It was a very odd thing that happened the other day, indeed. At least, that is, for a small town like Wayne. Not to say that Wayne is very small, as it is not, really. Well, it is smaller then many towns, but I suspect, not at all as small as others. We have a movie theatre, a lovely downtown area and quite good restaurants, too. Of course, we have our assortment of town parks, all named for this one or that one, you know how it is. And of course, the library.
Isabel and I are quite proud of our little library, particularly Isabel. She is such a smart one, Isabel is. Anything having to do with smartness naturally attracts her support. And so it's quite fitting that she be in charge of the Garden Club's Library project. Each year, we - the Gardening Club that is, of which I am a proud member, host a lovely Garden Party on the back terrace of the library. Isabel always suggests quite a catchy theme, and she is so clever at tying said theme into a popular book. One year guests dressed as witches and wizards and muggles, and a few years back we had an especially scandalous time of it dressing as Angels or Demons. Quite a good way to cap off a warm summer evening, you know. And all for a good cause. We proudly fund the beautiful gardens surrounding our library, and on some years we even raise the proverbial bar and stack up funds for some project of sorts that the learned folks within the building itself find useful. And dear Isabel has been at the helm of this worthy cause for ages, or at least since her mother handed the reigns to her and moved to Florida. Isabel's mother, that is, Isabel is still a block or two and the throw of stone from Charlie and me.
But the point here is that this year, for some strange reason that I can think only has to due with hats, plans have been questioned and called suspect and the entire event remains hanging in jeopardy. That nasty Mr. Kuflick, Eliahas Wayne's insurance man, instigated the flap. The other day, he approached me as I enjoyed my coffee at The Gryphon, clutching one of the garden party fliers I had just posted on The Gryphon's bulletin board.
"Is the township's liability carrier aware that you are serving alcohol at this event?" he demanded, those beady little eyes of his looking as though he would enjoy stealing Christmas from a nice family if he could.
Well, I told him, we at The Garden Club have absolutely no intention of throwing a wild kegger, if that was his accusation.
But the insistent little man refused to leave things at that. Jabbing his thin and most utterly in need of a man's manicure finger at the flier he again insisted that we were causing some sort of potential liability by serving up alcohol. Obviously, Mr. Kuflick is not accustomed to garden parties and was quite unfamiliar with what lovely, polite events they are, and I suggested this to him with a hearty smile and pat on his arm. Yet as nice as I was behaving, he became red faced and insistent.
Now, I must admit that there have been the occasional, shall we say, etiquette slips, mostly serving to sustain our 'funny story banks' through the fall and winter months. Like the time that the Betsy's, Porter and Ball that is, arrived wearing the exact same flapper outfit right down to matching shoes. Why even their husbands, Buzz and Carter respectively, continued to confuse the two for the duration of the event. And that, as you can see, became quite a problem as Carter continually served up the wrong Betsy with a glass of champagne, despite said Betsy's tendency to get a bit friendlier than usual once the fizzy stuff enters her system. A few dances and one spin on a table by one of the Betsy's, still quite a dispute as to whether it was Porter or Ball, and shall we say that two couples returned home that evening with a frosty spouse and cold shoulder.
But really, it was just champagne. It's not like we actually serve liquor and I explained that to the dear little insurance man. But he pointed and pointed again and said, "Right here, underneath where it says that the winning hat from the tailgates will be auctioned, you say 'raise your glass and toast the books, it's all top shelf'".
Oh well, yes, if you look at it that way. And he did.
But the point here is that I realized then that Mr. Kuflick's interests in my Garden Party flier had nothing to do with books or even the announcement that all refreshments would be top shelf, but instead zoomed right into the mention of the winning tailgate hat.
It's the hat, you see. And Isabel confirmed my suspicion as soon as I relayed the word for word of my Kuflick confrontation. Isabel, you see, is quite knowing and her confirmation is like evidence of fact, in a way.
Isabel and I made a chart. Slueth-like, as we are becoming:
Mr. Kuflick was poking round after The Burglar. The Burglar and I seem to have become friendly sort of pen pals. The Burglar is suspected of snatching a few of the suspected big contenders in the Tailgate's Most Beautiful Hat contest. I happen to be harboring Lolly's hat, which Isabel, Lolly and Iggy Braithwaite, as well as your truly, believe to be the jackpot of all hat entry's this year. Said hat was referred to quite prominently in the Garden Party flier.
Now, we were both quite stumped as to old Kuffy's contempt of our refreshment choices at The Garden Party. This is a piece we struggle to place in our chart, so at the moment we have him as a Mormon or possibly someone who does not care for books.
But the hat. Or hats. Now how interesting a theory. Isabel suggested I 'flush it about' or something to that effect in my newly popular advice column. A column which, I must say, was causing me near double the hour or two a week I had intended for this career. On that point, off I am to flush, stir and some of those other things that Isabel suggests.
Dear Veronica,
My fellow book club members never take my suggestion for book reads. So, I always end up reading books that put me to sleep and make no sense to me. I've suggested a good magazine like Woman's Day but they just laugh and get all technical because it's not an actual book.
All Booked Up
Dear Booked,
I am a huge Woman's Day fan and hope they feature more hats soon. Maybe you should suggest a hat contest for your book club, wouldn't that be fun? Do you wear a hat to many social events? By the way, 'Sleeping With Ward Cleaver' is a very fun book that your club may actually like.
Write back,
Veronica
Dear Veronica,
A friend of mine lost his job recently and now swears that he's found night work. Yet, I often see him visiting friends and neighbors at night, and quite late, too. He stays out so late, his hosts must certainly be sleeping by the time he leaves. And he is definitely not wearing a suit and tie, rather he looks like some sort of Mime the way he dresses lately. I can't imagine he'll keep whatever new job he has if he keeps this up.
Perplexed
Dear Perplexed,
Does he wear a hat?
Veronica
Showing posts with label hats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hats. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
CLASSIFIED INFORMATION
Mr. Petigrew had recently developed an odd habit of leaving the office to pace the sidewalk up and down West Avenue. He checks his reflection in the windows of shops and then darts quickly by others. Maybe he has more time now that he's not trying to find that Veronica girl a job. Wonderful really, because I think the exercise might do him a bit of good. And Veronica just seems to love her new job with Mr. Heung. But the pacing has become a bit much. If he just walked leisurely I don't think he'd call quite as much attention to himself. He has also been seen to spray some sort of aerosol on his scalp quite frequently. Sue-Nancy Quigly, Mr. Petigrew's secretary, told me that he, that is Mr. Petigrew, that he has also taken to asking her if she has noticed he had a bit more hair on his dome. She had not, and quite frankly neither did I. He remained as shiny on the top as the day I first met him. And a good thing, too, for he was also growing accustomed to saying how much he'd like to pull his own hair out. Very odd, indeed, to hope so much to grow some just so one could pull it all out again. Men can truly be difficult to understand, at times, as Isabel says "they are victims of their own desires". Now I'm not entirely certain how this pertains to Mr. Petigrew's lack of scalp follicles, but I do know that he has also become quite uncomfortable with the visits from Captain Leighton as well as Eliahas Wayne's insurance man, Mr. Kuflic. Something to do with the in's and outs of his advertising and all to do with catching The Burglar.
You see, it all has to do with my column and the letter I received from The Burglar. I was once again credited with an idea that Mr. Petigrew called a "doosy" that he just "couldn't believe". He really is quite a down to earth type fellow, always wondering what he has done to deserve all of this. And he is such a devoted newspaper man, I believe it absolutely is about time he get all of this recognition. Now when I first met Mr. Petigrew, he was dedicated to the entire Burglar issue, and now with a bit of help from me he is smack dab in the middle of it. Or, as The Daily said in a headline, "In With The Burglar". (Most unflattering picture of Mr. Petigrew that The Daily chose to run). But the point here is that I decided to ask Mr. Burglar, up front and all that, not to rummage through my home and snatch poor Lolly's tailgate hat until after the Races. And though a few of the Ladies at my Women's club called my letter 'silly', 'daft' and a few other things, apparently I'm not the only one. That is, not the only one that took to making my requests to Mr. Burglar in print. You see, I believe The Burglar to be a gentleman, and a gentleman never denies a polite request. It's become quite obvious that the man does like hats, and why wouldn't he want a hat like Lolly Desjardin's?
