Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 21: Moving on

This is Day 21 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why, here. I grew up to the drone of an endless series of angel/devil discussions, my paternal grandfather lecturing me on the value of this item or that, supporting his claims with the odd magazine or newspaper or even catalogue clipping on how much this rare book or that Indian artifact or those other old advertising mementos were now worth, while his wife, my sweet, quiet Gram, hissed into my ear, sotto voce, "Sell it!"

He was a teller of stories, an acquirer of things and experiences, a desirer of fame and glory; she was a lover, of people, especially babies, and of love itself. Not that Les Weinrott didn't love; he did. He loved his father, his son, his friends. He loved us, his grandchildren, robustly and effusively and wide-openly. He loved his adoptive city, Chicago, and his country, the United States of America, in the way that probably only first-generation countrymen can, especially those who spring from centuries of persecution and diaspora.

But he also loved things: pretty things, rich things, delightful things, sentimental things. He loved ideas, too, but he anchored himself with things, as if those things proved, for a time, anyway, until they didn't, his value. This breaks my heart, because of all the things he and Gram gave me, the thing I value most of all is what I think all of us do, the way they made me feel, smart, important, delightful and most of all, loved. When things were difficult between me and my mother, or me and my father, or me and any stupid boy who was too dumb to see how smart, important, delightful and lovable I was, it was the love of my grandparents that steered me through the rocks back to safety. And it was especially the love of my grandmother, whose love was absolutely unconditional, for which I am grateful. I have learned many, many great lessons from many, many great teachers, but without that base of unconditional love, I doubt very much whether I'd have been able to stay alive and buoyant enough to weave together anything really meaningful and useful out of them. Which, you know, I'm just getting started doing now.

* * *

This is a ring that was Gram's. It is what they call a "cocktail ring", designed to be dazzling, and to be worn on a non-usual ring finger, in this case, the pinky (although I wore it on my ring finger, as my pinkies are a bit scrawny).

The 'tater has been dealing with a vast quantity of personal stuff, so she has not had a chance yet to photograph the ring for this series. It is gold, 14 or 18K, I think, although she can fill you in, set with baguette stones of a reddish-pink hue, and some diamonds. The center stone is a star sapphire, and was apparently a replacement for a diamond they inexplicably had taken out. I say "inexplicably" because they could not come up with a satisfactory explanation for me, someone who never, ever got the appeal of star sapphires, especially as compared to diamonds, but oh, well. Perhaps it matches more this way; perhaps it is more dazzling, in the cocktail-ring tradition.

It almost matched the hideous cap-and-gown combo I graduated from high school in. (Vile, vile school colors.) I wore it because it was the first Really Valuable Thing my grandparents had given it to me, and thus that I owned. It made me feel rich, and it made me feel like things were possible, which is how one should feel upon graduating from high school.

There is a downside to having valuable things, though, and that is that they can be taken from you. Perhaps I made the right call, leaving this valuable ring with someone back home while I went off to school, considering that the ring was awfully portable and I had the misfortune of sharing a dorm with a soon-to-be-notorious kleptomaniac. But in my absence, the caretaker of the ring saw fit to wear it as she pleased, and in doing so, lost one of the baguettes, which she flatly refused to replace, saying, if memory serves, that this is the condition in which she received it. So, in other words, I employed a liar to protect my "valuable" possession from a kleptomaniac. Brilliant.

Neither the kleptomaniac nor the liar ever came clean. I lost track of the klepto, who was never a really close friend, but I gather she outgrew or outran her kleptomania enough to live a reasonably happy and settled life. The liar, sadly, just went on to tell bigger and more damaging lies, both to herself and to those around her, about herself and about me and finally, untenably, about someone I love. There are things up with which I will not put, and trashing the people I truly love is one of them.

Thus, the liar and I parted ways, and violently. I steadfastly maintain that there is, to quote my ex, The Youngster, "always room for sorry." However, "sorry" must truly be so, and openly so, with attendant and appropriate reparations, penance and submission, and I ain't holding my breath where the liar is concerned. There is just too, too much at stake for the liar to come around, I fear. Thus, I have understanding, and even some compassion, but no more room for the liar.

It is a beautiful ring, and I would love for someone else slip it on her own finger and start a new chapter in the ring's life. I would like for the ring to carry forth more stories, and more learning, and more sparkle, and more joy. If this is not to be, then the 'tater and I will pull out all of the stones, sell it for scrap, and someone else would truly change the life of this ring.

I am a believer in redemption, though, and our ability to change. I am a believer in building on the knowledge and experience we have, and of fusing those lessons and pain and experiences into something freshly wonderful, but rich with history.

Are you a part of this ring's story? Email the 'tater: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com.

xxx c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 20: It's all in the wrist

This is Day 20 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why, here.

My grandmother was a great beauty and awfully stylish when she was in the mood, but like many people who grow up with money and all the fine things it can buy, in and and especially toward the end she didn't give much of a hoot for anything beyond comfort and shmoopies with her grandbabies. (Or anyone else's grandbabies, really, Gramma was a great fan of all things baby.)

Gramps, on the other hand, came from very humble beginnings and was scrupulously careful about the image he projected. He  was one of the most dapper men I've met to date, outside of perhaps one or two gents whose existence only serves to prove the rule.

Were you to show up unannounced at their home, Gramps would still be better-dressed than you, at the very least wearing a woven (not knit) shirt and a vest, knit or woven (which he refused to call by anything other than its proper name, "waistcoat," and with the old-timey English pronunciation). With any advance notice whatsoever, there was a jacket involved, and usually a tie (he'd switch between regular and bow versions). But he'd sooner answer the door in the altogether than without something about the neck, a cravat or a kerchief, depending on his mood and ensemble.

In warmer weather, he might sport a short-sleeved shirt, hemmed to a straight edge (no tails, please!), but he also kept a couple of casual long-sleeved shirts, a red and white check, a la Studs Terkel, or a chambray he liked to wear with a turquoise bolo tie he and Gram bought on one of their trips to Santa Fe, way, way before it was a trendy destination. (Or rather, one of the very first times it was a trendy destination.)

