, but since we didn’t know or care, they all seemed like stars to us.

          The Embers had two levels.  The ground floor room as well as a more private room at the side separated by a heavy velvet curtain and a sort of mezzanine room three steps up and over a fishpond.  More seating and the dance floor, was on the mezzanine section which also had a square counter at the side with an open barbeque style cooking area.  Here the Chefs’ would dump large steaks and customers could watch them sizzle to their required done-ness.

          On a particular night as I passed the barbeque grill counter, the flames from the sizzling steaks were leaping and jumping like wild things.  I recall saying to the Chef that he should watch it.  The flames were really getting too high.

 

As a blonde and skinny (sigh) in my 'cigarette girl' outfit

 

 Part II will appear next week.

Riding Along In My Automobile

         

          As I was walking past one of the local automobile yards here, I noted their new shipment of cars lined up in neat rows, each identical to the other both in color and style.  Row after row after row.

          Although these cute little cars were Fiats, it reminded me of the time I was dating a young man whose pride and joy was a Volkswagen Beetle.  That particular make of car was very popular with young people in Australia in the 70’s and 80’s.  On any given day Volkswagen bugs…almost always white…lined streets and packed parking lots.

          My boyfriend loved his Bug and thought it even more special because his was black.  An unusual color for a Bug at that time and the only black Bug I’d seen anywhere in the city.

          So it was on a beautiful Saturday morning that Tom and I decided to spend a lovely day at the beach soaking up the rays and perhaps catching a few waves.  At the time I lived in a beach suburb which became extremely busy with an influx of sun worshippers from inner city areas on any given weekend.

          And, on that particular day, prior to descending onto the sand, I needed to make a quick stop to pick up some dry cleaning before the store closed.  Not a problem.  But, since every available parking space along the road was taken, Tom decided to double park outside the dry cleaning establishment while I made a quick dash inside.  I was gone no more than two minutes.

          With my dry cleaning slung over my arm, I ran to Tom’s car, jumped in and said: ‘Okay, let’s hit the beach.’

          ‘That would be great…but, I think my wife has other plans for us this morning.’

          My head swiveled toward the unknown voice and I stared wide-eyed into a pair of blue eyes I’d never seen before.

          How was it possible that a complete stranger had a car exactly identical to Tom’s Bug?  And how in this strange world did it come about that said stranger double-parked his black Bug in exactly the same spot Tom had been only minutes before?

          Who can answer the mysterious questions of the universe?  All I know is, I felt like a complete twit, as I incoherently mumbled umms and ahhhs and then brilliantly asked: ‘Where’s my boyfriend?’

          ‘Don’t know sweetheart.’  He pointed past my head and toward the open window.  ‘But that’s my wife coming down the street now,’ he grinned.

          With a multitude of ‘I’m sorry’s,’ tumbling out of my mouth, I backed out of his car and, standing on the sidewalk, searched frantically for Tom.  There he was, parked against the kerb, four car lengths away, leaning up against the door of his Bug, looking in my direction and laughing his head off!

          As I stormed up to him, dry cleaning flapping in the wind, he was nearly doubled over chortling about the hysterically amusing sight he’d just witnessed. 

          When I queried why he hadn’t indicated to me the change in his parking status he just gaffawed some more and told me he didn’t know the semaphore signal for ‘over here dingaling.’ 

          Needless to say, although we still made it to the beach, Tom’s further days as my boyfriend were numbered in the single digits.  Dingaling indeed!

         

         

I'll Need It One Day...

          What makes a person hang on to stuff?  I mean stuff that is patently ugly or useless or needs major reconstructive work?

          I recently read a newspaper article on one such hoarder.  The lady in question, it seems, had no idea that one of her bedrooms had become, over the course of some years, a rubbish tip.  One would have thought the overflowing boxes stacked from floor to ceiling would have been a clue, but apparently not.

          Now I know from time to time I’ve been guilty of hanging on to stuff because I might need it one day.  But these bouts of sentimentality usually don’t last long and the offending article has been removed with the next trash pickup day.

          The only time I’ve regretted not keeping something, usually an item of clothing, is when that same fashion has again become the ‘in’ thing and is available at my local store for a small fortune.

          Take for example, dresses.  Has anyone noticed they’re back?

          For years we, the female of the species, have been wearing pants and tops of all types and styles.  Short pants, mid calf pants, long pants.  Pants with flared bottoms, pants that sat at the waist, below the waist and even under the armpits (or so it seemed); and the tops to go with them were equally varied.  Everything from starched collars to low cut necklines; from short sleeves to long sleeves to no sleeves.

          We were finally able to understand why men don’t wear skirts or dresses.  Pants are far more comfortable!

          But after years of pants and more pants, the desire to once again wear a pretty dress started to blossom in feminine hearts.  At least it blossomed in this feminine heart and I started searching the clothing store racks for anything that didn’t have two legs attached to a waist band. 

