Just call me Gumshoe

This is going to sound crazy, but all of downtown reeked of yucky cheese today. No, really. I walked over to Marshall Field’s at lunchtime today and kept smelling something alternately pizza-cheesy and garbage-cheesy, and I couldn’t figure out what in the world it was. Thank god I wasn’t hungry, eh? I walked all the way to Field’s with a puzzled look on my face and my sniffer working like a bunny rabbit’s.

When I got to Marshall Field’s, I was confronted by a man and a woman, both clad in white long underwear with black undies and tank tops worn on top of them. They were either yoga practitioners or contortionists (same frickin’ difference to someone as out of shape and inflexible as myself), and they were doing some bendy moves in the middle of the first floor purse department. Their aggressive eye contact with anyone who came within a ten-foot radius might’ve been somewhat intimidating if they didn’t look so completely stupid. There was no signage around to explain their presence.

I putzed my way through the store. As it turned out, Jockey was giving away free undies (in black or white, your choice) to those customers willing to stand in a ridiculously long line. There were DJs pumping out house music and security guards handing out little bottles of water with the Jockey name on them. A lightbulb clicked on. Aha! The bendy people were bending away in the purse department to generate excitement (yes, EXCITEMENT!) for the new 3-D Jockey undies being given away. How totally…lame. A security guard, who was bopping to the music, encouraged me to join the line. I think I scowled at him.

Once outside of Marshall Field’s, I was hit with the cheesy smell again. What could it be? As it turned out, the answer was right in front of me. I trudged along the sidewalk, my head down, when I noticed that there were unusual oily footprints at all the street corners. It wasn’t precipitating, and the sidewalks were completely dry. The streets, however, appeared to have some sort of oily stuff dribbled all over them. Another lightbulb. Weird oily stuff (for what purpose, pray tell?) = source of stink.

I think I had a point in telling these stories when I originally generated this post, but that was several days ago, and I can't remember what it was anymore. I'm posting this anyway, because, well, rancid cheese smells, free undies (even when I refuse them), non sequitors, and forgetting stuff are what I am all about.

Being Fashionably Late Finally Pays Off

My husband and I drove out to the 'burbs for the Midwest Vintage Clothing Show Saturday afternoon. Under ordinary circumstances, I'd much rather get to a show like that on the opening day, but my work schedule and rush hour traffic make driving out to Elgin late Friday afternoon completely unpalateable.

Well, never have I been more happy to skip the initial crowds and have the time and space to really browse, because even after every big-deal vintage dealer between New York City (Cesar Padilla from Cherry) and L.A. (Cameron Silver from Decades) scoured that show (and paid $60 to get in for early buying), I walked out with an enormous prize:


Yep, an Adrian. It was waiting for me in a booth on the lower level, and I got it for an incredible, the-show's-about-to-end-so-what-the-heck price. The seller had no idea what she had.

I'm really glad *I* did, though! It's a beauty. I think if you enlarge the photo, you'll be able to see the off-center boomerang-y V-shaped seamwork on the front of the jacket. (This seam pattern is echoed on the back of the jacket as well.)


Gilbert Adrian was the head costume designer at MGM from 1928 to 1941, and he worked with all of MGM's best actresses including Joan Crawford, Jean Harlow, and Greta Garbo. In 1942, he opened a shop in Beverly Hills and designed a line of ready-to-wear clothing that was sold in fine department stores across the country. He was most famous for his tailored suits, which featured a simple skirt and a square-shouldered jacket. This particular suit is quintessential Adrian and dates from around 1948. It retailed then for about $225.

Garments by Adrian are extremely rare, in part because he produced extremely limited runs of any given design. For many vintage clothing aficionados, an Adrian is a holy grail item--they're very hard to come by, and they're incredibly expensive when you do find them. I was lucky not only to find this gem, but also to find it so insanely cheap. It's easily worth more than ten times what I paid for it. I was so excited, I was all twitchy and shaking until we left the show. Once outside, I did a stupid little happy jumping around dance (because hi, I'm crazy). I've been walking on air ever since. As my friend Joel says, there's nothing quite like the high of making a major score.