Year-round, he'd take a daily constitutional, to Potash Brothers, the local family-run grocery store, or to the post office, or later, to the video store I bought them a subscription to so they could watch their old favorite movies at home (they never had cable TV). If he had no errands to run, he'd just take a stroll up and down a boulevard: Michigan Avenue, for most of his life, then a northerly stretch of Sheridan Road towards the end, when Dad moved them into an assisted-care building. But wherever he walked, Gramps carried a walking stick, just for show, early on, then utility, toward the end, but always, always, beautiful.

Most of his shirts fastened with buttons, but even toward the end, he had a goodly number that required cufflinks. Besides, as Jesse points out, cufflinks are the most fun form of Universally-Acceptable Male Jewelry (although Gramps, who never wore a wedding band, was known to sport a tasteful man's pinky ring, in the fashion of the day.)

Over the years, many of my significant others have been the beneficiaries of Gramps' compulsive collecting of cufflinks, and a few were turned into stud earrings for the ladies, so we're down to the last few pairs extant. The 'tater and I decided to sell them all together as a lot, and to throw in a jaunty tie clip, as well. (It's quite small, and best for narrower ties.) The knots are brass, the ovals are gold with some kind of chip stone inset, and the round ones are sterling. At least, I think they are, the 'tater has them all in her possession, and can answer any questions you might have.

Interested? Make an offer: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com

xxx c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 19: Art of Chicago

This is Day 19 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why, here.

My grandparents changed apartments over the years, but from home to sweet home, one constant was the art.

The pieces they'd collected over the years followed them from place to place, and many of them would end up in a configuration my grandfather called a "picture wall," something which came into style in the 1950s. Here's a stunning shot of their first and best picture wall, which crept up a story and a half in my favorite of their apartments. The colors have shifted in the 50 or so years since the photo was taken, but the feel still comes through loud and strong.

They collected many pieces from local artists, and were champion supporters of a select few. John Averill, an art director (I think) at one of the agencies my gramps worked at, and Victor Ing, who worked beautifully both in oils and watercolor. (You can spot an Ing on the wall above my desk, the monkey hanging from a branch, as well as an Averill linoleum block print of a cat and butterfly.)

I never became the devotée I'm sure Gramps wished I'd become when he passed along his copy of Art of Today: Chicago, 1933, a book filled with plates of paintings by artists whom he knew and collected. I probably wasn't even suitably impressed that he owned the originals of one or two pieces from the book. I've only ever really been moved by what I've been moved by, and that dark oil of the two ladies top row, center, sisters, I think, mostly freaked me out.

But maybe you are from Chicago, and collect the art of mid-Century Chicago artists. Or maybe you know someone who does. In either case, this would be a lovely book for you, I'm sure, and one we'll let go of for a song. The right song, and postage.

Email the 'tater: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com.

xxx
c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 18: From the library

This is Day 18 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why here.

You don't have to look far to find the source of my booklust.

The photos of it are buried in a pile of other photos, to be rescued and scanned, finally, Sally, upon my return to Los Angeles, but my Grandfather Weinrott, a.k.a. "Gramps," a.k.a. Les, had the library full of them I was sure I'd have when I grew up.

There were always books everywhere at Gramma & Grampa's: bestsellers (including a few written by friends) on reading tables next to rocking chairs, and under a good light; sci-fi and thrillers in nightstands and nearby overflow cases; a mixed-bag of titles piled up next to every toilet in the house; glossy coffee-table books tucked neatly in a sturdy low bookcase near another reading chair. (I

The crème de la crème made it into Gramps' study, to become part of his real library, what he called a "working" library, a thing he insisted every writer worth her salt had to maintain. A working library included reference books, of course, but also seminal works one would want at one's disposal while writing various books, articles or lessons of note. Your Plato, your Shakespeare, your myths and and your history (European, North American and Balkan, for sure); the Greek plays, the German philosophers, the "important" modern writers of fiction and nonfiction (and "modern" went back to Wilde for a man born in 1907.)

What was loveliest to me about this working library was not the content of the books, most of which, for better or for worse (probably worse) never really appealed, but the books themselves. Gramps came up in a time where books were rare and precious things, like all things, because things were still expensive to produce, ergo good things, like the Great Works, were worth making well. His books were as beautifully made as most everything he collected, partly because he liked nice things, and partly because things were nicer. Many of the books had "plates," not to be confused with bookplates, which my Gramps was also partial to, and which are affixed to many of his books, and many more had illustrations, a word Gramps always pronounced in the archaic fashion, with the stress on the second syllable. (He also used that sexy, old-timer hard-g for "Los Angeles," not out of affectation, but because that's how people pronounced it when he lived there, back in the early 1930s.)

The 'tater can give you any particular info you might want on this edition of Voltaire's classic Candide. It was published by Three Sirens Press, and features ilLUStrations by Mahlon Blaine, who seems to have been rather something in his heyday. I'm guessing this was originally given to me after either some conversation about the text, which I read in high school, or Aubrey Beardsley, whom I was obsessed with in high school. The ilLUStration featured here, for instance, had that kind of lush decadence that thrilled me in Beardsley's raciest stuff, like his own iLUStrations for Wilde's Salomé.

As you can see, the poor book has taken a beating over the years; you're not getting some mint-condition prize to haul off to Antiques Roadshow and make a killing on. But if you like old books printed on fine paper, or are a Pangloss-head, or wanna get your Mahlon Blaine on*, or just feel like owning something that was passed on from Lester to Colleen to you, well, you would probably like owning this.

Email the 'tater: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com.

xxx
c

*Someone has also created a whole lot of Mahlon Blaine merch for CaféPress, so you can REALLY get your Mahlon on if you want to!

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 17: More (g)loves

This is Day 17 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why, here.

I knew it was bound to happen, 17 days in, the 'tater is starting to show signs of battle fatigue. So weak, she can barely pick up a camera, much less hold it steady.

This is hard work, people, getting all of this stuff up on the eBay, out to the postal scales, into the mail to you! Not to mention all the emails back and forth.

