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!