The Art Auction

As my nephew,M says, "Art is for losers" but it was said laughingly to get my goat and to decline our invitation to go to the Park West Galleries auction. We got dressed up (For Florida, which usually includes shoes, but when we got there we saw all manner of fashion, including threadbare gray sweatpants that barely encircled a female's bottom and looked as if she was smuggling cherries across the border).

I register and get my bid number, and, mind you, none of us have ever been to an auction and have no idea what we are doing. We decide to get a complimentary cocktail, and V asks the bartender for a vodka collins and the b. amazingly says, "I don't know how to make that". Then she asks V to tell her how to make it, and V says,
"Do you have collins mix?"
"No"
(sigh) "I'll have a glass of wine".

J and I opt for cranberry and vodka and then we all saunter in to view the paintings. It was quite a selection and included some Rembrandts, Picassos, Goyas, and Dalis. We were told it was a "request only" auction so we had these yellow tags to put on the works we wanted up for auction. We were also told to ask the frantic sales staff, who were running around with open laptops ready for questions, for the opening bid price. Always obedient, I ask a GQ clone for the opening bid on a Dali lithograph. He tells me "$6900." Opening. To my credit, my face registered nothing, a skill I've learned to use as a therapist when someone drops a bit of information like, "I don't usually eat my toe cheese, but Sunday nights are tough."

GQ begins the hard sell, telling me how many woodblocks went into making this confection. I think I see the faintest hint of steam in his round eyeglasses. "Let me put it up for you" he says pleadingly. I think that I am not prepared to even make the opening bid, which in this crowd is small potatoes, but I am, after all, living on a fixed income (cough).
I say, "Let me think about it" and sidestep away like the Jersey bluecrab imposter that I am.

J and V are already owners of a Rembrandt and a Lautrec, bought before they had kids. They have appreciated over the years, so they were checking out the "old masters section". They were also getting the hard sell on a Goya by another GQ clone, who turned J off completely when he said, "Goya is better than Rembrandt" which is a moronic statement to make on so many levels.

Well, it's getting close to auction time and there is a flurry of activity. V has found a real bartender and proceeds to have several vodka collins. Only J seems to find the hors d'eourves chick. Now, the frenzy begins. The auctioneer is a short, GQ clone, who is so hopped on something that he will not proceed until he gets a louder answer to his "How is everybody doing tonight?"

He explains how the bidding will work and spends entirely too much time on which fingers to use for increment raises. I've lost him, but don't care because my drink is absolutely delicious. Now, we get the hardest sell on this guy called Marcus something or other from Detroit, who gets up to "explain" his art. His wife stands next to him and, like one of the Supremes, uses hand gestures to facilitate his explanation. When Marcus said something about art, she would pretend she was painting the air. I guess that justified writing the trip off as a business expense. So, his explanation. You see, Marcus went to a lot of museums and saw the work of Picasso and Braque, but he "didn't want to be like them", he "wanted to do something different." Oh, the conceit. He called his work, "flat world chaos" and I'm not even interested enough to listen to myself explain it. PS, he did not sell a painting for less than $4000 and they were fugly.

Finally, they left the stage and Chris, the manic auctioneer, began his pitch. He was a decent auctioneer, except when he pronounced bas relief exactly as it is spelled. Oh, and his assumption that we were all retarded because whenever there was a piece by an "old master" he kept harping on how we should all listen to him that these were the ones we must collect. Like that's insider information. Thanks, Chris.

The highest sale was something at $40,000, I believe it was the Miro. Or the collins mix.

"I wish I knew how to quit you"

Yes, that's from "Brokeback Mountain", a film that generates yearning and lost love in the viewer via two very pretty boys who appeal to both genders. I saw this movie while sitting between R and J, life partners and very pretty boys themselves. J and I cried shamelessly and R kept asking, "Just exactly what is so sad?" J did a great imitation of a tight-lipped Heath Ledger saying, "I ain't queer." I can just say that it is haunting, because of the photography, the setting, and the lovers who can never be together.

And then we have an interview with Shirley Maclaine and Jennifer Aniston that was in the local paper here, The Sun Sentinel. Ms. Maclaine was quoted as saying,"Jennifer and I have gotten quite close. But I did not get close to Cameron Diaz, she was impossible to know. And that Nicole Kidman, well, she's just an alien."

Now, we understand you are old, Ms. Maclaine, but has the edit button disintegrated along with your knees? Well, don't change a hair, because I can't wait for your next quote.