But the point here is that, apparently, after reading my latest column, several others decided to take out space in The Weekly with similar requests. Babson Hurley was the first. Her advertisement read: Dear Mr. Burglar, You've already been to 105 Wooded Lane. While we appreciate your courtesy and thoughtfulness in cleaning up any mess you may have caused, we do request that you not visit again unless formally invited.
Betsy Perkins ran an even nicer advertisement, saying: Dear Burglar, If you are the person responsible for bringing my cat to me, thank you ever so much. He is the best cat in the whole entire world. My husband may not think this cat is worth the golf clubs of his that you took, but I do. And, my husband did get his clubs back. We don't have much else for you, other than some coins that my husband collects which you missed. They are in the second floor study.
Victor McWoogle took out a very funny spot, saying : Alright now Burglar Man, haven't had the pleasure yet, despite all the good stuff in our house. Still, our neighbors at 114 Overlook have absolutely fabulous stuff and they are heavy sleepers.
At last count, according to Sue-Nancy Quigley, Mr. Petigrew's secretary, The Weekly had received ten advertisements and placed all of them in the front section of the paper. Now, according to Sue-Nancy, who to me seems to be a rather in-the-know type, newspapers are very keen on their advertisements. All has to do with profits, and what not. So you see, this trend I started was obviously pleasing Mr. Petigrew to the point where he believed he could actually wish for more hair. Really, any hair would be more hair for the dear man.
And the truly odd thing about this whole letter writing bit is that the police, as well as that nasty little insurance man, Mr. Kuflic, had completely forgotten about The Second Hand and were concentrating themselves on this belief that Mr. Petigrew had an "in" with The Burglar. It must be nice to realize one's dreams, as Mr. Petigrew was now doing. Although, I thought that Veronica girl was a bit cross when she said gagging is what he, Mr. Petigrew that is, that gagging is what he gets. You see, as we were buying up some more suspicious items at The Second Hand, I told her about how the police were ordering Mr. Petigrew to gag. Very archaic, I believe, and I told the man from The Daily just that when he came round to speak with me about it. I said to him, 'one does not order one to gag, and the police should stop concentrating so much on who writes who a letter and should really concentrate more on finding out who lifted the hood ornaments off of half a dozen Mercedes parked along Louella Court last week.'
But the point here really is the letter that I received from The Burglar that started all of this excitement.
Dear Veronica,
I wouldn't think of burgling your home. You've been quite kind and fair to me, I believe. I think that you're advice is very good advice and more people should read your column. They should also stop by and visit your garden, it's one of the nicest in the neighborhood. And while there, maybe think about adopting one of the stray cats you've been so good about caring for.
Best Regards,
T.B.
You see, it all has to do with my column and the letter I received from The Burglar. I was once again credited with an idea that Mr. Petigrew called a "doosy" that he just "couldn't believe". He really is quite a down to earth type fellow, always wondering what he has done to deserve all of this. And he is such a devoted newspaper man, I believe it absolutely is about time he get all of this recognition. Now when I first met Mr. Petigrew, he was dedicated to the entire Burglar issue, and now with a bit of help from me he is smack dab in the middle of it. Or, as The Daily said in a headline, "In With The Burglar". (Most unflattering picture of Mr. Petigrew that The Daily chose to run). But the point here is that I decided to ask Mr. Burglar, up front and all that, not to rummage through my home and snatch poor Lolly's tailgate hat until after the Races. And though a few of the Ladies at my Women's club called my letter 'silly', 'daft' and a few other things, apparently I'm not the only one. That is, not the only one that took to making my requests to Mr. Burglar in print. You see, I believe The Burglar to be a gentleman, and a gentleman never denies a polite request. It's become quite obvious that the man does like hats, and why wouldn't he want a hat like Lolly Desjardin's?
But the point here is that, apparently, after reading my latest column, several others decided to take out space in The Weekly with similar requests. Babson Hurley was the first. Her advertisement read: Dear Mr. Burglar, You've already been to 105 Wooded Lane. While we appreciate your courtesy and thoughtfulness in cleaning up any mess you may have caused, we do request that you not visit again unless formally invited.
Betsy Perkins ran an even nicer advertisement, saying: Dear Burglar, If you are the person responsible for bringing my cat to me, thank you ever so much. He is the best cat in the whole entire world. My husband may not think this cat is worth the golf clubs of his that you took, but I do. And, my husband did get his clubs back. We don't have much else for you, other than some coins that my husband collects which you missed. They are in the second floor study.
Victor McWoogle took out a very funny spot, saying : Alright now Burglar Man, haven't had the pleasure yet, despite all the good stuff in our house. Still, our neighbors at 114 Overlook have absolutely fabulous stuff and they are heavy sleepers.
At last count, according to Sue-Nancy Quigley, Mr. Petigrew's secretary, The Weekly had received ten advertisements and placed all of them in the front section of the paper. Now, according to Sue-Nancy, who to me seems to be a rather in-the-know type, newspapers are very keen on their advertisements. All has to do with profits, and what not. So you see, this trend I started was obviously pleasing Mr. Petigrew to the point where he believed he could actually wish for more hair. Really, any hair would be more hair for the dear man.
And the truly odd thing about this whole letter writing bit is that the police, as well as that nasty little insurance man, Mr. Kuflic, had completely forgotten about The Second Hand and were concentrating themselves on this belief that Mr. Petigrew had an "in" with The Burglar. It must be nice to realize one's dreams, as Mr. Petigrew was now doing. Although, I thought that Veronica girl was a bit cross when she said gagging is what he, Mr. Petigrew that is, that gagging is what he gets. You see, as we were buying up some more suspicious items at The Second Hand, I told her about how the police were ordering Mr. Petigrew to gag. Very archaic, I believe, and I told the man from The Daily just that when he came round to speak with me about it. I said to him, 'one does not order one to gag, and the police should stop concentrating so much on who writes who a letter and should really concentrate more on finding out who lifted the hood ornaments off of half a dozen Mercedes parked along Louella Court last week.'
But the point here really is the letter that I received from The Burglar that started all of this excitement.
Dear Veronica,
I wouldn't think of burgling your home. You've been quite kind and fair to me, I believe. I think that you're advice is very good advice and more people should read your column. They should also stop by and visit your garden, it's one of the nicest in the neighborhood. And while there, maybe think about adopting one of the stray cats you've been so good about caring for.
Best Regards,
T.B.
Monday, April 20, 2009
TEA OR LEMON AID?
It was a rather lemony looking hat, wider on the left then on the right, completely covered with biggish, lemon colored feathers and a giant sun flower on the shallow side. Lolly Desjardin was besides herself and beamed like a light bulb underneath it's lemony brim. Said that "Lindsay felt this to be her finest creation". Iggy Braithwaite gushed all over herself, making an early and, I thought, premature pronouncement that she'd be passing the torch to Lolly this year. That is, the Most Beautiful Hat torch, if you will. Now I do adore Lolly, well who doesn't. And on a normal day, one that didn't involve stacking tea cups and longing for a sip of Earl Grey while realizing my dream of winning Most Beautiful Hat at the Malvern Races was diminishing with every lemon swoosh of Lolly's hat, I would be giddy with excitement for her, too. But I'm sure that they, Lolly and Iggy that is, must have noticed the complete drain of color from my face as soon as Lolly showed us her, I must admit, quite spectacular hat. I'd been working so hard on my hat, and here before my eyes was quite possibly the most glorious, lemon colored creation that a head could wear. Maeve Huckleberry wore a somewhat similar, pink creation two years ago at the Point to Point races, and blabbered on endlessly about how some famous hat man in London made the thing especially for her. Unfortunately, this famous hat man neglected to build something to hide Maeve's rather unfortunate looking mug. Therefore, I believe he completely failed in his mission.