So. These are the last of the last of the Great Glove Collection of Betty Weinrott (save the few that are still in my collection, getting daily use in cooler weather). When these are gone, that's it. That other pair? Snapped up faster than you can say jack rabbit goes to town in top hat and tails.

These are truly beauties. The caramel-brown body is doeskin-soft suede, like buttah; the thumbs are a contrasting very, very dark brown. Or black. Really, hard to tell, and hardly matters. I think Gram bought them a half-size too small, because they looked brand new when I got them, and I've only worn them to try them on. If I had to guess, I'd say size 7, since I'm a 7 1/2. They're so nice, you almost just want to put them in a nice shadow box, hang them on the wall, and call it a day. Either way, lovely gloves, of a quality just not seen anymore.

Email the 'tater with an offer. No effin' around, people, I need her for another week!

xxx
c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 16: Fabulous Palm Springs

This is Day 16 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why, here.

There is a part of me that wants to live in 1957.

Or rather, that longs for a completely phony 1957, a mid-Century that Madison Avenue and Hollywood colluded to provide us with, in glorious Technicolor and tufted leatherette. A grownup, made-up 1957 that always existed just outside my reach as a real child born in 1961. I would only ever get to enjoy the ladies-in-gloves/men-in-ties styling, the swank "Continental" and exotic Polynesian dining, the cigarettes proffered on every coffee table from one step removed.

Of all the storied places from my aspirational youth, the one that intrigued me the most was Palm Springs, the spot where my parents madly, all-too-quickly fell in love, at Jack Webb's house, no less. According to my grandfather (who was known to embellish the yarns he spun, so, you know, caveat, etc.), Jack Webb was a man who enjoyed the company of young people so much that on occasion, he had a batch of them imported to his place in Bel Air and/or his fabulous Palm Springs getaway. My parents, according to legend, met at the former and, three days later, announced their engagement via telephone at the latter.

I wish I could tell you they all lived happily ever after, but they did not, neither severally nor together. The various twists and turns of fate that helped drive them apart I'll save for another time; for now, suffice to say that one should be wary of falling in love with gloss, or at least that one should reserve gloss-lust for objets, not people.

This here magazine is some of that acceptable gloss. This particular issue of The Villager, "the magazine of fine desert living," is from November of 1957, and sports a Spanish-y theme. ¡Olé! The articles are, well, pretty much what you'd expect: innocuous, non-noteworthy advertorial-type filler. But oh, my, the photos and advertisements! If you are a fan of mid-Century typefaces, you will be in hog heaven: it's all Futura and swooshy, handmade serifs inside.

There is even a hint of mildewy-old scent, to conjure up images of kidney-shaped pools wrapped by Case Study houses in that indoor-outdoor California style of yore. (No actual mildew, just a bit of funk to keep it real.)

Would this item complete your homage-to-mid-Century-eclectic sunken living room? Email the 'tater and make us an offer: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com.

xxx
c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 15: (S)crap

This is Day 15 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why, here.

Change happens a little bit at a time, then all at once.

Or at least, it seems to happen all at once. Ten-year "overnight" successes are inevitably outed as a series of dreary, plodding steps, missteps and backtracking, fueled by hope and intermittent peeks under the tents of greatness. And usually, there's something horrible in there, nadir-wise, like living in a car you're about to turn around and point towards your hometown while there's still enough gas to get you there RIGHT BEFORE the big break comes. (Only if you look closer, it's never even a big break, just the right level of readiness meeting the right brand of opportunity.)

Did things start working for me when I had my bloody epiphany? Or did they start when I first became truly disillusioned with my big, fat advertising job in New York City, some 17 years before? Or was it the next crushing blow, in Chicago, the trifecta of new horrible job, old boss who brought me there abandoning me within two months, Love of My Life dumping me inside of 11?

The answer is yes. And in between, there were a lot more "yes"-es. There was my first-shrink-slash-astrologer, who made me understand that I could be deeply broken and still work. There was volunteering. There was a new job, and agency, and a marriage, and a move, and an end of the marriage, and yoga, and a hating of yoga, and Nei Kung, which is (knock wood/so far) still pretty awesome and showing signs of staying power, and a new career, and another new career, and the same amount of new significant others.

Oh, yeah, and a blog.

Somewhere in there was a whole lot of sanding and polishing. I forget how I stumbled upon it, but I fell into and subsequently became kind of (surprise, surprise) obsessed with metalsmithing. It was the first non-writing practice I found that I liked, and I loved it: the fussing with details, the acquisition of new skills, the making of an actual thing. It was my own first meditative practice that actually worked: the ungodly amounts of polishing and sanding involved turned out to be highly enjoyable and therapeutic; if they didn't prove to translate literally to Karate Kid-style wax-on/wax-off training, they definitely opened the door to...something. A series of other doors, perhaps, leading to where I am now. (And as soon as I figure out where that is, you'll be the second to know.)

I dragged my findings and scrap and new-in-box equipment from Chicago to Los Angeles, always thinking I'd pick it all up again, maybe even become a real metalsmith! But I finally realized earlier this year that the only thing that all that stuff was doing these days was filling up an out-of-reach cupboard in my kitchen, and let all of it go for $100 to someone at a different part of the trajectory. A thousand-dollar, 18-year lesson. (What can I say? Some of us learn more slowly than others.)

Now we come to the finished jewelry itself. I am hanging onto a very, very few pieces left which I still wear and love; the rest, I'm letting go of in one lot. It weighs 2.2 ounces, according to the 'tater, who dragged it to the Mayberry P.O. to get weighed. That includes whatever stones, all cabachons, none precious, that are set in the pieces, and the findings, which may be silver, but I can't say. I can say that any of those pin-backs I shaped myself, because our teacher was kind of Miyagi-like in her insistence on form.

I will also say that I had a penchant for filing things to a rather sharp edge, and a couple of the pins could probably double as a throwing star.

Of course, if you like not-very-beautifully-designed sterling jewelry, you could have a big set instantly, for cheap. Or a lot of holiday "shopping" done in a heartbeat.

I'm really kind of hoping that some nice metalsmith who casts will buy the lot, though, and transform it. Circle of life, etc.