Anyway, never say never. There's always a chance of finding something great, no matter how late in the day you arrive at a sale. I know someone who found a 1920's Louis Vuitton steamer trunk on the last day of an estate sale and paid next to nothing for it because the family was blowing everything out at that point. Sometimes good things really do come to those who wait!

Auf Wiedersehen

My Opa died the week after Thanksgiving, just ten days after his 86th birthday. The week I spent in Florida with my family for his funeral was just profoundly sad. It was incredibly hard to see my grandmother without my grandfather, becuase as my husband liked to point out, the two of them leaned on each other for support when they walked.

I've been wanting to write something about my grandfather here for a while, but I just can't seem to get the words out. Three months have gone by since his death and I can't seem to write an eloquent sentence about him.

There are a few stories that sum up my grandfather's character perfectly:

1. He joined the Hitler Jugend when he was a kid because, as he put it, all his friends had joined and it was like the Boy Scouts, so it was sort of fun. He didn't last long as a member, however, because he didn't like to march, and being a Hitler Jugend required lots of marching around town. He and another friend both quit, and they would hide in the trees and throw things at those kids who stayed and marched.
   
2. Back when they were very young and still living in Germany, my grandparents and a couple of friends went to a wedding together. After the wedding, the four of them decided to drive to Hamburg's red light district to continue the party. So they got in the car and drove and drove until they realized that they were probably a little too tipsy to be driving and not really in the mood to keep going anyway. The autobahn was still very new at the time and there was absolutely no one else on the road, so they just stopped right where they were, turned up the car radio, and the two couples danced with each other right there in the middle of the highway for an hour or so. When they were all thoroughly pooped, they drove back home.
3. My grandfather brought my grandmother to America because he wanted to get some distance between himself and his family. He was born out of wedlock, and even though his parents married shortly after his birth, his father's father never really accepted him. This caused an enormous amount of stress between his father and grandfather, him and his father, and him and his grandfather. He was never going to inherit the family farm, and there wasn't much keeping him in Germany, so he packed up his wife and kids and the four of them sailed to the United States. He originally was hoping to settle down in British Columbia, because that was as far away from Germany as he could possibly get, but my grandmother, who did not really want to move in the first place and who had family in New Jersey, wouldn't stand for it.

My Opa was a hard-headed, non-conformist, impulsive, romantic guy. As a kid, I only caught fleeting glimpses of this person, but as an adult, I was sometimes able to coax it out of him. If you could have seen the impish twinkle in his eye when he shared his tales, you would know what it is that I sorely miss.

Is That a Granola Bar in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

So, there's an article in today's New York Times about how some people get cranky when they're hungry:

Countless adults admit to being irritable, even hostile, when they are hungry, not unlike the belligerent plant that routinely bellowed "Feed me!" in "Little Shop of Horrors."

Well, I think I’ve heard it all now. I just can’t imagine being so ruled by my stomach that I act out my “food swings.” I have never, ever gotten so hungry (or “hangry”) that I lost the ability to be civil. I’ve also never entered a hunger induced trance-like state and begun speaking in tongues, ever. And I certainly have not noticed that my ability to make decisions about what to eat correlates inversely with how hungry I am. That would just be so out there. People would think I’m crazy.

I Swear, I Am NOT Making This Up

INT. KITCHEN - MIDAFTERNOON

Three teenagers are gathered around a stove. A small pot of water is boiling. There is a package of ramen noodles on the counter.

TEEN 1
I love ramen. So quick, so easy.

(emptying package into water)

Say, where does the name "ramen" come from?

TEEN 2
From the name of the sun god, Ra. Duh-uh.

TEEN 3
Yeah, because the ancient Egyptians were obviously so well known for eating instant Japanese noodles.

I Hate Kelly O'Donnell

Yes, I'm talking about the White House correspondent for the Today Show. Yes, the Today Show. Yes, I know, I know. I shouldn't be watching that drivel in the first place. But I do. Sometimes. Just sometimes, I swear it.

Like most of the thinking population, I hate Katie, Matt, Al, and Ann. I hate that I feel a compulsive need to say their names in that order. I hate that they're all so goddamned chipper.