Now Lolly is such a pretty girl, one wouldn't want a hat to cover her smiley face. And happy as she was, well you can imagine the pickle it placed me when she asked about storing the thing in my cedar closet. "I'm so dreadfully frightened that The Burglar might abscond with it," she nearly quivered. Iggy shook her head emphatically in agreement, reminding us that he'd, The Burglar that is, taken off with her would be entry to this year's competition. "Don't know what I'll do now," Iggy almost sobbed, "Huston says I spend too much money on hats to begin with, and that I should just wear the one from last year since it was so successful. He really doesn't understand a thing!" And we all agreed. He's a darling man, but like most men, he can be a bit daffed when it comes to important things like the Hat Competition.
Now the thing about being magnanimous, which is precisely what I believe I was being, is that you can't actually go out and brag of your magnanimosity, now can you? What would I say, "oh hallo, I've just given over my house as a safe haven for Lolly Desjardin's most glorious Hat competition entry, absolutely blinding my dream of snagging that honor with an original creation of my own". And speaking of my original creation, I'd been spending absolutely bundles of time on it, and you know, I think the thing is no where close to being a finished product. I'd left the project in the able hands of Mr Heung, over at The Second Hand, you know. And between the two of us, we'd clipped the man made tails off nearly a dozen second hand stuffed animals and statuettes with the plan of reattaching them to the brim of a very smart looking hat I'd located in the shop. If I remember correctly, we had at least one faux rabbit tail, a purple dinosaur tail, a small number of faux cat and dogish type tails and a most rigid piece from the rear of a plastic horse. Mr. Heung had taken on the task of attaching these tails in an artistic fashion of which he assures me he is most talented. And I do absolutely believe him as he has been so excited about the project. That is until I introduced him to that Veronic girl. Lovely sweet girl, if a tad tawdry in her outfits, but none the less, quite a nice girl. And you see, this brings me really to the dilemma I sat in the middle of at this moment. As much as I adored myself for the arrangement I managed to create at The Second Hand, it was at the moment leaving me rather hat less. After all, the Malvern Races were right around the proverbial corner, I was staring at the giddy, happy and gloriously hatted face of Lolly Desjardin as my head was moving up and down in agreement while she, Lolly that is, placed her lemon prize into a large shopping bag, provided by the ever eavesdropping Constance Cortnoy, and handed it to me for a vigilant safe keeping. I suppose a second place finish might be nice, if indeed the committee chose to award such a thing.
But the point here is that I believe Mr. Heung has become a bit forgetful towards my hat. Now I do admit that fabulous things had been going on at The Second Hand since I'd introduced that Veronica girl to the situation. She'd managed to create actual departments in the store. Where once you could find a vintage Lilly Pulitzer along side a baby bassinet, Veronica had staged a Ladies boutique to the right front of the store, jewelry smack dab in the center, Menswear to the front left and so forth and so on. Not to mention the bright dabs of color she'd painted on the walls and bright, happy lime green trim. Flubberheaded as I am, this all reminded me that Veronica gave me a hand scribbled ad to place in The Weekly, announcing that every Wednesday afternoon, High Tea would be served at The Second Hand. I couldn't wait for that and was so dreadfully proud to show Mr. Petigrew the business I was bringing The Weekly.
"A paid advertisement," I told him triumphantly. I must have bragged just a tad too much about how I masterminded the whole plot, looked like love and all that, for Mr. Petigrew grew into a foul mood and stormed off into his office, refusing to take calls. Which really is too bad, I had such a good idea to run by him. But in that mood, Sue-Nancy Quigley suggested, better not to bother him at all. So, as Sue-Nancy suggested, I decided not to bother Mr. Petigrew and to just go ahead and print my column with this new twist:
Dear Mr. Burglar,
I must say that I am an absolute fan of yours. I imagine you to be very busy, but a talented man with a special kindness towards animals. All things wonderful with that. Be that as it may, I've a special object in my home that I'm keeping safe for a dear friend and I would be most appreciative if you held off from nicking it until after the Malvern Races.
Thank you so much, you dear man and good luck,
Veronica
Now Lolly is such a pretty girl, one wouldn't want a hat to cover her smiley face. And happy as she was, well you can imagine the pickle it placed me when she asked about storing the thing in my cedar closet. "I'm so dreadfully frightened that The Burglar might abscond with it," she nearly quivered. Iggy shook her head emphatically in agreement, reminding us that he'd, The Burglar that is, taken off with her would be entry to this year's competition. "Don't know what I'll do now," Iggy almost sobbed, "Huston says I spend too much money on hats to begin with, and that I should just wear the one from last year since it was so successful. He really doesn't understand a thing!" And we all agreed. He's a darling man, but like most men, he can be a bit daffed when it comes to important things like the Hat Competition.
Now the thing about being magnanimous, which is precisely what I believe I was being, is that you can't actually go out and brag of your magnanimosity, now can you? What would I say, "oh hallo, I've just given over my house as a safe haven for Lolly Desjardin's most glorious Hat competition entry, absolutely blinding my dream of snagging that honor with an original creation of my own". And speaking of my original creation, I'd been spending absolutely bundles of time on it, and you know, I think the thing is no where close to being a finished product. I'd left the project in the able hands of Mr Heung, over at The Second Hand, you know. And between the two of us, we'd clipped the man made tails off nearly a dozen second hand stuffed animals and statuettes with the plan of reattaching them to the brim of a very smart looking hat I'd located in the shop. If I remember correctly, we had at least one faux rabbit tail, a purple dinosaur tail, a small number of faux cat and dogish type tails and a most rigid piece from the rear of a plastic horse. Mr. Heung had taken on the task of attaching these tails in an artistic fashion of which he assures me he is most talented. And I do absolutely believe him as he has been so excited about the project. That is until I introduced him to that Veronic girl. Lovely sweet girl, if a tad tawdry in her outfits, but none the less, quite a nice girl. And you see, this brings me really to the dilemma I sat in the middle of at this moment. As much as I adored myself for the arrangement I managed to create at The Second Hand, it was at the moment leaving me rather hat less. After all, the Malvern Races were right around the proverbial corner, I was staring at the giddy, happy and gloriously hatted face of Lolly Desjardin as my head was moving up and down in agreement while she, Lolly that is, placed her lemon prize into a large shopping bag, provided by the ever eavesdropping Constance Cortnoy, and handed it to me for a vigilant safe keeping. I suppose a second place finish might be nice, if indeed the committee chose to award such a thing.
But the point here is that I believe Mr. Heung has become a bit forgetful towards my hat. Now I do admit that fabulous things had been going on at The Second Hand since I'd introduced that Veronica girl to the situation. She'd managed to create actual departments in the store. Where once you could find a vintage Lilly Pulitzer along side a baby bassinet, Veronica had staged a Ladies boutique to the right front of the store, jewelry smack dab in the center, Menswear to the front left and so forth and so on. Not to mention the bright dabs of color she'd painted on the walls and bright, happy lime green trim. Flubberheaded as I am, this all reminded me that Veronica gave me a hand scribbled ad to place in The Weekly, announcing that every Wednesday afternoon, High Tea would be served at The Second Hand. I couldn't wait for that and was so dreadfully proud to show Mr. Petigrew the business I was bringing The Weekly.
"A paid advertisement," I told him triumphantly. I must have bragged just a tad too much about how I masterminded the whole plot, looked like love and all that, for Mr. Petigrew grew into a foul mood and stormed off into his office, refusing to take calls. Which really is too bad, I had such a good idea to run by him. But in that mood, Sue-Nancy Quigley suggested, better not to bother him at all. So, as Sue-Nancy suggested, I decided not to bother Mr. Petigrew and to just go ahead and print my column with this new twist:
Dear Mr. Burglar,
I must say that I am an absolute fan of yours. I imagine you to be very busy, but a talented man with a special kindness towards animals. All things wonderful with that. Be that as it may, I've a special object in my home that I'm keeping safe for a dear friend and I would be most appreciative if you held off from nicking it until after the Malvern Races.