Is that you? Or someone you know? Email the 'tater: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com.

xxx
c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 14: Infinite Elsa

This is Day 14 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why, here.

By the time I got to the end of my senior year of high school, my Elsa love had grown from a single bean to include a sterling teardrop pendant and a knock-off of her famed (and oft-knocked-off) floating heart pendant, also in silver.

For my graduation, I got my first piece of Tiffany Peretti gold: an "infinity" loop pendant on a 15" gold chain. I wore it for years, off and on, here, you see me in my first official photo as a Delta Gamma at Cornell. The Preppy Handbook was all the rage (as it looks like Lisa's new book, done with Chip Kidd, may be now); not a bona fide prepster myself, I learned to copy their ways as best I could, but it was never quite right: my turtlenecks were never Skyr, my crew neck Shetlands were never true Scots versions.

Even my Elsa Peretti, I'm sure, was not quite right. I dangled it over my unfolded turtleneck anyway, in the style of the day, and pretended to be a sorority girl. I definitely never got that one right, while I met some wonderful women there, a few of whom are good friends to this day, the house on Triphammer Road never truly felt like home, and I always felt like an actor playing a part.

While the chain broke and got tossed long ago (oh, lordy! the symbolism!), I somehow managed to hang onto the loop pendant. I'd try wearing it with some other gold chain now and again, but gold just ain't my thang. Neither are earrings and crew-neck Shetland sweaters. Although I still wear my turtlenecks as high as I can.

If you like dainty things and gold, this will probably look lovely on you. Or if you have a charm bracelet, you could add it to that. Come to think of it, if none of you buy it, I may add it to mine.

Really, though, I'd rather it dangle from some nice young lady's neck. Know one? Email the 'tater and make an offer: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com.

xxx
c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 13: Bean there, done that

This is Day 13 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why here.

I was always a precocious child in ways that would annoy a grownup, but keep me from getting into any serious kind of trouble.

Loved Dover sole almondine, for example, but never developed a taste for setting things on fire. Cultivated a girlhood crush on Dorothy Parker and Oscar Wilde but remained a virgin until the embarrassingly late age of 19. (Saddest of all? Not for want of trying to GIVE the damned thing away.)

Those sorts of things.

From eighth grade through high school, which I attended at the height of the sexay 'seventies (1974 - '79), I became obsessed with Elsa Peretti. Obsessed! I'd cut out pictures of Tiffany ads for her stuff, devour any article about her that came my way (this was pre-Internet, remember) and drool at the tiny windows of Tiffany's on Michigan Avenue. Anytime I made lists of stuff I wanted, things like "Elsa Peretti pendant" or "Elsa Peretti coke spoon" inevitably ended up there alongside "unstructured linen jacket with sleeves I can push up," "alligator shirt," and "car." (Kidding, I did not do coke until shortly after I lost my virginity. I mean, never.)

At some point between 8th-grade graduation and my 16th birthday, my mom gave me the Elsa Peretti bean necklace I'd been long coveting. I wore it pretty much every day for the next five years, the above is a shot of me in either the Senior Lounge or the cafeteria of Evanston Township High School in 1978. (The shit-eating grin is courtesy of having had my braces removed, FINALLY, after 2+ years of suffering. And I do not exaggerate: my dentists now have all confirmed that the principle reason for my ridonkulous rate of gum recession was the way-too-aggressive moving of my toofs in my 'teens.)

I still like the pendant, but I like the idea of passing it along to the next happy owner even more. Is it you, perhaps? Someone you know? Email the 'tater: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com.

xxx
c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 12: Stupid jump rope

This is Day 12 of a 21-day series. More scoop on the who/what/why here.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CIz87-FOmC0&w=480&h=385]

I know, I know, you're thinking, "She's selling a stupid jump rope? Double-u Tee Eff?"

But I'm not selling a stupid jump rope; I'm selling a piece of history. The Maginot Line of my fight against advancing old age.

NOW are you interested? Email the 'tater: miz.tater AT gmail DOT com.

xxx
c

*No, this does not make you the German Army. Are you "Advancing Old Age"? No. You see?

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 11: Snotty ladies, part two

This is Day 11 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here.

The cane above, tipped in real gold at the business end, ivory street-side, and ebony in between, was mine in the game of Snotty Ladies, because it was the finest, and I was the originatrix of the game. Droit de mademoiselle, or something like that.

My sister, who used to play Snotty Ladies with Chicago Jan and me, pointed out that the Naked Lady "cane" which I put on the block yesterday (in "quotes," because it is actually a swagger stick) used to be hers.

This is true, but only in the latter days of playing. Because as she full well knows, when she first asked to play Snotty Ladies with us, she was only allowed to play as the maid. And as everyone knows, maids don't get to wield canes, short or no.

The story about her shift from downstairs to upstairs is brief but hilarious, ergo worth sharing:

YOUNGER SISTER: (running to paternal grandfather) Boohoohoohoohoo!

GRAMPS: (alarmed) Honey! What's wrong?

YOUNGER SISTER: I don't want to be the maid; I WANT TO BE A SNOTTY LADY.*

Fin.

As I recall, the game did not last long after that. High society is just no fun without an underclass to oppress.

Fortunately, my sister and I made up. I mean, really fortunately, since I'd probably be dead if she hadn't tricked me into going to the emergency room eight years ago.

Ah, memories.

OKAY. Enough of that crap. You want to own a piece of Wainwright-Weinrott history? Make with the offers, peoples, before it goes up on eBay: email the 'tater (miz.tater AT gmail DOT com) right now. Operators standing by!

xxx
c

*Trivia: For some reason, this has always reminded me of the last line Alice Kramden delivers to her husband, Ralph, in the episode where she talks him into buying them a television set: I wanna look at Liberace! Weird, huh? (Enh. You don't know the half of it. If I could sell tickets for a ride in my brain, I'd be a bazillionaire. Or incarcerated in a mental ward.)

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 10: Snotty ladies, part one

This is Day 10 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here.

Once upon a time, on the shores of a great lake in the center-right of a large country, there lived a tiny Jewish-Catholic principessa.

