Titles, Inc.

No Friend of Fashion

Saks Fifth Avenue in our suburb played host to one of the Chamber of Commerce After Hours networking events offered to its members.  We were greeted with a glass of wine and a table of repasts;  little wedges of pizza, fruit, and the tray of teeny sandwiches.  I chose beef and was surprised by the sweet taste, which upon examination proved to be two soft cranberries in their pink juice.  Very tasty. 

We were invited to take our seats in the improvised gallery, and were introduced to Liz, from New York, an ultra skinny lady with a lot of exuberance and wit.  "How many of you have a dress in your closet that you wore just on one special occasion?"  All hands went up.  From the group, a voice,"I have a dress waiting for that special occasion."  Liz told us to bring the dress to their free personal shopper who will coordinate it with other apparel to put it to use again. 

She further instructed, "Do not buy anything unless you can wear it three different ways." holding up her fingers to make the point, as she paced back and forth eying us.  She went to the rack hanging with jackets, skirts, pants, tops.  And she showed us how you mix and match.  I was surprised at how well a beige blouse went with a gray suit.  Anticipating that surprise she continued to show us the unexpected.

She showed a dress with a scoop neckline that appeared to me to approach the belly button.  "Too scooped for you?"  And she tossed a scarf around the neck, triumphantly.  Nah, that wouldn't do it unless you are Hollywood.  She dared the ladies to do more than wear the safety of black.  I looked around. Yes, they were in black.  I was in a knit 3/4 sleeve purple jacket over a long sleeve striped purple tee.  But I knew that wasn't what she meant when she was urging color.  I shoulda worn black. She took this bright yellow silk blouse, put it under the gray jacket, topped by a beige cashmere collarless loose short coat, and flung on the tan print scarf.  Class!  Chic!  Elegant! And yes, colorful.

She kept emphasizing that we must get rid of clothes we don't wear.  Again with the three: One, you get closet space, Two, you get a tax write off, Three, You are making someone else happy who will get your discarded item. 

We are all nodding in agreement until the next declaration.  "If you haven't worn it in the past two years, give it away."  Two years!  I'm just getting comfortable with the idea of those clothes!  They are old friends waiting for me to decide today is the day I pull it off the hanger again.  Two years ago is yesterday.

I have since discussed this with other women.  We all have "old" clothes in the closet. And we don't intend to wear them.  We have our different reasons for saving them.  Here are mine.

1.  I wore it to a party, long ago,  where a man followed me around telling me how beautiful I am.  I cherish that dress.  It is tan with aqua.
2.  I wore this silk print, size 4, when I was that size for about five minutes, or however long the party was.  I look at it occasionally marveling. 
3.  My mother shopped with me at a boutique and she insisted on buying me this "smart" suit.  I didn't wear it once.  Never felt comfortable looking "smart." 
4.  I have the dresses I wore as Mother-of-the-Bride/Groom. I won't give those away. 
5.  I have no good reason to keep the clothes filling every closet in the house.  Yes, I do.  They are part of my history. 

On the other hand, if I really had to downsize, I could make do, as Liz importunes, with the clothes less than two years old.  But am I being charitable in giving some less fortunate person a dress with Joan Crawford shoulder pads?

---Florence

Diagnosis

When he walked in he looked around, and then asked, "Is Art here?"  "Art's never here, except for a rare once in a while."  "I thought maybe this might be the once in a while."  I admired his optimism.

"Who are you?" I asked.  "I'm fine thanks, and you?"  I thought he was kidding, but no, he was serious. I played it straight.  "I'm fine," I answered, and tried again.  "What's your name?"

He told me, and then explained how he knew Art whom he hadn't seen in too many years.  He sat down and reminisced about the good times they used to have when he, as an account executive at an advertising company would hire Art for his entertainment value as well as his picture taking.

He asked me.  "Remember when Art, and Garagiola and I spent a week in N. Carolina?"  He didn't wait for an answer which would have been No. "Garagiola and Art had so many stories, I didn't get a word in edgewise, I just laughed for a whole week."  I tried.  "Garagiola was in baseball?"  "Yeah, a catcher, he even got into the Hall of Fame.  Joe was great.  Then he was an NBC sports announcer, the greatest.  Terrific guy.  Like Art."

"I'll tell Art," I said. "So how've you been?" 

He told me, "I have hepatic encephalopathy."  He helped me spell it.  "How did you know you had it?"  He said, "My head was rolling around.  Not really, but that's what it felt like."  "So how did they figure out what you had?"  "They didn't.  I saw a lot of doctors, had a lot of tests.  Finally they nailed it."  "Wow," I said, "So how have you been doing with it?"

