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?