Fuzz Bucket 1: The Arrival

Sydney B. Marmelstein is my dog.  It's interesting about Syd...

Since Liberty had died 11 years ago, I had been bereft.  If you've ever lost a beloved pet or your dearest friend, you know what I'm talking about.  However, I have a daughter who is severely disabled, and the risk was more for the safety of the dog--sibling rivalry between the two.  So, in spite of my deepest wish, I had refrained from Dogdom and mourned.  Alas...

(My daughter is entitled to nursing care 24/7--she'll be 30 on December 17th, by the way...  Mazel Tov.)  

One day last February--the first, to be exact--her nurse arrived and walked into the house carrying  a small, growling, snarling package with her thumb and forefinger muzzled tightly around its nose.  How reassuring.  She said her family didn't want "this dog" any more, and Here.  "It will be good for you," she resolutely chortled.

The nurse, herself, was gone in six weeks, but that's another story.   In the meantime, she left me with "this dog."  Ostensibly, the beast was supposed to be for my daughter.   Thing is, she detested the last dog, almost to the point of death, and her response to this new creature, half the size of the previous, was exactly the same: Instant jealousy and loathing. Thus, were it to remain, I knew that the beast would become mine--to have and to hold, until death do us part.  Which seemed immanent, just between us...

The creature was pink.  I can't explain it.  But he was indeed pink.  Bald as a billiard, shaved to the skin and pink, with blotches of grey here and there.  The size of a swollen chihuahua, the thing had a "gay" tail that came up and curled around, sporting some wilted long hairs as it curved--kind of like a worn brush that had cleaned too many bottles.  The ears were hanging limply, forlorn, and short.  Everything was chopped to the bone remember, although the existing fur on the ears was longer--sort of wavy and rather spanielesque.  Not an eyelash, not a whisker, save the scraggly tail and leftover ears.  B.a.l.d.  Shaved.  Denuded.  It was ghastly.

He had giant brown eyes that bulged, prompting me to wonder at once about Graves Disease.   His nose, which was sort of a dappled brown and pink--like a dollop of chocolate mousse with raspberry filling--went halfway up his puss.  Snout?  Beak?  Snoot?  Nose?  I call it a puss.  But there it was.  About 2" of leathery dotted skin, climbing up his blonde puss.

I know, I told you he was pink.  That's true.  But he had a sort of um, golden glow.  I guess you'd call him a strawberry blonde.  Pink with blonde tinges.  And feet.  Buckets of feet.

The hound was built funny.  It's as if originally, the back and the front housing weren't for the same critter.  The front was about two sizes smaller than the rump, which was about one length too long.  So, when he sat, the little fellow had his tail and all four feet dangling right up front, as though all told, he probably had about eight or ten of them, and only the four front ones were showing.  Augh.   In my best fantasy of wishing with all my heart for the day when I could once again have a dog, it never occurred to me to get a bald strawberry blonde, with a minimum of eight paws and a dark snoot that went half way up his puss.   Depending on your psychological bent, he was either ridiculous or hideous.  Between us, I chose the latter.

The thing shook, I might add.  Nerves?  Cold?  Who knows.  He just sat there, on my plum-colored corduroy sofa, and shivered.   However, as he did, I noted that he was carefully casing the joint.   Clearly, the front door was his biggest priority--as in OUT.   He eyed that, eyed the deep spruce green velvet chair nearer the door than the couch, measured his distances, and took a leap from couch to chair.  Better.  Much better.  There, on top of the chair, the creature perched.  Like a lemur on a leafy limb, high up in the deep jungle.  Bulbous eyes searching, darting, watching.  Every single thing.

I approached him, looked him in the eyes (about 3.5 feet lower than my own), and said, "Listen, Bub, here's the way it is:  In this house, we don't bite, lunge, or snap.  Nor do we pee or poop inside.  The yard is yours; the house is mine.  That's the way it is around here.  Like it or lump it.  You want to stay?  Those are the rules.  No?  Then pack yourself a lunch, and head for the Dog Pound--it's that way."   (The nurse swallowed hard, shifted from one foot to the other, then meekly disappeared into the kitchen.)

I pointed toward the East, the beast glanced his head and looked out the window.  He turned back around and gave me a good going-over, as I towered over all those feet stuffed into his mighty 9.6 pounds of baggy skin.   He considered for a moment, then lowered himself so that his nose fit between his paws.  It appeared that he had decided to abide by the House rules, and make himself at home.  

                                           

Finger Food--Delicious Nails

Lately, I'm into nail polish. It's fabulous. You wouldn't believe the colors, unless you've checked. Because I'm a color person, I've become imbued. Or imhued as you prefer. I'm only using Revlon products for a few reasons: Reliable label, been around forever, terrific colors, inexpensive, my choices are automatically limited by brand. Whew.