I flip to the Today Show some mornings for a brief moment of news before I head off to work. I mostly watch WGN's morning show, which I like because it is just a bunch of ordinary-looking Chicago anchors goofing around (although the show's not the same since Mike Barz left...he was such a great dancer), but I know that about 8 minutes after the Today Show starts, they have a little overview of the morning's news. Occasionally, I like to listen to that bit of news.

My enjoyment (relatively speaking) of that little bit of news is largely marred by Kelly O'Donnell, who delivers a segment from the White House just about every morning.

I hate the way she talks. I hate the cadence of her speech. I hate those stupid pregnant pauses. I hate that accent of hers, which is some horrible cross between newscaster-ese and Madonna's wannabe British accent.

I hate that she somehow manages to pin her eyebrows just below her hairline. I hate that her arches reach ever heavenward to punctuate every other word as she speaks. She has the permanently surprised look of someone who shows up to work each day with a fork shoved up her ass but can't seem to figure out how it got there. And while I have to stop and marvel that in spite of that fork, she still manages to carry herself with a healthy dose of self-importance, I hate her for even attempting the feat. How very go-getter of her.

I hate Kelly O'Donnell. Everything about her on-screen persona is a bad charicature of a TV news person. I wish she'd just go away already.

He Loved a Life Others Throw Away Nightly

I had to fly back home to New Jersey a couple of weeks ago for my cousins' grandfather's funeral. Papa Hogan lived just five minutes from my aunt and uncle (he was my uncle's father), and he was at just about every family gathering I can remember. He was like another grandfather to me.

Papa was 94 years old, so his death isn't exactly a tragedy, although it is a profound loss. I don't know many people in the world (well, save for my Hub) who are as genuinely good as Papa was. He loved to make strangers smile. He'd clown around with anyone, to the point that you'd almost worry about what he was getting himself into. He loved to horse around with his great-grandchildren. He was incredibly generous and went out of his way to make you feel good about accepting his generosity. Lately, he'd been greeting me with a playful, "Who are you? Do I know you? What are you doing on my property?" because he thought it was hilarious to pretend to be senile (which he wasn't. Unless you count forgetting to turn off the toaster oven.)

Papa was incredibly active to the very end. Just a couple of years ago, he ran up the steps of the Great Wall of China with my cousin. As recently as July, he was happily splitting wood in his back yard. (And after another cousin intentionally broke his chainsaw to keep him from this activity, he split the wood using an old railroad spike and a mallet.) Papa was incredily lucky: he didn't die sick or bedridden. The battery that kept him running just ran out of juice one day, right while he was standing up. It was sort of fitting.

In the 1930's, Papa owned a restaurant in Asbury Park called Bill Hogan's, the Friendliest Place in Town. And all his life, Papa lived as a man in the friendly service of others. Papa didn't live his Christian faith by rote; rather, his life positively radiated with it. Like the most exemplary businessman (those were different times...), I don't think he ever had an off day. He was just that naturally good.

I will miss him enormously. The world was a better place with him in it.

It's Not a Tumor...Yet

If there's one thing that this website is all about, it's oversharing. And I haven't done that in quite a while (by my standards), so it's time to put things back on track.

I have a recurring throbbing ear pimple.

My earlobes used to have two holes each, but I let the second holes close up several years ago when I realized that double-pierced ears are really not that cool. The throbbing pimple gestates in the closed-up hole of my left ear. Literally: one day, the demon seed that causes the zit takes hold in the remnant of the hole, where it feeds off dead skin cells in some kind of symbiotic relationship gone horribly awry. That first day, I feel a little lump on my ear lobe. The lump then proceeds to grow and expand over the next couple of days until my earlobe is hot, shiny, taut, and throbbing with a large white head poking out of the old earring hole. At that point, Hub takes notice.

"Lemme pop it! Lemme pop lemme pop lemme pop!" he shouts, coming after my earlobe with his fingers curled into Lobster Boy-esque pincers.

"Get away from me!" I yell back. "How in the hell will I be able to tune into the pulse of the universe and its rhythmic buh-boom buh-boom buh-boom if you destroy my receptor?!"

In the end, because it just hurts so damn much, I'll let him pop the zit, from which nasty zit goo will ooze. And I'll feel the most delicious sense of relief as the throbbing subsides. And I won't worry too much about not being able to tune into the pulse of the universe, because I know my receptor will be back soon enough.