Thank you so much, you dear man and good luck,
Veronica
Sunday, April 12, 2009
In The Knick of Time
Now the thing about hats is that you've got to walk a rather thin line with them. What looks positively fabulous on one head can be an absolute disaster on another head. I think that's what happened to me last year. The tailgates, you know, Most Beautiful Hat. I thought my hat was so terribly smart, and special, too. I'd jazzed it up and glued little plastic horses to the rim and stuck some hey to it. Really got into the whole horsey theme. I must say it gave quite a laugh to some of the other ladies at the races. Very unbecoming of them to behave in such a manner. Ah, but this is a new year and a new tailgate, but oh what drama. I really don't think I can remember a year when the drama was so high. Why, the entire idea of Constance Cortnoy's massive tailgate is becoming almost a put off. Or is that a down turn? Isabel really has the most experienced way with words, you know, but I don't always remember the exact sequence with which she uses them. She's really got quite a knack with them, words that is. Why, if you could have a job just saying fabulous words, well Isabel would have quite the career I dare say. Although they really don't make jobs like that, now do they?
But the point here is that Constance Cortnoy has done something about a Monkey's wrench and it's just wreaking havoc on us all. Several of us, myself included, are deeply convinced that this bountiful tailgate she's hosting at the Malvern Races is a devious attempt to sway the judges and win the Most Beautiful Hat competition. There are a few other theories which I don't necessarily subscribe to, although I am tempted as Isabel subscribes to one of them. Theories, that is. And you know, I do think brains were born inside of Isabel. Anyway, Isabel believes that Constance is attempting some sort of statement. Thinks it goes all the way back to college. Well, preposterous, I say. At least I would say that until, as I've said, I discovered that Isabel felt strongly about this particular theory. I supposed it could be a bit of both, you know, hats and statements. Although really, college. Isn't that odd. What's there to make a statement about, after all. We went, she went, she met Conroy, and thankfully her mother insisted that the sorority accept her, and the same women that she is friends with today let her follow them around back then, too. No idea really what the problem could be. But Isabel thinks something to do with always coming in second. Well, if you ask me, second is much better than third.
But on this particular day, Constance Cortnoy or not, I was dedicating my afternoon to completing my hat. Well, that and having a look round Mr. Heung's shop for items that may have found their way into the shop without the owners full knowledge. Obviously, these tasks blended quite well together, as Mr. Heung has been helping me to create my hat. Yes, it is true that after last year's hat seemed to have bombed so fiercely, I had originally decided to go with the tried and true a just buy a hat from Lindsay's. But then I found that absolutely glorious hat in The Second Hand and Mr. Heung suggested I adorn it with tails. You know, tailgate party, why not a hat with tails. Not real tails, mind you, that would be positively ghastly And besides, where would I get them? The tails, that is.
But the point here is not really about my hat, but the other task, the investigative journalism I'd been assigned by Babson. And you know, I realized just a few days ago, that other than the normal, routine town gossip, I had very little knowledge of what actually had been lifted by this Burglar. You know how it is, most of the talk is all the excitement of who's house has 'been hit' and who's been overlooked. Dreadfully embarrassing it is, you can imagine, after awhile not to have been one of the home's that have 'been hit'.
Now I can see why the Dustin's home was skipped, so to speak. Lovely people they are, the Dustin's. And chalk full of good stuff in their house, too, mind you. But don't you see, it's their dog, Jack Daniels. He's a lovely dog, but oh what a barker. The Beasley's house was 'hit', don't you love that word? But the Beasley's poor old dog, Bailey, really is getting on in years and I don't think he can hear much, let alone do much barking. I should think that would make the Beasley's house a rather safe bet, and apparently The Burglar felt so, too.
So off I went, just a few days ago, to visit some of the chosen homes. You know, get their spoon full. Betsy Perkins, of course, had already told me what had been lifted; that emerald cocktail ring of hers and Ned's golf clubs. Funny thing about golf clubs, though. He got them back. They ended up in Archie Archibald's study, of all odd places. Archie doesn't even play golf. Betsy says that the police think The Burglar hit two homes that night, hers and the Archibald's. Must have been too heavy, the clubs, for the poor man to carry so he ended up leaving them in Archie's study. Whats more, according to Betsy, Ned and Archie had quite a rowe over the whole thing. Still aren't really speaking to each other. Well, Betsy says, she's quite glad that The Burglar left her a cat and not a set of golf clubs, because she doesn't play golf, either. Not that she would trade with the Archibald's. After all, Betsy and her cat, Mr. Marmalade, have become quite inseparable, you know.
I asked Betsy if she knew what the Archibald's were missing, and she said "Oh well, you know, they don't really have much of anything worth nicking. But they did apparently find themselves quite light in the silver wear cabinet", as well as something else called a GPS and a Digital something or other. Well, I'd have a very difficult time looking for those things, the GPS and the Digital, at The Second Hand. I've absolutely no idea what they are and wouldn't even know how to begin to act them out to Mr. Heung. Now the silver wear, on the other hand, I could spot. Reed and Barton apparently. Very respectable taste. I made a mental note.
I then visited the Beasley's, the Hamilton's, the Wayne's and the Bandywiths and came up with the following mental notes: lots and lots of Reed and Barton silver wear, two hats intended for the Malvern Races tailgate parties, a few other things with cords and batteries that I'd never recognize in a million years, one priceless pearl necklace and one not so priceless pearl necklace, a diamond tennis bracelet that popped up at a neighbors home, another emerald cocktail ring, a Sapphire brooch, a Sapphire necklace, eight pairs of diamond earrings, and an autographed photograph of Tiger Woods. I don't mind telling you that by the third day I was positively exhausted. Whats more, I realized that I'd need more than three days to wrap this investigative journalism up.
And I'll tell you what, this man, The Burglar, quite a good man, he is. The Beasley's said that the man, The Burglar, walked old Bailey for them. They knew this because the old boy was positively walked out in the morning and both his leash and pick-up bags were left in the wrong spots. Anyone who cares for pets is a darn decent sort in my book. Elizabeth Beasley agreed and said she's anxious to meet the man and say hello.
Now the Brandywith's had an even more fascinating story. Seems they've got a table in their study, quite an nice one, too as I recall. Anyway, this table has been in Edith Brandywith's family for generations. You see, she is Edith Browne Brandywith and the table is quite priceless, as well as sentimental. Well the leg on the left has been quite loose and giving them a problem, almost broken off. Well that nice man, The Burglar, took to fixing it for them. Actually came back a second night to finish the job. Of course, he did lift a Sapphire brooch and pair of diamond earrings and some other things, too. But really, what dedication to a job. They're positively besides themselves and Jack says he'd like to share a martini with Mr. Burglar, as he calls him. Actually, Jack swears that The Burglar must be a Sigma Nu, just like Jack. Says only a Sigma Nu knows how to get the job done.
Susan Meale Hamilton spent most of the time complaining about how her tailgate hat had been taken and she was convince that a conspiracy was in play. Well, you can imagine how I had to bite my lip. Susan Meale Hamilton has, even on a good year, even less of a chance of winning the Most Beautiful Hat competition than I do. I at least put some effort into the adventure, while Susan Meale Hamilton' efforts center on the television remote and a box of chocolates. Bug Hamilton did add that despite the few missing bits of jewelry, The Burglar did defrost their freezer for them, and he was quite thankful.
Now Eliahas and Katerina Wayne felt very uncomfortable discussing the entire being 'hit' affair. Well, Eliahas harrumphed "not the sort of thing one brags about, now is it. Just life, it is. Wouldn't have even made that police report if it wasn't for that", well, I'll leave some of his words out, but he was referring to his insurance man. Eliahas and Katerina are notoriously, um, toned down. A bit sparse in the finer things, if you know what I mean. Eliahas doesn't believe in excess anything, other than his three classic cars and quite a bit of stock, from what I understand. Anyway, point is that Katerina has never sported much jewelry, even at black tie events. Mostly, of course, because she doesn't have any jewelry. It's Eliahas, you see. Doesn't believe in that, too frivolous. And dear sweet Katerina never complains. But before I went off on my way, she darted down the drive after me and, checking first to see that Eliahas wasn't watching, pulled a most gorgeous diamond tennis bracelet from her pocket. "A gift," she whispered in the breathless voice of hers, "from that charming burglar". I was so happy for her. No one deserves a diamond tennis bracelet more than Katerina.