          Then with each passing season more and more designers presented ladies with their lovely dress offerings.  Except in so many cases the dresses of the 21^st century looked suspiciously like the stuff I was wearing back in the 80’s.

          Even the splashes of rainbow hues on some styles reminded me of the tie dyed jobs I sported back in my 30’s.  These days of course they’re called ‘pops of color,’ and a dress doesn’t have the right amount of oomph without its pops.

          I now regret all those days spent cleaning out my closet of rarely worn skirts and dresses.  I should have stuck with the hoarder’s mantra of, ‘who knows I might need it one day.’

          On the other hand, perhaps I might still find them at the Goodwill store and can buy them back?  Anyone know if poodle skirts are likely to return for a second go round?

         

To Vote Or Not...What's The Question?

          I’ve often been amazed at the number of people who whine about our government officials, yet those same people rarely, if ever, can be bothered to get off their bums to actually cast a vote. 

          In Australia, voting is compulsory.  Of course there are still countless numbers who whinge about their elected officials, but in my mind, they have a better right to do so.  At least they tried to get someone else elected.

          Last week we had primary elections here and I discovered some of the reasons Americans prefer to stay home on polling day.  I believe it’s called stink and frustration!

          For years my polling place has been across the street from my house in the local middle school cafeteria.  A leisurely stroll on a lovely morning.  But not this year.   This year some brilliant bureaucrat decided that was all too easy and I should now drive several miles to a further school.  This particular establishment of learning has very limited parking so it was necessary to line up, cool my heels and wait for a parking stall to become vacant.

          Ah, but why quibble?  I was there to do my civic duty.  After all wasn’t this one of the reasons I became a US citizen?  So, by golly, not even a huge inconvenience was going to stop me! 

          As I entered the actual polling room decorated with twenty or so privacy cubicles I was nearly knocked over by the pong.  It was apparent the last time the canvas material used to create these cubicles had seen the light of day was at least four years ago.  And no one had thought to give them a bit of an airing or at least given them a squirt of Febreeze before erecting them for our use now.

          I was given the choice of voting manually or electronically.  I chose manually mainly because there was a short line in front of the electronic gadget and I didn’t know how long I’d be able to continue to hold my breath.

But my decision was a mistake.  The pong of mildew was nearly overwhelming inside the cubicle. 

          Then I discovered how the government was going to save us all tons of loot.  Pens and string!  Attached to the shelf by a string was one of these el cheapo plastic biros.  The kind you can buy for about $1 for a packet of 100.  I’m ambidextrous but I usually prefer to fill out forms with my left hand.  Unfortunately this was not to be that day.  The string was so short that I could barely stretch it toward the form with my right hand and try to fill in all the little squares.  What an exercise in futility.  Did the bureaucrats really believe that we poor dingbat voters were going to abscond with their crummy little pens if they didn’t tie them securely to the cubicle frames?

          But, I did my duty.  And I do applaud all the volunteers who manned the various polling stations around the state.  I’m sure it’s a fairly thankless job, not to mention a real stinky one around my way.  I just hope someone has the good sense to give those canvas squares a good whip through the washing machines before November comes.

          Let’s face it.  It’s hard enough to get voters off their bums under perfect conditions, why give them the excuse of pongy polling places to add to their list of reasons why they can’t/won’t vote?

Happy Birthday, Sweet Natasha

          Twenty years ago next week, I was present at the birth of my daughter’s first child, my adorable granddaughter, Natasha.  It’s hard for me to grasp that two decades have passed since she first entered this world; I am still as awed now as I was then.

Natasha at two weeks with her Mum, my beautiful daughter

 

           From the moment I first held her, moments after her birth, to watching her grow up over these years, she has fascinated me.  As a toddler she made me laugh with her antics; as a preteen and in grade school she seemed to me wise beyond her years. 

          When upon entering eighth grade she was advised that everyone had to study a foreign language…the choice of language from a selection of about five, being up to the student, she chose Mandarin.  Her reasoning was that there are more Chinese people in the world than any other, so it made sense to study Mandarin as opposed to say, Italian.  Natasha was twelve at the time.

          But, since I am the world’s greatest Francophile, I told her if she studied French instead, I’d take her to Paris as a high school graduation present.  She did and I did.

          Tasha has always had such a gentle spirit and kind heart.  While still at grade school, a child was knocked down and hurt in the playground. Instead of running around with everyone else yelling for help and ‘where’s the teacher, where’s the teacher?’  Tasha knelt by the little boy’s side and began to pray for him. 

          She’s always had this penchant for helping others.  Her many, many friends gravitate to her side when they need a shoulder to cry on or just someone who understands them when they want to chat.  So, it was not at all surprising when she was accepted into University of Newcastle as a psychology major. 

Natasha outside the Louvre, Paris

          With her wonderful nature, her love of God, her family and her friends, Natasha will brighten the life of all who come to know her.  I’m so looking forward to many more years enjoying my beautiful granddaughter’s company.

          So, happy birthday, my darling girl!