"I don't know.  I just found out yesterday."  "Just yesterday?"  "Yeah, just 24 hours ago."

He waited while I registered dismay, alarm, concern.  He added cheerfully, "I had a weird sickness when I was a kid, but they don't think it's related."  "What did you have when you were a kid?"  "They couldn't figure that one out either, and when they did they didn't believe it."  "What did you have?"

"Sarcoidosis.  See, the puzzle was, it's so rare, and then only blacks or people north of the Arctic Circle get it, you know, the Laplanders.  You can look at me and see that's not me."  He's laughing now.  "I got over it, or outgrew it."

"You look fine,"  I said cautiously. 

"I am fine.  I woke up this morning, didn't I?"

---Florence

Talking Trash

The lady opened the door to me, and ushered me in.  After I relinquished my coat we stepped around a small cubed carton in the doorway of the room with books.  When she led me to another room, we again skirted the box.  Back to the first room, where with mincing steps we edged around the box still another time.

"Oh," she said, pointing to the sealed carton, just noticing it, "that's a paper shredder I have no use for.  Do you use a paper shredder?"  I said, "I tear the paper up into tiny bits when I think it's crucial."  "Here," she kicked it, "it's a gift, you should be able to make some use of it."

I was thrilled.  I have a paper shredder.  I am big time.  However it is still in my car.  The only space in the office would be the doorway.  We are trying to figure out where to keep it.  No space near an outlet. Downstairs?  Will we run downstairs to shred a piece of paper?  I asked Simone whether she could use a paper shredder.

She said, "No," and explained her process for destroying not-to-be-seen paper.  It is admirable.  It saves energy, it's biodegradable, and it is environmentally friendly.  I recommend it.

"I tear the paper over the garbage, then I drop a raw egg on it." 

---Florence

Strings

How did we start talking about music?  He wasn't looking at the music books.  He came in to buy a present, "anything but chocolate this year."  That left it pretty wide open.  We drifted around and I touched books that look gifty - handsome bindings, lovely illustrations, or romantic story.

But then there he was wiggling the third finger with the wedding band as if to make a point.  "So?" I asked.  "It's on my right hand,"  he said, as if that explained it.  "Oh, I see," not seeing at all, "the wedding band is not on the traditional left hand."   "Yes!" he said, pleased that I got it.  Pretending, I nodded.  My vacuous expression gave me away.  "Right hand, right hand!  It means I play an instrument that needs fingering.  I play the cello." 

I learn something new every day.  Sometimes it's even interesting, like this.  When you finger a stringed instrument, apparently using the left hand, a ring might catch  up on the strings.  Hmm.  What if you're a "lefty"?  Can you play the cello or violin with the bow in your left hand?  If this is a stupid question, you will surely let me know.

So we gazed at his extended ring finger.  "You play the cello professionally?  Who do you play with?" No, he plays just for the pleasure of it.  Professionally, he's a lawyer.  He said, "I play with a group of amateurs like myself.  We meet regularly.  I think we're pretty good.  We are lawyers and psychologists."  Long pause while a thought occurs to him.

"You know?  When we have to stop because of a mistake, the lawyers get accusatory.  They say, 'It's your fault. It's your fault.'  They'd rather argue than get on with it.  The psychologists say,' If it's agreeable to you, how about we try it again', and they nod all around."

"And what do you do?" I ask.  "Nothing,"  he says, "I just want to play."

---Florence

Addictions

The customer asked for the medical books, and he spent some time looking at them although he did not find one to buy.  "What did you have in mind?" I asked.  He said there wasn't anything specific, he likes looking at early medical books.  With further prodding from me, I found out that he is a psychologist specializing in addictions.  Drugs, alcohol, food. 

Now I am not sure I have this right - the premise is we are made up of evil as well as good.  "There is a lizard at the back of your brain, that's the evil part, and you have to confront it, fight it, because it is always there.  It wants you to feed your addiction."  I am not quoting, just reporting as I think I heard it.  Colorful imagery.

"Do you cure anybody?"  It popped out of my mouth.  He looked startled.  "I have certainly helped people."  Is that a Yes or a No?  Anyway, I backtracked and told him I thought it was an interesting concept, my lizard starting to itch.   He described how religion had a place in his theory, but I couldn't follow that track of thought.  Then he said, "I converted to Judaism."  He paused, waiting for the startled look, "I am also a scholar of religions.  I chose Judaism for myself."   I don't remember a lizard in the Bible.  Any Bible.

