Things have really been getting hot lately, and I don't just mean the lovely weather we've been having. Oh but it has been absolutely balmy and wonderful - I just hope it stays so nice and warm for the tailgates. They're right around the corner and it would be blasted nasty if we got a chilly rain instead of this summer warmth. I've got a lovely Lilly dress to wear with my not quite as good as Lolly hat, and it would be ashame to have to sweater it up. But the point here is that the proverbial heat has been turned up at The Weekly. I'm not sure who has turned the heat up, quite frankly it was the air conditioner running the other day. But Sue-Nancy Quigley, Mr. Petigrew's secretary, said that it has, the heat that is, been turned up and someone was really starting to sweat. Odd phrases, really when you think about it. I absolutely did not see one person at The Weekly who was sweating. And as for the heat, as I've said it became quite hot outside these past few days, but inside of the offices the air conditioner was doing quite well at keeping it comfy.
But the important point I believe worth mentioning is that things were getting quite exciting. Well you can imagine how absolutely tickled I am to learn that my column has made The Weekly quite the popular rag. Isabel says that it all has to do with endorsements, and I've apparently snagged an exclusive. Endorsement, that is. You see, it all started when I agreed to give safe keeping for Lolly Desjardin's Most Beautiful Hat entry. Apparently, Lolly felt convinced that The Burglar would make entry into her home and nick off with her Lemon Hat, and odd as it seems, felt old Burglar Man would skip right by my home. All slights aside, being the good sport that I am, I agreed and decided to reinforce the trenches, so to speak, by taking it up with The Burglar in my own manner. Straight to the point, I posted a letter from my pen to his eye in my weekly advice column. Asked the man straight out not to lift the Lemon hat of Lolly until after the tailgates. Which, by that point I'd imagine, the hat would no longer even need a space in my home.
Word got out, and spread rather quickly I might ad, that The Burglar not only read my column, but responded in quite a quick turn around. And that, as Isabel says, is quite a coo - getting an endorsement from The Burglar. Impeccable manner, he has. And that is exactly what I said to Captain Leighton as he was asking poor Mr. Petigrew the same questions, over and over. I told him, Captain Leighton that is, that I was absolutely certain The Burglar would respond to my post as he's shown himself to be quite the model citizen, if you discount the burglary of course, in most respects. I mean really, the man has shown time and again that he respects people's property and their feelings, too. Well, again keeping the discount for the habit he has of steeling things. But he always tidy's up and fixes anything he's broken, and sometimes fixes things that just need fixing. And a darn decent sort, too. Why the entire thought of giving Katerina a nice piece of jewelry, knowing she had none of her own, was just positively charming. And you know, you can't buy charm like that in a jar. Can you imagine what a decent sort he must be. And I'm not the only one that feels this way. Why just the other day, Victor McWoogle told me that if The Burglar, or Burglar Man as Victor likes to refer to him. Point is, Victor says that if Burglar Man surfaces again, or drops me another line, to mention the possibility of a golf membership at the McWoogle's club. And that would be quite a jump across a very lengthy waiting list.
Now they - the police and Mr. Petigrew and Mr. Petigrew's attorney, Stanley Miles, that is. Well they talked and talked about Amendments, more than one of them I think because they keep making The First Amendmant sound terribly important, and being confidential, coming down to the station and all sorts of things they felt strongly were my duty. I've absolutely no idea how they came to think that an Advice Columnist of my stature would ever amend her advice or consider something intended for the newspaper to be confidential. And I told them that, too, that they were missing the point. Finally, I said to Captain Leighton, after first telling him just how much I admire him and to give Rose, his wife, my best, that if he wanted my advice he was going to have to send me a letter just like everyone else.
And that really is the point here. Why I've got quite a stack of mail to answer since The Burglar wrote me. Now since I've taken up the Veronica quill, I've scarcely got more than a note a week. Not what you'd call a town in dire need of advice. But advice I gave just the same. Well you can immagine that since The Burglar has given me such a rousing endorsement, one would naturally want my advice. I've become absolutely a sought after sort for advice. More letter than I could possibly read over a cup of coffee, which is really my usual working hour. I've taken to adding a mid day snack time to go with my letter reading. And it's not just me that has become a person that uses the working term 'swamped'. Sue-Nancy Quigley, Mr. Petigrew's secretary, tells me that the advertising department is also in the swamp. Says that the phone in classified rings so much that Mrs. Petigrew has been compelled to come by in the mornings to lend a hand and ear. And apparently, Mrs. Petigrew has grown tired of coming to The Weekly since that Veronica girl has found other employment.
I said to Charlie as we were enjoying a nice, summer like evening on our porch, 'I feel quite important suddenly.' And Charlie just said to me, 'darling you're always important.' And that's a thought that no one can nick.
Oh yes, do forgive any typos, this entire idea of being swamped is exciting but does come with it's own set of issues.