Blogger's Block

So I haven't written in many days for a variety of reasons but now that I am in sunny Florida and the holiday horror stories of my buddies are rolling in, I feel the need to bleed. What comes to mind first is the Christmas Eve debacle. Picture several trips to the car loading pies, champagne, wine, overnight bag, etc etc and on the last trip, deciding to lock the kitchen door, realizing at the instant I slammed it that the keys (car and house) were sitting on the counter. I believe I must have looked, at that moment, like Gilligan when he realizes that there is a big hole in what he is trying to fill with water. And, gentle reader, there I was in the cold, 4pm on Christmas Eve, and no way to go anywhere or get back in my house. I considered walking to the nearby diner and spending the time there until I could get a locksmith (on Christmas Eve?).

The very night before, I gave J and L a key to my house. The very night before. So of course they were not home, but we forged a plan to contact a neighbor who could go into their house and get a key. They will call me back. They do. Both neighbors who have their key are out.

We hatch plan B to try to get the babysitter to get the key. I dispatch JB, who had to leave her family, to go to their house and hopefully someone would have the key. One and a half hours later, I got the key and started out to M's to begin Christmas Eve. May I say, there is no remorse like the split second after a bonehead move when you begin thinking of options and they all vaporize.

More holiday capers tomorrow.

The Mason from Hell

I happen to have extraordinary luck in finding contractors who fly the biggest freak flags in the county. Two summers ago, (and this will be important later) I decided to get my front stairs redone as the bricks were all loose and my Dad, Dr. Doom, said I could be sued if someone fell on them. So I tried to no avail to get masons to come and give me estimates. The only one who came was this rather portly, disheveled guy who gave me a decent estimate. I asked if he had any references and he pulled out an envelope from Kmart with photos. He said they were samples of his work....the first few were pictures of seagulls, which should have been a sign. He did have one of some chimney he built which looked ok. Anyway, since he was the only one, I gave him a deposit. He showed up promptly the next day and demolished everything so that I would have had to leap from my front door to the ground to get out.

I had to call him every single day to come back and put the damn stairs in. I would scream at him and he would scream back and I would swallow more Excedrin. Finally he showed up and it took even longer to do each stair (a day apiece) I asked my friend R to come home with me the final day because it all looked crooked and I did not want to pay him. As we drove up, he yelled, "Ah, the love of my life"........I guess all that screaming back and forth reminded him of his last relationship. Plus, as R. said, his butt crack was in full screen technicolor and he was sweating so profusely that she thought he was going to drop dead immediately.

I said the stairs looked crooked. He took out a 3 inch, 3 inch! level and laid it across one brick and said, "See, it's fine" I just wanted him to go, as I do all the contractors in my life, so he finished and I paid him and I walk with a slight angle when I come down the stairs.

All this to say that yesterday morning, two years later, I hear voices outside my window, and it's Messy Mason and some other guy standing on my front stairs and I believe he is showing off his work. I don't know for sure because I did not want to converse with him ever again. And quick as that, they both left without ringing my bell. I guess the seagulls have all gone south for the winter.

"Have a Holly, Jolly, Meltdown...."

I know I must have enjoyed, no make that "thrilled", over Christmas for many years of my life, but now, it just makes me want to grow an even bigger nose, turn even greener and try to steal it. Here's the thing. It's for kids. And the merchants of course. First, the Christmas cards start coming and the guilt begins. I haven't sent out cards for many, many years and feel tremendously guilty over all the nice people who thought enough of me to send me a card. Then there are the freaking Macy's coupons. I could paper my bathroom with their one-day sales notices. Why, why, why? And the pre-empting of programs to make room for "fabulous extravaGHONzas" with lots of singing by Celine Dion and her ilk as a mammoth tree's light go blazing. They're sure to trot out Andreas Boccelli and that insipid Kenny G. to give us that cozy yuletide feeling (with Macy's in the background, of course). I liked it better when you could put the yule log channel on and watch it like a fish tank.

And the shameless solicitation of Holiday Handouts from people who get paid for providing a service. Where did this begin? Why do I have to give my garbage guys a hearty handout when they throw my cans all over the street? Because they will do even worse things to them if I don't. Yes, and the guilt. I know. But wait, they, and the mailman and paper guy ARE my extended family. I see them almost every day and we're all grumpy. That's a family, right?

I think I'm just having a tough time without my particular family's rituals because they will never be the same without my sister. My friend, M, said that I have to find a new normal, so it may not be this crochety one, but for now, bah humbug. See you at Macy's.