The only grandchild of two doting grandparents who had waited far, far too long for her arrival, she was indulged in myriad ways with all sorts of riches. They dreamed up delectable treats to tempt her finicky tastes. They amused her with small gifts and family trinkets, each of which came with its own set of stories, told and told again, to the tiny princess' delight. They regaled her with tales of their glamorous past from days gone by. They took her on outings to ride wild pandas and shop for charming dresses and books. They indulged her budding interest in the intersection of art and commerce.

But her favorite pastime of all was a game the grandfather dreamt up in a particularly inspired fit of genius, called "Snotty Ladies."

In this game, the princess and her handmaiden would dress themselves in the grandmother's finery, and be served high tea by the grandmother and grandfather, whom they called "Maid!" and "Butler!," respectively (and repeatedly, to the delight of all parties concerned.) The outfits were made particularly fine by the addition of specially chosen accessories from the grandfather's prized collection of rare walking sticks, the choicest of which were the gold-tipped ebony stick (see tomorrow's entry) and the "naked lady cane," which was actually not a cane at all, but a swagger stick, a short stick meant to be carried under the arm while reviewing the troops.

The game of Snotty Ladies now lives on, strangely enough, in the very empowering tradition of the Women's Business Socials, a ladies-only networking group founded by Ms. Jodi Womack of Ojai, California. Over a year ago, in early 2009, Ms. Womack approached the author looking for a clever tagline to accompany the stylized drawing of an haute, remote looking lady advertising the very first Women's Social; yours truly told her the story of the principessa's girlhood game, and suggested the line, "Snotty Ladies Not Allowed." Eventually, around the time that the chic Ojai Valley Inn & Spa created the namesake WBS drink, the line morphed to "Snooty Ladies," as everyone allowed that snot and drinks do not mix particularly well, but the fusion had happened.

Now, it's time to release the stick into the wild, and let our Naked Lady find her next adventure. Will you lead her there? Email the 'tater (miz.tater AT gmail DOT com) and let's work this out, shall we?

xxx
c

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 9: Elbow-Deep in Luxury

This is Day 9 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here. For more detail on the whole, freaky globe-fixation thing, go here.

Once upon a time, a very glamorous girl from Jewish Insurance Money in Des Moines, Iowa met the scrappy son of a Russian-born dry-goods salesman from Moline, Illinois. She was sweet and beautiful, he was determined and wily and, after spending four-ish on-and-off years together at the University of Illinois, they ran off to a Justice of the Peace, got hitched, and lived happily (on-and-off) ever after.

Two of Gramps' chief virtues (or failings, depending on whom you asked, and when) were his intrepid zest for adventure and his fearlessness in the face of bankruptcy. It became a thing with them: he would finagle his way into some cushy gig doing something exotic for the time (radio plays! advertising! the OSS!), do the sh*t out of it, and then, when it or his patience had run out, pull everything out of the bank save $200 and book passage to some far-flung somewhere. And in style, baby, no steerage for Les and his baby, Betty.

This drove my dear, sweet, non-adventurous, and, of the two of them, frugal, Gram nuts, but she was pretty nuts about him, and a product of their era, so she generally went along quietly. On these trips they bought all kinds of crazy stuff, for themselves and as gifts for loved ones; back then, you had to actually go places to acquire indigenous goods, or the best selection, anyway. While they traveled through the Panama Canal, up to Alaska, all over the U.S., they were especially partial to Europe.

Did you know they make excellent ladies' gloves in the fine countries of Europe? Well, they do. Did. Probably still do, but no one wears gloves anymore like they wore gloves back then. Possibly because they transformed my not-particularly-comely hands into something of grace and style, I developed a massive glove fetish, and ended up with most of my Gram's extensive collection.

I am down to the last few pairs, having worn out or lost or given away most of the rest over the years. These are dark-brown and opera length, my 'tater will get you a measurement, if you like, and are either a 7 1/4 or 7 1/2. They've stretched a bit, and been worn, if not extensively, then with ardor. Yes, ironically, but I came up at the end of the last century, not the beginning, and, save a few wack-a-doo periods in my late teens and early 20s, never really took dressing all that seriously. (I mean, seriously, I was, what? 47 before I finally figured out what silhouette was flattering?)

My 1993 stint as Holly Golightly was pretty much my last hurrah with the gloves, or even in costume. Once I started acting in earnest, playing dressup was a busman's holiday. So these have been in the drawer for some time, and it's high time some stylish, fun-loving, size 7 1/4 - 1/2-handed gal took ownership of these puppies.

Will it be you? I hope so...

xxx
c

Do you love gloves, too? Email the 'tater (miz.tater AT gmail DOT com) and make an offer. We will certainly let these go for a reasonable sum, maybe less, if there's a great story attached. We do love a great story!

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 8: Critters from my checkered past

This is Day 8 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here.

It's not that I've led a particularly accomplished life, or a notable one, or even a weird one. But I have paid some attention to the bizarre way in which my life seems to loop back on itself, how I'll do a thing or be in a place, not really thinking a thing of it, and let it go completely (startlingly easy to do with a crappy memory and short attention span), only to find myself somehow enmeshed in it again.

Take Michael Jordan, for example.

As I explained earlier, back in the early 1990s, I wrote a series of commercials that Michael Jordan starred in, not during the four years I wrote Gatorade ads, which Michael Jordan ultimately also became a spokesperson for, but after being randomly assigned to a Wheaties clusterfuck at an agency I was freelancing at in Chicago to help finance the life The Chief Atheist and I were trying to carve out for ourselves in Los Angeles.¹

We'd moved to Los Angeles mostly on hope, but with one job: mine, co-writing a kind of nifty children's show teaching kids about the arts in a fun, engaging way.² I'd gotten through my friend, George, who sold ABC on the pilot based on the bang-up job he'd done with Bugs Bunny on Broadway, a gig which had brought him into close proximity and friendship with Chuck Jones, one of the key animators of Bugs Bunny and friends, and the subject of a rather fawning documentary for which The Chief Atheist and I wrote lyrics to a heartfelt but saccharine anthem. (Stay with me, please.)