"You know what, Abigail?" she confided, "I find him a fascinating individual and I hope he never gets caught."
And I absolutely agreed.
That night, sitting on our porch as we do, well at least when it's warm out and last night was a lovely evening. Anyway, I said to Charlie, "why do you think we've been skipped? We've got quite a bit of shiny, sparkly things." But Charlie just smiled and said that maybe it had something to do with me being in the newspaper business, and such.
Dear Veronica,
Ever since I had my third child and became addicted to Reese's Pieces and Gummy Bears, I've put on weight. I just can't seem to take it off. People keep telling me that I should eat less and exercise more, but I"m running all the time. And the Gummy Bears give me energy. I don't think I"ll ever be a perfect size 8 again, what should I do?
Sized Out
Dear Size,
I think that you should shop at The Second Hand over on West Avenue. There's a size 8 dress there for everyone, I guarantee.
Veronica
But the point here is that Constance Cortnoy has done something about a Monkey's wrench and it's just wreaking havoc on us all. Several of us, myself included, are deeply convinced that this bountiful tailgate she's hosting at the Malvern Races is a devious attempt to sway the judges and win the Most Beautiful Hat competition. There are a few other theories which I don't necessarily subscribe to, although I am tempted as Isabel subscribes to one of them. Theories, that is. And you know, I do think brains were born inside of Isabel. Anyway, Isabel believes that Constance is attempting some sort of statement. Thinks it goes all the way back to college. Well, preposterous, I say. At least I would say that until, as I've said, I discovered that Isabel felt strongly about this particular theory. I supposed it could be a bit of both, you know, hats and statements. Although really, college. Isn't that odd. What's there to make a statement about, after all. We went, she went, she met Conroy, and thankfully her mother insisted that the sorority accept her, and the same women that she is friends with today let her follow them around back then, too. No idea really what the problem could be. But Isabel thinks something to do with always coming in second. Well, if you ask me, second is much better than third.
But on this particular day, Constance Cortnoy or not, I was dedicating my afternoon to completing my hat. Well, that and having a look round Mr. Heung's shop for items that may have found their way into the shop without the owners full knowledge. Obviously, these tasks blended quite well together, as Mr. Heung has been helping me to create my hat. Yes, it is true that after last year's hat seemed to have bombed so fiercely, I had originally decided to go with the tried and true a just buy a hat from Lindsay's. But then I found that absolutely glorious hat in The Second Hand and Mr. Heung suggested I adorn it with tails. You know, tailgate party, why not a hat with tails. Not real tails, mind you, that would be positively ghastly And besides, where would I get them? The tails, that is.
But the point here is not really about my hat, but the other task, the investigative journalism I'd been assigned by Babson. And you know, I realized just a few days ago, that other than the normal, routine town gossip, I had very little knowledge of what actually had been lifted by this Burglar. You know how it is, most of the talk is all the excitement of who's house has 'been hit' and who's been overlooked. Dreadfully embarrassing it is, you can imagine, after awhile not to have been one of the home's that have 'been hit'.
Now I can see why the Dustin's home was skipped, so to speak. Lovely people they are, the Dustin's. And chalk full of good stuff in their house, too, mind you. But don't you see, it's their dog, Jack Daniels. He's a lovely dog, but oh what a barker. The Beasley's house was 'hit', don't you love that word? But the Beasley's poor old dog, Bailey, really is getting on in years and I don't think he can hear much, let alone do much barking. I should think that would make the Beasley's house a rather safe bet, and apparently The Burglar felt so, too.
So off I went, just a few days ago, to visit some of the chosen homes. You know, get their spoon full. Betsy Perkins, of course, had already told me what had been lifted; that emerald cocktail ring of hers and Ned's golf clubs. Funny thing about golf clubs, though. He got them back. They ended up in Archie Archibald's study, of all odd places. Archie doesn't even play golf. Betsy says that the police think The Burglar hit two homes that night, hers and the Archibald's. Must have been too heavy, the clubs, for the poor man to carry so he ended up leaving them in Archie's study. Whats more, according to Betsy, Ned and Archie had quite a rowe over the whole thing. Still aren't really speaking to each other. Well, Betsy says, she's quite glad that The Burglar left her a cat and not a set of golf clubs, because she doesn't play golf, either. Not that she would trade with the Archibald's. After all, Betsy and her cat, Mr. Marmalade, have become quite inseparable, you know.
I asked Betsy if she knew what the Archibald's were missing, and she said "Oh well, you know, they don't really have much of anything worth nicking. But they did apparently find themselves quite light in the silver wear cabinet", as well as something else called a GPS and a Digital something or other. Well, I'd have a very difficult time looking for those things, the GPS and the Digital, at The Second Hand. I've absolutely no idea what they are and wouldn't even know how to begin to act them out to Mr. Heung. Now the silver wear, on the other hand, I could spot. Reed and Barton apparently. Very respectable taste. I made a mental note.
I then visited the Beasley's, the Hamilton's, the Wayne's and the Bandywiths and came up with the following mental notes: lots and lots of Reed and Barton silver wear, two hats intended for the Malvern Races tailgate parties, a few other things with cords and batteries that I'd never recognize in a million years, one priceless pearl necklace and one not so priceless pearl necklace, a diamond tennis bracelet that popped up at a neighbors home, another emerald cocktail ring, a Sapphire brooch, a Sapphire necklace, eight pairs of diamond earrings, and an autographed photograph of Tiger Woods. I don't mind telling you that by the third day I was positively exhausted. Whats more, I realized that I'd need more than three days to wrap this investigative journalism up.
And I'll tell you what, this man, The Burglar, quite a good man, he is. The Beasley's said that the man, The Burglar, walked old Bailey for them. They knew this because the old boy was positively walked out in the morning and both his leash and pick-up bags were left in the wrong spots. Anyone who cares for pets is a darn decent sort in my book. Elizabeth Beasley agreed and said she's anxious to meet the man and say hello.
Now the Brandywith's had an even more fascinating story. Seems they've got a table in their study, quite an nice one, too as I recall. Anyway, this table has been in Edith Brandywith's family for generations. You see, she is Edith Browne Brandywith and the table is quite priceless, as well as sentimental. Well the leg on the left has been quite loose and giving them a problem, almost broken off. Well that nice man, The Burglar, took to fixing it for them. Actually came back a second night to finish the job. Of course, he did lift a Sapphire brooch and pair of diamond earrings and some other things, too. But really, what dedication to a job. They're positively besides themselves and Jack says he'd like to share a martini with Mr. Burglar, as he calls him. Actually, Jack swears that The Burglar must be a Sigma Nu, just like Jack. Says only a Sigma Nu knows how to get the job done.
Susan Meale Hamilton spent most of the time complaining about how her tailgate hat had been taken and she was convince that a conspiracy was in play. Well, you can imagine how I had to bite my lip. Susan Meale Hamilton has, even on a good year, even less of a chance of winning the Most Beautiful Hat competition than I do. I at least put some effort into the adventure, while Susan Meale Hamilton' efforts center on the television remote and a box of chocolates. Bug Hamilton did add that despite the few missing bits of jewelry, The Burglar did defrost their freezer for them, and he was quite thankful.