It started with an ad in a fashion magazine. Purple. Well, I thought, who knows... I can try. (You have to understand that at this juncture, I hadn't worn polish in say, 30 years or so.) Nevertheless, I went for it--Impulsive, they called it. EEEEEEEEK!!!!! That was the first response. It gradually softened to Yikes!, mellowed to a Hmmmmmm..., and settled with a Gee! Try it. You'll like it.

The first trick is to buy stock in cotton balls and polish remover. Because you use more of those than anything. Trust me. That and practicing to be ambidextrous in order to do both hands with minimal mess, are the trickiest parts.

From there, it's just plain fun. Most of all, because I'm using my nails to outfit myself! Instead of jeans and turtleneck in whatever is clean, suddenly it's the polish of the week, with a palette of colors that I have to match. It is absolutely Cool. I have gotten out Mother's and Gram's jewelry from the 30's and the '40's--the big brooches especially--and I'm going for marvelous color. I'm In! I'm 35 again!

So, I started with Impulsive, as I say. From there, I went to Foxy, which is a classy housepaint brown. Mischievous, a sort of greyed violette and elegant, came next. (Impulsive and Foxy are more for sport). I was off and painting. Bewitching, Vixen, Raven Red, Valentine, Plum Seduction... I'm on my 13th color. This week is Revlon Red. Miss Scarlet. Flash and Dash. I've tried reds, deep magentas, and I've tried purples. All are scrumptious.  

Beware however: Some hues are just not good with everyone's skin tones. Skin is first in all things, remember, if you're doing fashion; your own coloring comes before that of what you choose to wear.

This weekend, I attempted a lovely shade: Spanish Moss. I want to tell you, it was more than charming in the bottle; the color, I swear, spoke with a Southern accent, it was such a deliciously mellow and creamy green. Yes, indeed. Thing is, alas, I am not a Southern Belle. My olive-with-yellow-undertones skin, surrounding what was actually more like "General MacArthur Olive Drab," was less than I had hoped. As a salesclerk said, when I went to Macy's, "Honey, I'm from Looziana, so I know about Spanish moss. And this ain't it. Not on you, Girl. It just ain't workin' for ya." And that.was.that.

My Prince Charming said that the Spanish Moss made my hands look old and gnarled, like a withering tree, with dying green buds at the end of each twig. Sigh... Would that I were a lovely blonde or redhead, instead of a sallowed old broad...

That was the end of the Spanish Moss. But take heart! Every shade but that, has been a giggle and an inspiration for great outfits. You can't believe what ensembles I've dug out of drawers and closets to make this stuff work! What is happening is that the polish is not only decorating my nails, but is re-designing my entire attitude!  A new wardrobe without the purchase of a single new garment.  I'm telling you, again: Try it.  

Go with any brand or color you like. Makes no difference to me. Just give yourself a lift, and dare to be daring. It's amazing how few people have a sense of humor when it comes to themselves. What about You? What about Me? Break out of the mold.  It's more fun than a barrel of monkeys--no kidding!

We're going into holiday. So the Revlon Red is perfect. As is the silver glittered Stunning. Next week, however, just between us, I'm going to try Rain Forest. Yes. Another green. But this time it's like a group of tall, dark trees on a chilly, dewy morning, deep into the Amazon's undergrowth... Doesn't it sound exciting???

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, try it yourself!

Syndicate: The Mob, Publishers, Columnists, and Me

So here I am on Skype, Twitter, Facebook, Linked-in, with a blog [TheGrownUpsTable.com], a website [CustomUniformCompany.com], and emails. I'm a Syndicate.  I'm told that this is what I have to do in order to "participate."  If I want to write, hobnob, "connect with people;" blow my own horn, introduce myself to the world. Tra la. What ever happened to the "Coming Out Party?"  I thought people were supposed to come to meet me (invitation, only, of course), rather than I having to extend and meet them...  I guess social media is just that.  Only I give my own party and introduce me to you. Hello, out there!  

Once, the Syndicate was about Al Capone and the Mob.  The big boys in the killer "zoot suit with a drape shape and a reep pleat;" fedora pulled down low over the eyes, wide lapels, pinstripes; a machine gun hidden in the violin case, and cement shoes to be worn in the East River if one didn't pay up on time.  Yes.  "Da boyz" who were stationed here and there with their icy fingers reaching across the nation, creeping in to folks' pockets for the murderously desperate payola.  Drugs, booze, prostitution, and dough--bigtime. The Syndicate.