The pilot was wonderful, so of course, they killed it dead, and, job and money run out, I began flying back and forth to Chicago, doing the ad gigs in between classes at The Groundlings. One of the perks of being a Groundling is that you end up automagically shortlisted to audition for all kinds of gigs: I booked my first two tiny TV roles this way, as well as a voiceover gig playing an animated character in Space Jam, the new combo animated/live-action offering from Warner Bros. starring, you guessed it, Bugs Bunny & friends, as well as basketball legend Michael Jordan.³

You see? Random, random and weird.

The cel pictured here is signed (by Chuck Jones) and numbered. In other words, it's not a super-valuable old cel from a Bugs Bunny cartoon, but it is a bona-fide Chuck Jones cel, even if it features characters that were never actually made into cartoons for public consumption. Much like the Wheaties shoot, certain key players from the Chuck Jones biopic/lovefest were gifted with them after the show wrapped.

As nice as it has been, owning a piece of minor cartoon history, I'm just not a cartoon kinda gal, at least, not when it comes to hanging art on the wall. (The Chief Atheist and I did get a really nice cel from a Beavis and Butthead cartoon for our wedding, but he retained possession after the divorce.)

Are you a fan of Chuck Jones? Or is someone you know? This charming piece of history can be yours for a very modest price.

And we'll throw in all the random, intertwined weirdness, no charge!

xxx
c

Interested? Contact my 'tater (miz.tater AT gmail DOT com) ASAP, this baby goes up on eBay in five days!

¹Side note of random weirdness, #1:During one of our frequent post-editing cocktail sessions, the freelance producer and I figured out that shortly after I moved out of our house in Evanston to go to college, he became the tenant in our coach house out back.

²Side note of random weirdness, #2: little Brandi Norwood, who would go on to become Brandi, was one of the stars, in one of her first gigs.

³Side note of random weirdness, #3: While I barely introduced to him during my audition and was directed in all of my VO work by producer Ivan Reitman (who is totally nice and awesome), this means I did technically work on a Joe Pytka film. This is after working on a Joe Pytka commercial for Gatorade (without Michael Jordan) as a writer, during which I never met him, because I didn't travel to L.A. for the shoot, and before working on two Joe Pytka commercials (for IBM and Sony), where I did finally meet him, and during which he was every bit as terrifying as he was purported to be, but only ever gracious with me. Thank GOD, because I am a delicate f*cking flower.

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 7: Globes! Globes! Globes! (black edition)

This is Day 7 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here. For more detail on the whole, freaky globe-fixation thing, go here.

In terms of value, this is hands-down the crème de la crème of the globe collection I'm currently selling off.

Black globes are rarer than their blueish counterparts, and this one sports an even-rarer Art Deco chrome base in the (rarer still) shape of an airplane. Alas, the globe itself has sustained some damage over the years; the chrome is pitted in places, and parts of the glossy surface are cracked and peeling, no doubt the fault of the careless owner, who is a shameful and constant reminder to herself that she is why she cannot have nice things.

Well, that, and she lives in Earthquake Countryâ„¢.

Come on, though. You know you want it! Make the 'tater an offer! She is highly motivated, as she only has so many cubbies in her attractive built-in unit (not a metaphor!) and is a big reader and collector of other stuff.

And me? I would like to be 12" and one chrome airplane lighter, with a little gas money to get me to wherever I'm headed next.

xxx
c

No, seriously. You WANT THIS GLOBE. Email the 'tater (miz.tater AT gmail DOT com) right now! Operators are standing by!

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 6: Globes! Globes! Globes! (regular edition)

This is Day 6 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here. For more detail on the whole, freaky globe-fixation thing, go here.

If you're a traditionalist, today's installment in the globe pantheon might be for you.

This particular globe was purchased from a vendor at the legendary Kane County Flea Market, a semi-rural county which borders on suburban DuPage County and is home to a Tevatron particle accelerator, a major league farm team and a really, really good frozen custard stand whose name I (fortunately) cannot recall.

While there's nothing strictly valuable about this one, I always admired the soothing shade of aqua the makers chose for the oceans, the land-mass tones of yellow, pink and lavender, and the Deco-y base. It looks very handsome on its own, as you can see here, on (temporary) display in the built-ins Chez 'Tater. (Here it is in context of the communicatrix and its globe brethren.)

We will let this go for a song, the 'tater and I, shipping/handling and a nominal something, as befits an objet so lovingly carted halfway across (sorry!) the globe.

xxx
c

Make an offer in the comments, or email the 'tater (miz.tater AT gmail DOT com) to GET IT NOW, before the grubby eBayers get their mitts on it.

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 5: Globes! Globes! Globes! (big-ass edition)

This is Day 5 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here.

My move from New York City back to Chicago in 1986 marked the beginning of the end of many things for me: the belief, held firmly in my heart since I was 16, that I would marry the man I'd been carrying a torch for since I spied him across the room at a summer party in the city; the rather odd notion that my life would somehow magically unfold in a perfect and sensible way without any active planning and effort on my part to be its steward; and mostly, any illusions that advertising was a viable career path for me.

Never was I more miserable than that year I spent shuttling between corporate housing, my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend's cement-modern apartment on the fringes of newly-developing downtown, and the job that brought me to my knees and broke my spirit. I was still another year away from meeting my first-shrink-slash-astrologer, but a few things mercifully intervened to help save me from complete despair, the fantastic apartment I finally found, carved out of a corner of the old Delano mansion; the Kalamata chicken at Athenian room; a few patient old friends and a few REALLY patient new ones, but I freely admit that most of the time, I filled that gaping void inside me with cigarettes and shopping.

I was an equal-opportunity shopper, provided there was a deal involved (never pay retail!); some seven years later, out of that particular funk, I remember marveling (with some attendant nausea, given my now-reduced circumstances) over the considerable quantity of cash I'd blown on crap like purses, CDs and full-head highlights. I spent $400 to frame a transit ad of Clarence Clemons I'd created during my salad days as a "wunderkind" (Adweek's words, not mine), which my then-boyfriend, partial to loft-like spaces (but not currently living in one himself) urged me on to do, saying it would make my living room of my converted Delano pad. It did, but it did nothing for the pre-war condo I ended up buying a year later, and pretty much moldered in storage spaces for various moves until I gave it up during the last one.