Now Eliahas and Katerina Wayne felt very uncomfortable discussing the entire being 'hit' affair. Well, Eliahas harrumphed "not the sort of thing one brags about, now is it. Just life, it is. Wouldn't have even made that police report if it wasn't for that", well, I'll leave some of his words out, but he was referring to his insurance man. Eliahas and Katerina are notoriously, um, toned down. A bit sparse in the finer things, if you know what I mean. Eliahas doesn't believe in excess anything, other than his three classic cars and quite a bit of stock, from what I understand. Anyway, point is that Katerina has never sported much jewelry, even at black tie events. Mostly, of course, because she doesn't have any jewelry. It's Eliahas, you see. Doesn't believe in that, too frivolous. And dear sweet Katerina never complains. But before I went off on my way, she darted down the drive after me and, checking first to see that Eliahas wasn't watching, pulled a most gorgeous diamond tennis bracelet from her pocket. "A gift," she whispered in the breathless voice of hers, "from that charming burglar". I was so happy for her. No one deserves a diamond tennis bracelet more than Katerina.
"You know what, Abigail?" she confided, "I find him a fascinating individual and I hope he never gets caught."
And I absolutely agreed.
That night, sitting on our porch as we do, well at least when it's warm out and last night was a lovely evening. Anyway, I said to Charlie, "why do you think we've been skipped? We've got quite a bit of shiny, sparkly things." But Charlie just smiled and said that maybe it had something to do with me being in the newspaper business, and such.
Dear Veronica,
Ever since I had my third child and became addicted to Reese's Pieces and Gummy Bears, I've put on weight. I just can't seem to take it off. People keep telling me that I should eat less and exercise more, but I"m running all the time. And the Gummy Bears give me energy. I don't think I"ll ever be a perfect size 8 again, what should I do?
Sized Out
Dear Size,
I think that you should shop at The Second Hand over on West Avenue. There's a size 8 dress there for everyone, I guarantee.
Veronica
Monday, March 30, 2009
A QUIET LITTLE STREET
Saint Alban's is a quiet town. Usually, at least. At times the local college kids get a bit noisy. But that is usually only if their team wins a big game. This past weekend, their team won a big game. It was so exciting. Now, my street, Devonwood, is probably the quietest of quiet streets. Charlie and I can't hear what our neighbors are up to, and we don't think they can hear what we're up to, either. That's probably why neighbors call out "Hey, Charlie, What's up?" when they see him. And Charlie does the same when he sees them. Or, sometimes they may say "How are you, Charlie?", and he'll reply in similar fashion. Occasionally someone will ask about our son, Chip. Naturally, we ask about their children, too. But very often we ask one another "What's up?". And, our nice quiet street is good that way. We can't hear what goes on in one another's homes, what with the trees, the hedges, a lot of privacy fences and nice, large lawns surrounding our homes.
But this weekend was a bit different. The college team was in a big game. Everyone was excited all day long in anticipation of the game. A big championship. I would absolutely tell you what it was all about, but I'm not quite sure and at this point am hesitant to ask. You know how it is, you go around nodding "yes, yes, very exciting. Can't wait for the game. Go Wildcats" all day long to everyone you see around town. Well, after that, one can hardly ask what the game is all about, now can they? And, after all, Charlie says I'd never catch up. Or maybe it was catch on? But the point here is, that round about eleven o'clock, the game ended and our local school won. Well you can imagine the cheering that went on. I heard that the college kids actually blocked the roads over by the college as they streamed out of their dorms and fraternity houses, hooting and hollering. Well our quiet street is quite a few blocks, maybe a mile, from the campus so we didn't hear any of that. But we did hear our neighbors.
The McWoogle's had a large group over at their house, all to watch the game on their big screen. Now, they have a large French Colonial a few houses up, a bit gaudy but still quite nice. And their guests' cars were lined all up and down the road. Charlie and I were invited over, of course, but Charlie said he didn't want to attend because Victor McWoogle has a habit of slapping everyone on the back every time his team makes a point and that Charlie felt a good game could end up causing him several bruises. Victor McWoogle is a fairly big man, after all. So Charlie and I decided to go out to dinner that night.
Now, we're normally a rather early couple. No late nights for us. But we decided to stay past dinner for a bit of cheer at the pub, joined in some of the fun. I clapped and yelled and cheered, occasionally at the wrong times according to Charlie. But it was fun. And the nicest people over at the pub, too. Everyone was happy and cheery and glad to see one another. Well, we decided to head home after the unfortunate beer incident. We really are just so far from our college days and so very unfamiliar with spilling beer on ourselves. And that man next to me was even more out of practice, from the looks of his face when I spilled a bit of his beer on him.
So we hurried home, in the car that is. Of course, we probably could have walked from our home, but Charlie didn't want the McWoogle's to see our car in the drive. So we headed up Devonwood in our car and were absolutely amazed at all of the cars parked along the road. Charlie says that is what happens when you offer free beer to your friends that are cheap. They park up and down the road. The cheap friends, that is. Why, it was so crowded with cars that we nearly hit poor Conroy Cortnoy as he darted between two parked cars and into the street in front of us. "So sorry, Conroy," Charlie called out his window after he braked, "better hurry back to Victor's or you'll miss the end of the game." Poor Conroy was so distracted that he barely answered Charlie and ended up hurrying away in the complete opposite direction from the McWoogle's, almost dropping the sack he was carrying.
Just as well, though. Within minutes of our arrival home, the McWoogle's door opened up and their guests filled the street, cheering and yelling and singing of Victory. Oh how appropriate, I just realized, that Victor hosted the Victory party. I do say that my journalism career is having a profound effect on my writing abilities.
Well with all of the celebrating going on that night, you can imagine the shock that Betsy Perkins felt the next day when she went down to her kitchen first thing and found that she had a cat. Absolutely stunned, she was. She'd never had a cat before and had no memory of ever going to get this one. She rang me early and asked me to come round, as she knows how well I get along with cats. There are a few strays in the neighborhood and I always leave some food and fresh water out back for them. So naturally I recognized the cat in Betsy's house. "That's Mr. Marmalaid," I told her. He's been round our block now for a few months. Very nice, meows thank you, but won't let me near enough to catch him, bring him inside, you know. "How on earth did you get him in, Betsy?" I asked, just stunned at her accomplishment. And she had absolutely no idea. She and Ned, that's Mr. Perkins, had been across the way at the McWoogle's last night, and she admitted there was, as Charlie predicted, a lot of free beer. Well, that must explain it, we decided. You see, Betsy is really purely a martini gal. It must have been that beer she had. Anyway, Mr. Marmalaid seemed to be enjoying the Perkin's home, having made himself quite comfortable in the kitchen window seat after finishing off some of Betsy's canned tuna.
I wished them well and was about to be on my way when a bit of investigative journalism took hold of me. "Betsy", I asked her quizzically, "is anything missing". Now this was odd because normally Betsy tells me that I'm missing something. We decided to give a look round and I stayed to help. All of the furniture appeared normal and the kitchen looked quite well stocked. But upstairs, Betsy's was horrified to discover that she was missing an emerald cocktail ring. But the worst, for Betsy at least, was when she discovered that the hat she had just purchased for the Malvern Hunt Tailgate was missing. She was about to go running to Ned in despair when he came in from the garage growling that his new golf clubs were gone.
I told Charlie how glad I am that we decided to cheer on the college at the pub, instead of at the McWoogle's house. After all, I'm determined to win the Most Beautiful Hat contest at the tailgates this year and what a tragedy it would have been if I'd lost my new hat at the McWoogle's house. And anyway, we really do have enough cats in our house.
Oh yes, my colomn this week was particularly good. Mr. Petigrew even called it a "doozy".
Dear Veronica,
I think my friend's husband is cheating on her. I always see him leaving the house late at night, keeping the lights out and kind of creeping around. He comes home a couple of hours later acting very secretive. And very quiet. If it wasn't for my binoculars with night vision lighting I'd never be able to see what he's up to. Should I tell my friend?
Neighbor
Dear Neighbor,
Well if your friend has a need for good binoculars, maybe she's a bird watcher, then yes. Definetly tell her. But otherwise, it just sounds as if you're bragging about them.