Or, there are the monolithic publishing houses:  Remember Citizen Kane? Great movie.  Yes.  William Randolph Hearst, San Simeon, and the Hearst Corporation: Harper's Bazaar, Seventeen, Esquire, Town & Country, Cosmopolitan + books, TV, newspapers. Conde Nast, and the vast empire of New Yorker, Architectural Digest, Wired, Vogue and more.  Today's world is about technological delivery via APPs instead of a stamp and bulk mail. But syndicated is still syndicated.  In this newsstand, or that grocery store. Fashion, food, computers, news, entertainment; what's posh or smashing, new and different, in this world.    Multiple mags, multiple pages and layouts, appeal to multiple types. Syndicated.

Columnists were published along with their periodicals when the newspaper was king.  Remember Art Buchwald, Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck?  Louella Parsons, Drew Pearson, H.L. Mencken? Syndicated in every paper that was worth reading.  Today, some of the greats include Dennis Prager, Charles Krauthammer, Thomas Friedman, Robert Samuelson. The comics, of course. A ubiquitous name across the country's printed page that means "quality, reliable, familiar and famous."  Syndicated:  Income, fame, speaking engagements, opinions worth discussing at the dinner table.  Can I look forward to this?  Gee...

Yes, at last, I'm my own syndicate.  Only not by choice so much as necessity. Splattered all over the place.  Instead of fame and fortune, however, I'm struggling like mad to keep up with contacts, sites, and responses.   A desperate attempt to appear interesting, clued and tuned in, infinitely wise, witty, and without another thing to do but connect & communicate.  I don't get paid, don't get recognition, don't get someone to do my editing, layout, or P.R.  I can never remember where I put my book of passwords.  The only thing that's "coming out"  is my waistline from sitting so much in front of the computer.  But yes, I'm it.  The new syndication.  Me, myself, and I: The Syndicate. 

The Old Bags

The other day I went to the grocery store, fully prepared to get some vacuum cleaner bags for my uprights at home and work.

Much to my surprise, I was told that vacuum cleaner bags are no longer sold.  Yes.  I was flummoxed.  It's bad enough that clothes lines are for the most part, long gone; it's awful when underwear that fits or lipsticks that flatter, are discontinued without a "by your leave, or a kiss my rear."  The extinction of "dumb phones" and PCs is expensive and dreadful, so OK.  But vacuum cleaner bags?

I went down every possible aisle three times.  To no avail.  Not a receptacle to behold.  Finally, in complete disarray, I located the head clerk.  With a rueful smile she shook her head, plainly disturbed by the situation. "No more vacuum cleaner bags. People don't buy them any more, so we stopped selling them." 

"You don't sell vacuum cleaner bags any more?!"  I was almost at a shriek.  It may seem like a simple thing to you but, to me it was a rite of passage.  Did I pass the age of civilization when people vacuum their rugs?  It appeared that vacuum cleaners had gone the way of rectal thermometers. 

The clerk explained that people now use "bagless" vacuums; it wasn't the store's fault at all she went on, but rather that times had changed.  I couldn't stand it.  I really couldn't stand it.  I stuttered, stammered; with arms akimbo, I huffed and puffed. "I know just how you feel," she nodded.  "Why, when I heard about the store discontinuing vacuum cleaner bags, I thought to myself, that's just Un-American. Un-American!"  Visions of  Norman Rockwell paintings, Hoover or Kirby magazine advertisements, and my mother, came to mind...

But there you are.  Upon hearing the terrible news, I immediately drove to the small vacuum cleaner store down the street.  The tattooed balding ex-Marine, none too pleased to hear what I had to say roared, "Who the hell do they think they are, saying that???!! I've been in business for 30 years, plan to be here for 20 more.  All I sell is used and re-furbished vacuum cleaners.  With Bags.  Here! See these?  Thousands of 'em.  THOUSANDS of 'em!" His open arms spread behind him as if in song, across long layered shelves that spanned his shop.  

I took the bags he sold me and left.  It was nothing, really.  Still, there was something about it: Vacuum cleaner bags.  Something so simple, so necessary, seemingly around forever.  All at once rendered useless, outmoded, and unprofitable.  Just like that: Gone.

Suiting Up For Santa Claus: UniformMarketNews.com

Every year, Santa puts down his pipe, fluffs up his whiskers, and makes sure he has his fabled list that he’s checked twice.  He puts on his Christmas best and gets ready to spread love, good cheer, and goodies to children all over the world. 

It seems that Santa Claus, or Saint Nicholas, evolved with various cultures over time:  The Greeks knew him as Poseidon, god of the sea; the Romans changed his name to Neptune.  Early European Christianity drew on these images of this powerful sea god, the benevolent Christ child, and the notion that children should be good Christians, and called him Hagios Nikolaos (Latin for Saint Nicholas).  There doesn’t seem to be proof that there was an actual person named Nicholas.