My very favorite places to shop, though, were flea markets. There is something incredibly soothing about sifting through old junk for treasures, and the Chicago area in the late 1980s was ideally located for sifting; the city had enough people with money and interest in collecting to attract the vagabonds who combed the Midwest countryside for what sensible people in a pre-eBay world called "junk," and everyone knows the only thing better than junk is junk that will fetch a price. The vagabonds, with more time than money, bought low and sold high; we city suckers came with small bills and left with treasures we felt better about for the haggling. It kind of worked for everyone for a while.

This is how I furnished much of my new home: the set of schoolroom-style chairs; the chrome-trimmed kitchen table I parked them around; the antique maps and advertising clock (3-V cola, for Vim, Vigor and Vitality!) that became my wall art; and of course, the two Schaeffer pen-display cases that ended up filled with knick-knacks and glassware, and supporting a small part of my eventually-vast collection of antique globes.

Once you own two of something, you see, you will inevitably end up owning many. A collection provides you with focus, and a job; it also gives friends and family easy gift ideas. I ended up with everything from World's Fair globe salt-and-pepper shakers to an acrylic, two-piece globe terrarium, the latter of which ended up housing my signed Michael Jordan basketball after I managed to kill all the plant life inside.

My collection is down to the bare bones now. The Chief Atheist persuaded me to offload roughly half of the actual world globes before our move to Los Angeles in 1992, saying (rightfully) that each one of those goddamned things took up an entire box. Brooks helped me to further winnow down the collection earlier this year; some lucky Goodwill shopper in Glendale struck paydirt.

I've decided it's time to let go of the rest now. Because I am feeling the need to be more mobile than I've been in 18 years, and I'm feeling less like I need the globes, however beautiful they are (and trust me, they are beautiful, especially together!), to define me.

This large, schoolroom globe is the first one I'm putting on the block. It is, large. You can inquire with the 'tater as to actual dimensions (miz.tater AT gmail DOT com) or bug me here and maybe she'll post them to the comments thread. We are doing this loosely, the 'tater and I. (I imagine the dimensions will definitely be up on the eBay listing, if you want to risk waiting.)

The globe appears to have been purchased by the Davis County school system for a school in Bloomfield, Iowa. I have left the remnants of the sticker on because that kind of stuff is way cool to me, but I'm guessing it will come off with Goo Gone or lighter fluid, name yer poison, if you're super-neat and orderly-like. It was not the costliest of the globes, but it is the one I would have kept, because it is the coolest. It would be REALLY cool if someone from Bloomfield, Iowa bought it and brought it back home, but it will look good in any loving home or office. (It's missing far too many African countries to be of much use anymore in a classroom situation, except as historical context.)

Unlike most globes I have seen, this one does not have an axis it rotates on. It is free! And loose! If you have issues with disorder, this may be a problem for you. But if you truly like globes, you'll love this one.

And if you don't, be careful, this could be your gateway globe.

xxx
c

This big-ass globe from the Davis County school system, Bloomfield, Iowa division, can be yours, wherever you live if it is in the lower 48! (I think shipping gets prohibitive otherwise, but you can inquire if you really, really want it sent to you in Hilo or Homer.) Email the 'tater, miz.tater AT gmail DOT com, and make an offer!

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 4: #$@% Mobile Me!

This is Day 4 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here.

You read the calendar reminder you remembered to set for yourself a year ago: your subscription to MobileMe, née "dot-Mac," is due for renewal. You think about what else you could do with $99; you think about how much of a pain sync is with it, and refuse to contemplate life without it. Plus, there's all that crap you'd have to clear off of your slice of Apple's big Hard Drive in the Clouds.

You decide to do a little sleuthing online. Surely, there are other nerds, smarter nerds, who have had this same thought.

There are! (And quit calling them "Shirley.") You read up on the how-tos, especially Dave Taylor's. Then you go on eBay, find the most reputable-looking seller of boxed MobileMe subscriptions, and BUY IT NOW. It arrives in plenty of time for you to forget all about it and let #$@% MobileMe renew itself automagically on your credit card for another #$@% year.

Disgusted, you toss your brand-new, unopened MobileMe subscription package into the "to sell" box for your 'tater to sell for pennies on the dollar.

And next year, you vow to stay on top of this sh*t. Finally.

xxx
c

MobileMe for less than Apple's outrageous $99/year? You bet, ask Dave Taylor! Then email my 'tater, miz.tater AT gmail DOT com, with an offer. Pretty much any offer. I'd really rather put this behind me, and not have it mocking me on eBay. And tell your nerd friends on Facebook, Twitter, whatever, no reasonable (nerd) offer refused!

Oh, and the next item will go up on Monday, the 20th. My 'tater is great, but she likes taking weekends off. Crazy 'tater!

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 3: At your (mid-century) service!

This is Day 3 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here.

In the grand tradition of one's blessing being one's curse, I am my grandparents' granddaughter. And my grandparents were fabulous, make no mistake. Stylish? Check. Worldly? Check and check. Self-effacing sense of humor? That would be a check, please.

My Gram and Gramps were the most loving, constant source of goodness in my life for most of my life. They adored me for the usual reasons grandparents adore grandchildren, and probably especially because they had always wanted tons of kids themselves, but were only blessed with my dad. They had to wait 30 more years for another bundle of dumpling fat to shower all that pent-up love upon, and then, because I was an only grandchild for five long years, they showered me with it like I was the desert and their job was to turn me into a verdant field.

I spent many, many weekends with them when I was small, playing all kinds of crazy games, reading all kinds of crazy books, dancing to all kinds of crazy music. They took me to matinees, to tea at Marshall Fields in the Loop, to fine Continental dinners at the Wrigley Building restaurant, where I washed down Dover sole almondine with bottomless Shirley Temples, and to exotic Polyesian dinners at Don the Beachcomber's, where I got to sit in a Queen Chair and stuff my royal face with as many pork spareribs as I could cram in there. Life was good.