He continued, "The ordinary man is unique."  I said, "No, that doesn't work. The unique man is not ordinary.  Those are opposites."  So he said, "The ordinary man has a spiritual fingerprint unlike anyone else's."  That I liked, and I hurried to write it down.  He said he was honored that I wrote it down.       

We parted amiably, our lizards winking at each other.

---Florence

Hair Today

It was in a gossip column so it must be true.  Jennifer Aniston paid $56,000 to have her hairdresser accompany her on a promotional tour in Europe.  Isn't she the one who wears her long hair hanging straight down?  Jen, grab any teenager off the street to comb it for you if you can't lift your arms.

And what's with this new fashion of pasting your hair smack against your head and making it disappear in the back - like too many ladies did at the Oscars.  As Lauren said, they look like dolls, the cheap kind without hair that have the black or yellow painted on. 

I thought of this when I saw Joan Rivers on a talk show.  I always thought Joan Rivers was funny, and this goes way back to when Joan Rivers was famous for being ugly.  Back then her humor was self-effacing, the jokes often on herself.  Then she tired of it, and had enough surgery to turn herself into a very pretty woman.  She looked great on this show, bantering with the host.  Her hair was short, loosely casual.  Every time she laughed she threw herself forward into her lap.  Then I noticed that with all this tossing, not a hair moved.  Her hair spray must have had a hint of cement.  I remember only one joke, told straight-faced.  They were discussing fashion. Host: "With your experience on the Red Carpet, do people consult with you about their dress?"  She said: "Yes."  Host: "Can you tell us who?"  Joan Rivers: "Tony Curtis."  Maybe you had to have seen Some Like it Hot. 

Some time ago when I was invited to a TV news show to talk about books, I was treated like a gen-u-wine star and I was buffed up a bit, and had a light combing with spray on my already groomed hair, and I LOVED it. 

If I weren't having a bad-hair day, (stay away from the mirror!) perhaps I wouldn't be so jealous of ladies with their personal hairdressers.  I want one!  I want one!

---Florence

Raise Your Glasses

The fund-raising party was at Mars Art Gallery on Market Place in Chicago.  That is really a street name.  It used to have warehouses.  The warehouses are still there, but as we rolled along looking for a parking spot, I saw other art galleries and a dance studio had taken over the old commercial space.  We found a spot around the block.  Art is a master at backing into tight spaces others pass up.

We opened the door to the studio and were faced with a flight of stairs that seemed to end just short of heaven.  At the top in the tiny foyer we were checked in as legitimate guests.  "Did I miss the escalator?" I groused.  Cheerfully they told us to use the freight elevator at the back when we left.

We opened the door to the gallery and were greeted by a happy crowd and were advised to hang coats to the left, food is in the next room and the bar is at the back.  The rooms flowed into each other.  Of the artwork on the walls, I liked the huge paintings duplicating the early comic book covers of superheros.

The benefit was for ICRE-R which raises funds to promote care for the disabled with the goal of making them independent.  This event was specifically to honor Chris Lake who died of pneumonia in his 20s.  He had limited movement from his neck down, couldn't talk, but used a speech board.  He had worked for a lawyer in her office.  He had been loved and admired by the guests who were there to celebrate him.

Entertainment?  A gorgeous scotsman in his kilt, knee socks and the rest, whose song on the bagpipes resounded.  How would we know if he was playing it right?  Then a four piece Country and Western band who had your feet jiggling even while standing in place. The food donated by a Greek restaurant, Angelo's, was delicious.  The bar was tucked into a large cubbyhole at the back.

After enough merrymaking, we told our host we were ready to leave, and he graciously insisted on accompanying us to the car.  We got our coats, and I said we would like to leave on the freight elevator.  "Oh, sure," and he led us to the back.  We stood in front of the bar waiting for the two young men ahead of us to be served, while Dan spoke to the bartender.  I understood he would take us down.  We stood by patiently.

The bartender said to the people behind us, "Please step back and wait."  He urges us to press forward, steps behind us to pull closed the grated door, pushes a button, and the whole bar descends!
How clever is that! The only spare space on the whole floor for a bar was inside the freight elevator!

It gave a new meaning to the line, Drinks to go.   And, as we descended the ramp to the street, there was our car.   The freight elevator took us around the block.  I'm not going to try to figure that out.

---Florence