Saint Nicholas, protector of sailors and schoolchildren, gradually became a rescuer and benefactor who rewarded children everywhere so long as they were properly behaved, did their studies, and said their catechism. 

The name of Santa Claus came from the Dutch who, when they first came to America and settled in New Amsterdam (New York), pronounced Saint Nicholas “Sinterklass,” aka Santa Claus. 

How did Santa’s appearance evolve?  The answer is an American one:  In 1809, New York writer Washington Irving (“The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”) wrote a series of satirical works referred to as “The Knickerbocker Tales.”  In these “‘Tales,” St. Nicholas is promoted as the patron saint of New York society.  Riding over tops of trees and bringing presents to children, Irving refers to him as small, elfish, with a pipe, and capable of sliding down chimneys.

By 1821, New York printer William Gilley put forth a poem about “Santeclaus” who dressed all in fur and drove a sleigh pulled by one reindeer.   Clement Clark Moore—New York, 1823, wrote the classic poem, “Twas The Night Before Christmas” a defining image for Santa and his swift team of reindeer, now totaling eight. 

According to Snopes.com, Santa remained elfin until about 1841, when J.W. Parkinson of Philadelphia hired a man to dress as Santa for his mercantile, and climb down a chimney outside his shop—the first time Santa is recorded as a full-sized person, and connected with retailing.

In 1863, the cartoons of Thomas Nast were presented in “Harper’s Weekly.”  Santa got a beard, fur from head to foot, and his first red suit; George P. Webster, who wrote copy for Nast’s drawings, gave Saint Nicholas the North Pole as his home. 

By 1885, when Louis Prang of Boston, an illustrator of Christmas cards, chose red over all the other Santa suit colors (green, white, purple, brown, blue), Saint Nicholas took on the style and appearance that he has today. 

There are those who think that Santa Claus, in his famous red suit with white fur, was a figment of Coca Cola’s corporately colored imagination.  Nope.  During the 1930’s, the era of the Great Depression, an illustrator named Haddon Sundblom did a drawing of Santa holding a bottle of Coca Cola as a marketing idea.  It was an instant success, galvanizing the notion of Santa’s already red suit, and also reaping excellent rewards for Coke.  But the colorful image of Santa Claus was cemented long before the 1930’s.

What about the Santa suit today?  For one jolly old soul, this multi-million dollar business sells hundreds of thousands of garments per year.   There are over 25,000 Santa suit purchasing sites online, alone.  It’s mostly seasonal, but with sales occurring year round.  Volume wise, Santa suits are second only to Halloween in the costume/uniform business.

Halco is one of the 2 largest Santa suit manufacturers in the U.S.  “We’ve been in business since 1945,” says principal, Terri Greenberg.  “We produce 52,000 suits per year.  We used to have 72 fulltime stateside sewing operators.  Now, we have ten.”   What used to be an American business is going more and more offshore because American manufacturers can’t compete with the pricing.  Terry, herself, lives in the Far East part time, in order to maintain quality control at her plants both here and abroad. 

Shari McConahay, co-owner of retail SantaSuits.com, purchases from wholesale manufacturers like Terri.  Shari is adamant about buying American and feels strongly that American suits are better made; with offshore garments, quality control is a mixed bag.   Her business has been selling the Santa uniform since the early ’70’s.  Shari dedicates 20% of her company’s 18,000 sq. ft. warehouse space for the Santa suits, alone. 

A Santa suit can be purchased retail anywhere from $27.95, for a one-size-fits-all stretch, to a plush satin-lined fully trimmed out custom garment at $700.00.  With accoutrements, such as padding, beards, eyebrows, glasses, boots, belts, gloves, etc, that’s about $1,000 for the complete suit.  Depending on the vendor, profits can be plus or minus 100% above cost.

The costumes can come in red, burgundy, white, green and even blue.  But red is by far and away the best seller.  There are variations of style and quality with coats, hoods, brocade, and period pieces—in polyester, flannel, felt, vinyl, leather, satin, velvet, velour, or plush fur fabrics. 

“There are those who purchase for parties, office gatherings, and family scenes.  Then, there are the ‘professionals,’ who work the malls, hospitals and charitable organizations, photography displays, parades, and street corners,” according to retailer, Larry Meidberg, at Clicket.com. 

There’s something special about a uniform that commands both kindness and respect.  Like true elves, all three companies are working 15 hour days to get everyone suited up in time for the Christmas season.  “For many Santas it’s like a calling,” said Shari.  “Every year they will spruce up their accessories or their uniforms, so that they are perfect.  Children are the first to tell you if something is wrong.”