But the best thing of all, my favorite treat-of-treats, was to get in bed early after my Mr. Bubble bath and watch Love, American Style with my Gram while Gramps served me a "snick-snack tray" laden with delicacies: sugar wafers, red Jell-O with bananas, ice cream scoop, Cheez-N-Crackers in the toxic, single-serve package and a glass of milk with enough chocolate in it to choke Augustus Gloop. Then they would crank up the A/C, dial the electric blanket to a toasty "7", and let me pass out in a pool of my own bliss.

Explains a lot, doesn't it?

The dark side of these crazy sensualists who contributed roughly half of my DNA is that they indulged in stuff themselves, too, and I mean STUFF. The place was always neat, but there were multiples of everything squirreled away everywhere. Because they came up during the Great Depression, we always said, but now I suspect it may have been something more than that. Something hoard-y this way comes. Their son, my father, rebelled against it and all sentiment (with the exception of his love for Jesus, as befits a good convert), and save for his writings, of which he saved every word, he let most of his possessions go as soon as they were gifted to him.

Much of the remaining "good" stuff I have once belonged to Gram & Gramps. They enjoyed giving it to me while they were still alive, so they could see me using and enjoying it. With each item, Gramps would launch into a lengthy story about the provenance of the item, the pawn shop it had been acquired in, or the particular trip to Copenhagen, or the fight it was purchased to make up for, followed by its estimated cash value (high! A fortune, even!) They were always interesting stories, and they always ended the same way: with Gram hissing quietly in my ear, "Sell it!"

These two kitschy painted metal trays were originally part of a set of six which got divvied up when the ex-husband and I moved to L.A. and pared down our possessions. Eighteen years later, I'm ready to let these go, too. They are not the ones upon which my Snick-Snacks were served, and they are a bit worse for the wear in places (some dings, scratches and a little rust in a couple of spots), but they would make a charming addition to any non-fussy mid-Century kitsch collectors home, especially an imbibing household.

Name your price, and/or pass along to someone else. (You're on Facebook, right? Yeah. That's what Facebook is for.)

Gram, wherever she is, would raise a glass to you in approval...

xxx
c

No, seriously, email the 'tater if you're into these (miz.tater AT gmail.com). We want them to go to a good home!

Selling My Crap on eBay, Day 2: Basketball Jones

This is Day 2 of a 21-day series. For more scoop on the who/what/why, go here.

Many moons, much heartache and tens of thousands of annual dollars-per-year ago, I was a thriving ad hole. Or "ad ho," if you like. Or television copywriter, if you roll Mad Men-style.

I wrote ads for automobiles! I wrote ads for beer! I wrote ads for clothing stores, deodorant and artificially-colored-and-sweetened gelatin desserts! I wrote ads for pretty much whatever anyone told me to write, because the only two things I swore I'd never write an ad for, feminine hygiene sprays and cigarettes, no one ever asked me to. Pity, there was nothing I wanted more in those days than to really tell someone where they could go.

You see, I used to be an angry, angry person. I still am, only I'm a bit less so and far more aware of it. (Hint: if you're a ladyperson, and you're either not crying at all or crying a lot, you're probably angry.) There is plenty for most of us to be angry about, just like there's plenty for us to be grateful for.

But I digress.

By 1992, I'd left my full-time job and relocated to Los Angeles with my ex-husband to pursue careers in stuff that never actually materialized (it's okay, better things did). It was weird and hard and exhilarating and awesome all at once, or all at once and then bit by bit, when I realized that not only could I travel back and forth from L.A. to Chicago to freelance, but that I'd have to, as no one would hire my ass in L.A. (no print experience) and that fat wad of cash you move with never does sustain you as long as you'd hoped it would. Also, I was pretty much unemployable at anything else. Also-also, my mother was dying of cancer and I felt like I'd better do what I could while I could to wrap things up with her. Those are stories for another day, and we will tell them.

For now, here is what you need to know: I wrote one of the most kick-ass campaigns of my 10-odd years in advertising for Wheaties, back when Michael Jordan was their spokesjock. I'd worked on Gatorade for FOUR ENTIRE YEARS already, but MJ got signed just as I flipped the final bird to my last full-time gig. Besides, I was so burnt-crispy, I couldn't have come up with a decent ad then if you paid me. (Pause for ironic laughter.)

I wrote this campaign and my partner did her usual stellar job at art-directing and our agency producer did his usual stellar job of producing and our director did his usual stellar job of directing and all in all, it was one of those magical projects where everything goes right from beginning to end, except for one thing: Michael Jordan did not want to be anywhere near me. My proof? Behold:

Michael Jordan is LEANING AWAY from me. And frankly, if I could have leaned away from me, I would have, too. I mean, Jesus H. Jumping Christ on a Pogo Stick: look at me! If there is one thing it was in my power to do to make myself more unattractive, I'm at a loss as to what it might be. And trust me, the clothes are just an externalization of the incredibly angry mess I was inside. I had an almost pathological need during those years to be an iconoclast, to be noticed, to defy everyone and everything.

Well. No matter. Because even though Michael Jordan didn't particularly like me, I liked him fine, and don't blame him one bit. He did a fantastic job acting in those commercials I wrote. He was a consummate professional and unflaggingly polite.

And yeah, like everyone else in this picture, he signed a bona-fide Wilson basketball and gave it to me at the end of the shoot. Okay, had a minion give it to me. It's mine, though, all mine.

It can be yours, if it is a thing you have always dreamed of. It has been maintained in mint condition, or very near to, in the cozy confines of an unused clear acrylic terrarium in the shape of a globe.1 People were allowed to touch it, but mostly, just to look.

One caveat: there is no authentication for this basketball other than my story and this photo (which, hey, you know, Photoshop) and the corroboration of any person you might be able to corral from the shoot. In other words, it may require extra diligence on your part to turn this into an investment item. But it is, nonetheless, the genuine item.

Leave a comment or shoot my 'tater an email (miz.tater AT gmail DOT com) if you're interested. First come, first served.

xxx
c