That Refreshing Feeling of Being Hosed

So the doorway in my bedroom has not contained a door since I moved here and since it is right off the living room, privacy is a problem (well, do I really need to explain why a room needs a door?). So Yanni, the carpenter, installed two other doors in my house and told me to order a door for the bedroom and he would return to install it. The door arrived two months ago and Yanni has since had a meltdown. He accidentally swallowed some peroxide while gargling and now apparently he cannot even return phone calls, but can only drive around his block on his go-cart. My painter recommended a contractor who gave me an estimate: $60 per man per hour plus materials....he would not give me an idea how many hours it would be, but said it was a "small job" which I know, because I could not get anyone else to even come and look at it.

Well, they arrived at 8 and they are still here and the door is not yet up. They have had long discussions about millimeters ("I don't have a ruler that has millimeters on it") to ("Ma'am do you have a picture of the door from the catalogue?") This asked while the instruction booklet is right in front of them.

And the peeing. Oh my god. They have each been in the bathroom every half hour peeing like racehorses, they don't wash their hands, and at this point, I think one is in there and he didn't even close the door. I think they are drinking because there are a lot of trips to the truck and they come back with one thing. And I smelled one of them. Ugh.

I called my friend, J. who is on a hiatus before he starts his new job, and he heard the panic in my voice, said he would come over and give them "the hairy eyeball". When he got here, he said I had to let them finish because it would be impossible to get someone else to come.

Oops, I just heard the bossy one say, "I think we have it in backwards. You see the ribs on your side, fat and skinny. And I have skinny and fat" (Sigh) I hope they brought their pajamas.

I'm sure my hand will shake when I have to write this check. I should've hung a freakin' curtain for $17.95 and been done with it.

My Electronic Family

OK, so when living alone, there are periods that are absolutely wonderful, when you are lost in enjoyable pursuits, having fun with friends, and out and about as the anonymous observer of all things that interest you. During the down times, and I must say they almost always revolve around eating alone, I need to break bread with my electronic family. Now the table regulars almost always include Anderson Cooper, Jon Stewart, Dr. Phil, and all of America's Top Model hopefuls....sometimes when the pickings are slim and I am eating indiscriminately, I am forced to forge connections with the lovely ladies on QVC or HSN because they are so damned cheerful about all the crap they are selling. And who wants to be depressed when you're eating. My favorite pastime is stuffing my face with glee while watching Survivor contestants starving and scraping their measly corn into their mouths. Why. Indeed. But the ideal family of all time to hang with are the Sheffields. Don't ask me to explain my identification with this very predictable show, maybe that is it, and maybe I love all the activity and fun inside the mansion on Park Avenue. And maybe I should get out more.

Please Mr. Postman

Yes, I have an advanced degree, yes, there were many dollars spent educating myself, but that does not stop the cretin in me from emerging without warning. I was phished by a Paypal fraud and had to cancel my card on Monday. I wait and I wait for John the mailman, the one who calls me "Doc", to bring me the damn card already. I've had to be yelled at by Itunes for their rejecting my card because I forgot while trying to download a hard to find goodie. I cannot pay my cable bill. Gas..ugh. Shopping online, oh shopping online. I will smooch that plastic when it comes.

Take and Deep Breath and Hoooold it....

This morning I had to go for an ultrasound test of my abdomen, which supposedly houses all the good organs that can get screwed up by a bad lifestyle. Enter me. Pushing past memories of endless waiting rooms with no attention span theater, sitting with my sister and listening to other shoes dropping constantly. So I focus on this mother-sized, you can see it from space, plasma TV that makes CNN's coverage of the French face transplant look intoxicating. And I'm musing about what if something really bad is wrong with me? And then I have to fill out the "who to contact in case of emergency". Who to contact in case of emergency. Who to contact in case of emergency. Nope, nope, nope. What about...nope. Ok, just let me die.

So I'm on the table and they're viewing my insides and taking pictures of God knows what and it occurs to me that this is taking a long time and then she tells me to wait after the test so the doctor can see the films. SHe is gone WAAAAY too long, but of course, she could be enjoying a bagel and a schmear in between abdomens.

Comes back and says I can go, and my doctor will get the report in two days....hope that means I'm ok, I mean, if they detect Alien or Riddley Scott floating around near your pancreas, they would stop everything and not let you leave....right?????? (sigh)

Meantime, I need to ponder the new ad with the people watching basketball games and movies on their mobile phones and try to reconcile how a TV can never be big enough, and a handheld can never be small enough, and the same image is supposed to be equally enjoyed on both.

Regardless, I love Tiki Bar Tv podcast, even though I need my reading glasses to see it.