Thank you for your note,
Veronica
But this weekend was a bit different. The college team was in a big game. Everyone was excited all day long in anticipation of the game. A big championship. I would absolutely tell you what it was all about, but I'm not quite sure and at this point am hesitant to ask. You know how it is, you go around nodding "yes, yes, very exciting. Can't wait for the game. Go Wildcats" all day long to everyone you see around town. Well, after that, one can hardly ask what the game is all about, now can they? And, after all, Charlie says I'd never catch up. Or maybe it was catch on? But the point here is, that round about eleven o'clock, the game ended and our local school won. Well you can imagine the cheering that went on. I heard that the college kids actually blocked the roads over by the college as they streamed out of their dorms and fraternity houses, hooting and hollering. Well our quiet street is quite a few blocks, maybe a mile, from the campus so we didn't hear any of that. But we did hear our neighbors.
The McWoogle's had a large group over at their house, all to watch the game on their big screen. Now, they have a large French Colonial a few houses up, a bit gaudy but still quite nice. And their guests' cars were lined all up and down the road. Charlie and I were invited over, of course, but Charlie said he didn't want to attend because Victor McWoogle has a habit of slapping everyone on the back every time his team makes a point and that Charlie felt a good game could end up causing him several bruises. Victor McWoogle is a fairly big man, after all. So Charlie and I decided to go out to dinner that night.
Now, we're normally a rather early couple. No late nights for us. But we decided to stay past dinner for a bit of cheer at the pub, joined in some of the fun. I clapped and yelled and cheered, occasionally at the wrong times according to Charlie. But it was fun. And the nicest people over at the pub, too. Everyone was happy and cheery and glad to see one another. Well, we decided to head home after the unfortunate beer incident. We really are just so far from our college days and so very unfamiliar with spilling beer on ourselves. And that man next to me was even more out of practice, from the looks of his face when I spilled a bit of his beer on him.
So we hurried home, in the car that is. Of course, we probably could have walked from our home, but Charlie didn't want the McWoogle's to see our car in the drive. So we headed up Devonwood in our car and were absolutely amazed at all of the cars parked along the road. Charlie says that is what happens when you offer free beer to your friends that are cheap. They park up and down the road. The cheap friends, that is. Why, it was so crowded with cars that we nearly hit poor Conroy Cortnoy as he darted between two parked cars and into the street in front of us. "So sorry, Conroy," Charlie called out his window after he braked, "better hurry back to Victor's or you'll miss the end of the game." Poor Conroy was so distracted that he barely answered Charlie and ended up hurrying away in the complete opposite direction from the McWoogle's, almost dropping the sack he was carrying.
Just as well, though. Within minutes of our arrival home, the McWoogle's door opened up and their guests filled the street, cheering and yelling and singing of Victory. Oh how appropriate, I just realized, that Victor hosted the Victory party. I do say that my journalism career is having a profound effect on my writing abilities.
Well with all of the celebrating going on that night, you can imagine the shock that Betsy Perkins felt the next day when she went down to her kitchen first thing and found that she had a cat. Absolutely stunned, she was. She'd never had a cat before and had no memory of ever going to get this one. She rang me early and asked me to come round, as she knows how well I get along with cats. There are a few strays in the neighborhood and I always leave some food and fresh water out back for them. So naturally I recognized the cat in Betsy's house. "That's Mr. Marmalaid," I told her. He's been round our block now for a few months. Very nice, meows thank you, but won't let me near enough to catch him, bring him inside, you know. "How on earth did you get him in, Betsy?" I asked, just stunned at her accomplishment. And she had absolutely no idea. She and Ned, that's Mr. Perkins, had been across the way at the McWoogle's last night, and she admitted there was, as Charlie predicted, a lot of free beer. Well, that must explain it, we decided. You see, Betsy is really purely a martini gal. It must have been that beer she had. Anyway, Mr. Marmalaid seemed to be enjoying the Perkin's home, having made himself quite comfortable in the kitchen window seat after finishing off some of Betsy's canned tuna.
I wished them well and was about to be on my way when a bit of investigative journalism took hold of me. "Betsy", I asked her quizzically, "is anything missing". Now this was odd because normally Betsy tells me that I'm missing something. We decided to give a look round and I stayed to help. All of the furniture appeared normal and the kitchen looked quite well stocked. But upstairs, Betsy's was horrified to discover that she was missing an emerald cocktail ring. But the worst, for Betsy at least, was when she discovered that the hat she had just purchased for the Malvern Hunt Tailgate was missing. She was about to go running to Ned in despair when he came in from the garage growling that his new golf clubs were gone.
I told Charlie how glad I am that we decided to cheer on the college at the pub, instead of at the McWoogle's house. After all, I'm determined to win the Most Beautiful Hat contest at the tailgates this year and what a tragedy it would have been if I'd lost my new hat at the McWoogle's house. And anyway, we really do have enough cats in our house.
Oh yes, my colomn this week was particularly good. Mr. Petigrew even called it a "doozy".
Dear Veronica,
I think my friend's husband is cheating on her. I always see him leaving the house late at night, keeping the lights out and kind of creeping around. He comes home a couple of hours later acting very secretive. And very quiet. If it wasn't for my binoculars with night vision lighting I'd never be able to see what he's up to. Should I tell my friend?
Neighbor
Dear Neighbor,
Well if your friend has a need for good binoculars, maybe she's a bird watcher, then yes. Definetly tell her. But otherwise, it just sounds as if you're bragging about them.
Thank you for your note,
Veronica
Friday, March 27, 2009
AN UNTIMELY PURCHASE
Spring is here and that can only mean one thing, or a few things really. One of those things is the annual Steeplechase Races at the Malvern Hunt Club. It's a glorious day, as long as it's sunny, warm and the ground is dry. Otherwise it can be quite messy and uncomfortable, but usually it is a glorious day. We host tailgate parties on the grounds, compete in contests for Best Tailgate theme and Most Beautiful Hat. And that is where my mind was wandering yesterday as I was walking along Overlook Road towards the center of town. Well, that and I was also quite excited about the upcoming Lilly Pulitzer cocktail party. But as much as I was looking forward to the Lilly event, on this particular day I was on my way to Lindsey's Hat Shoppe to start my shopping for the perfect hat. I am absolutely determined to win a prize for Most Beautiful Hat this year. Izzy Braithwaite has won the contest the past two years in a row, and Laura Lee Hanson the year before that. They snickered a lot at the hat I wore last year, which is a shame really. I spent so much time adding things to it - some horses and a bit of hay to really get into the spirit of things. But this year I decided to go with the tried and true and start my shopping off at Lindsey's.
So there I was, just walking along Overlook, about at the offices for The Weekly, when I almost ran right into Conroy Cortnoy. I'm absolutely serious. Had he not stood up when he did, I would have flipped right over him and landed on the sidewalk. It's very unusual that he was all bent over the way he was, I could have sworn he was trying to put something into the evening drop box that The Weekly maintains, but when I asked him, he said, "No", he was just looking for a copy of The Weekly. Well naturally I was all too happy to offer to get him a copy, and thrilled to finally tell someone that I am Ask Veronica. Well, yes, I have told some others that I am Veronica. Charlie and Isabel know, as do most of the people who work at The Weekly. And apparently, Mrs. Petigrew is quite a fan of my column. Sue-Nancy Quigley, Mr. Petigrew's assistant, says that she has heard Mrs. Petigrew yelling quite loudly at Mr. Petigrew that he had better keep me as Veronica. It is so thrilling to have a fan.
Anyway, you can imagine how shocked and happy Conroy was to find out that I, Abigail, am Ask Veronica. We decided to stop by The Gryphon for a coffee and discuss it. He had so many questions, dear sweet Conroy, that I almost forgot to tell him how excited I am to attend his tailgate party. He looked so overwhelmed, I let him quickly change that subject and go back to asking me questions about my journalism career at The Weekly. Such in depth questions, too, "Did I have a background in journalism or therapy", "What exactly made me decide to take a job", "Who does the investigative journalism at The Weekly" and "Where did The Weekly come up with the news that the burglar was dangerous"?
I was anxious to discuss The Burglar, as most people in town are now adays. But if I am going to be high profile, I decided that I could not dodge questions about myself. I explained, delicately of course, that I felt it my duty to help support my household. Oh Charlie did not encourage me to find a job, let alone a career. He's always assuring me that things are just fine at his office. But, if a country the size of Iceland and all those big companies in New York can go out of business, then we shouldn't take chances here at home. Conroy sighed and lamented how he wished that Constance would find a career, or get out of the house - his wording was a bit different than mine. Apparently, he's taken a night job and ends up spending more time round the house in the day then I think he's accustomed. Anyway, in my haste to get into the interesting stuff, about The Burglar, you know, I forgot to tell him about my therapy background. I took a very thorough class on aromatherapy at the school night and even have a certificate with my name on it. Just as well, I don't like to brag.
Well it turns out that Conroy knows a lot about The Burglar. He told me that he knew for a fact that The Burglar has not threatened or harmed anyone and is not dangerous, as The Weekly proclaimed in It's headline. Conroy said that on one occasion, the burglar even took one family's dog out for a walk and picked up after him, too. Says the family told him how grateful they were that The Burglar took Bailey, that's the dog, for his constitutional or they would have had quite a mess to clean in the morning. Almost worth the few bits of electronics that he took, they said. The Burglar, that is. Not the dog. Since I've become a career gal, my mental sense of impressions has grown so vivid. I had a sense that The Weekly should hire Conroy. Mr. Petigrew is so obsessed with 'finding out more' about The Burglar that I am convinced, I told Conroy, that he may be allowing The Weekly to print things that are a bit exaggerated. Naturally I suggested it to Conroy. That he work for The Weekly, that is. "I have no writing experience", he kept saying. And we laughed so much when I confided that neither do I. I told him, Mr. Petigrew just hired me on the spot. Didn't even look at my qualifications, which is good because they are not actually true. Mr. Petigrew, I told Conroy, just has a sense about people and he absolutely loves to help people get involved in journalism. He is always trying to help that hopeless girl Veronica get a job. And honestly, I don't think that she is really trying. If Conroy came round the paper and really tried, I just know that Mr. Petigrew would give him a chance.
Well Conroy was so thankful of my encouragement that he read my column right there as we finished our coffee. And he loved it. He said he had no words to describe my advice. Although, he did suggest that if Mr. Petigrew had helped me so much with my career, that maybe I should help Mr. Petigrew with his obsession with The Burglar. Maybe write some of the true things about The Burglar to help The Weekly out.
And so I did. Unfortunately, the same week that I decided to add some Burglar tid bits to my column, The Weekly ran a front page article claiming to have received a hand delivered letter from The Burglar demanding an apology.
Dear Veronica,
We have friends that insist on paying us surprise visits. Not only are they uninvited, but it's hard to get them to leave. They'll stay for hours and monopolize our television and eat our food. We've tried pretending that we're not home but they walk around the house looking in windows and always catch us. What should we do?
Trapped
Dear Trapped,
Well I certainly do not think that you should bad mouth anyone. Even a stranger. It is just not appropriate to say that someone is dangerous when they clearly are not dangerous. Just supposed someone came over to your house and walked your dog for you. That would not make them dangerous, now would it?
Have a lovely day and say hello to your friends for me,
Veronica
So there I was, just walking along Overlook, about at the offices for The Weekly, when I almost ran right into Conroy Cortnoy. I'm absolutely serious. Had he not stood up when he did, I would have flipped right over him and landed on the sidewalk. It's very unusual that he was all bent over the way he was, I could have sworn he was trying to put something into the evening drop box that The Weekly maintains, but when I asked him, he said, "No", he was just looking for a copy of The Weekly. Well naturally I was all too happy to offer to get him a copy, and thrilled to finally tell someone that I am Ask Veronica. Well, yes, I have told some others that I am Veronica. Charlie and Isabel know, as do most of the people who work at The Weekly. And apparently, Mrs. Petigrew is quite a fan of my column. Sue-Nancy Quigley, Mr. Petigrew's assistant, says that she has heard Mrs. Petigrew yelling quite loudly at Mr. Petigrew that he had better keep me as Veronica. It is so thrilling to have a fan.
Anyway, you can imagine how shocked and happy Conroy was to find out that I, Abigail, am Ask Veronica. We decided to stop by The Gryphon for a coffee and discuss it. He had so many questions, dear sweet Conroy, that I almost forgot to tell him how excited I am to attend his tailgate party. He looked so overwhelmed, I let him quickly change that subject and go back to asking me questions about my journalism career at The Weekly. Such in depth questions, too, "Did I have a background in journalism or therapy", "What exactly made me decide to take a job", "Who does the investigative journalism at The Weekly" and "Where did The Weekly come up with the news that the burglar was dangerous"?
I was anxious to discuss The Burglar, as most people in town are now adays. But if I am going to be high profile, I decided that I could not dodge questions about myself. I explained, delicately of course, that I felt it my duty to help support my household. Oh Charlie did not encourage me to find a job, let alone a career. He's always assuring me that things are just fine at his office. But, if a country the size of Iceland and all those big companies in New York can go out of business, then we shouldn't take chances here at home. Conroy sighed and lamented how he wished that Constance would find a career, or get out of the house - his wording was a bit different than mine. Apparently, he's taken a night job and ends up spending more time round the house in the day then I think he's accustomed. Anyway, in my haste to get into the interesting stuff, about The Burglar, you know, I forgot to tell him about my therapy background. I took a very thorough class on aromatherapy at the school night and even have a certificate with my name on it. Just as well, I don't like to brag.
Well it turns out that Conroy knows a lot about The Burglar. He told me that he knew for a fact that The Burglar has not threatened or harmed anyone and is not dangerous, as The Weekly proclaimed in It's headline. Conroy said that on one occasion, the burglar even took one family's dog out for a walk and picked up after him, too. Says the family told him how grateful they were that The Burglar took Bailey, that's the dog, for his constitutional or they would have had quite a mess to clean in the morning. Almost worth the few bits of electronics that he took, they said. The Burglar, that is. Not the dog. Since I've become a career gal, my mental sense of impressions has grown so vivid. I had a sense that The Weekly should hire Conroy. Mr. Petigrew is so obsessed with 'finding out more' about The Burglar that I am convinced, I told Conroy, that he may be allowing The Weekly to print things that are a bit exaggerated. Naturally I suggested it to Conroy. That he work for The Weekly, that is. "I have no writing experience", he kept saying. And we laughed so much when I confided that neither do I. I told him, Mr. Petigrew just hired me on the spot. Didn't even look at my qualifications, which is good because they are not actually true. Mr. Petigrew, I told Conroy, just has a sense about people and he absolutely loves to help people get involved in journalism. He is always trying to help that hopeless girl Veronica get a job. And honestly, I don't think that she is really trying. If Conroy came round the paper and really tried, I just know that Mr. Petigrew would give him a chance.
Well Conroy was so thankful of my encouragement that he read my column right there as we finished our coffee. And he loved it. He said he had no words to describe my advice. Although, he did suggest that if Mr. Petigrew had helped me so much with my career, that maybe I should help Mr. Petigrew with his obsession with The Burglar. Maybe write some of the true things about The Burglar to help The Weekly out.
And so I did. Unfortunately, the same week that I decided to add some Burglar tid bits to my column, The Weekly ran a front page article claiming to have received a hand delivered letter from The Burglar demanding an apology.
Dear Veronica,
We have friends that insist on paying us surprise visits. Not only are they uninvited, but it's hard to get them to leave. They'll stay for hours and monopolize our television and eat our food. We've tried pretending that we're not home but they walk around the house looking in windows and always catch us. What should we do?
Trapped
Dear Trapped,
Well I certainly do not think that you should bad mouth anyone. Even a stranger. It is just not appropriate to say that someone is dangerous when they clearly are not dangerous. Just supposed someone came over to your house and walked your dog for you. That would not make them dangerous, now would it?
Have a lovely day and say hello to your friends for me,
Veronica
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