Dear Veronica,
I have a secret crush on a man that I work with. His name is Harper but he is married and I don't want anyone to know, except for Harper. Can you please use your column to advice him of such,
Anticipating
Dear Laura,
I am not certain if Harper reads The Weekly, but I had the pleasure to bump into his wife, Sonya, at the Genuardi's yesterday and she says that she reads The Weekly as well as my column and she promises to show him your letter. Good luck,
Veronica
Showing posts with label tailgates. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tailgates. Show all posts
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
A TIP O' THE HAT
When Isabel Curtis speaks most people stop and listen. Of course, I listen to Isabel all of the time. She is so profound and has such a way with words. Honestly she is most brilliant. And really that is only one of her many, many fine traits. I find myself quite proud to be Isabel's best friend. Always has a frothy comment or two to make, and smack dab on point, too. Really, not a thing gets by Isabel. Unlike me, who, according to Isabel, could be sitting next to a pond wondering where the water has gone. But really the point here is that Isabel commands quite a bit of attention when she makes a point.
It was just the other day, over cups of coffee at The Gryphon, that Isabel made a profound statement - and you know, that is exactly what it was, too. A statement. Isabel made this statement to me, Lolly Dejardins and Iggy Braithwait. Iggy had been spending quite a bit of time with Isabel and I ever since I managed to resurrect her fractured sense of self. And Lolly, of course, has been our third since school. Pretty girl, Lolly is. All curls and smiles and smart plaids and very much a backbone sort. Of course, she can't keep up with Isabel on the tennis court, but then again neither can I.
But back to Isabel, sipping and listening as Lolly and Iggy dished on the hats they planned on wearing at the tailgates. Placing her mug on the table and leaning in to emphasize the important nature of what she was about to say, Isabel interrupted the hat talk and spoke.
"I find it quite suspicious that Constance Cortnoy is hosting such a major tailgating event," and with that, Isabel resumed her sipping.
Well, you can imagine the effect that this statement had on the remaining three of us. What were we to think, mind you we're not an overly suspicious set. But I do abide by the principle that Isabel has quite a bit of perception about her. And, since I've become a career gal, and a newspaper person at that, I've acquired quite a keen sense myself. I decided to stay quiet, which is saying a lot to be sure.
Lolly spoke first, wondering if "CC may be making a play for Best Hat?". But Iggy poo pooed that thought straight off, quite convinced she was that no one could beat her in the hat competition.
"I think she's trying to assert herself in the hierarchy," Iggy offered, but Isabel gave a slight roll of her eyes. Very intelligent eyes, she has, too.
Off handedly, Isabel noted that Constance has always been a follower and would stay that way. And that, Isabel said, is what made the whole affair quite suspicious. "Why would she be braking from the tradition that we've always had." You see, the steeplechase races have been a part of life along the Main Line since as long as I think there has been a Main Line. But never, as Isabel now pointed out, did one couple host such a large tailgate all by themselves. Quite typically we'd set off with the couples we are most pleased with, parking along side of our other friends and neighbors and then set off to enjoy a day of strolling from one tailgate to the next. Why, I must admit that there have been some years that I've been quite unaware that a horse race was even on the grounds.
I couldn't help myself, the words just came bubbling out of me before I had the chance to swallow them back in. "She'll never have enough silver wear for the whole lot of us," I nearly shrieked and Iggy and I looked at each other, both remembering the thin, bony frame of Constance Cortnoy hurrying out of The Second Hand. "Poor Mr. Heung doesn't have that much silver wear in his store in an entire year."
"There has to be at least fifty people invited!" Iggy added.
"Well," Lolly harrumphed, "I can tell you, I'm not about to loan her any of my silver wear. I think she's doing this just to ingratiate herself with the committee and curry some favor in the Most Beautiful Hat competition."
And with that, Iggy and Lolly took to a cold stare at one another. I don't even think they noticed that Isabel and I set off on our way.
I often think that it should be Isabel, and not me, that answers the advice letters in The Weekly. But "no", Isabel demurs, she says that I have a sense about me that is quite real and that I "get it", or maybe that I am "getting it" or on the path to "getting it". She is so clever with words, I say. She is oh so good for a giggle, too. And as we said our toodle oohs for the day, Isabel tipped her head and told me "keep an eye on Constance, my dear investigative journalist."
With Isabel in mind, I approached Mr. Petigrew with a question. Well, he barely heard me,running into his office and slamming that door shut the way he always does. I do think that man works too, too much and needs to slow down. Always running. So I slipped a note under his door suggesting that I take on some more writing. Another column, mabye as I really do have a lot to say. I don't think he read my note, though, as I heard him quite loudly shrieking that something was going to "do him in".
Dear Veronica,
My wife keeps pushing me to do things that I don't want to do. I admit, I'm a bit afraid of her. I think I'm in too deep and don't know how to stop it all. I don't want to disappoint her, but I'm really afraid of getting caught.
Night Job
Dear Night,
I know just how you feel. I once spent the entire day making a dinner from scratch for my husband and I insist that there were typographical errors in my recipe book that lead me astray. But Charlie pretended to love it all anyway and I pretended to look away just long enough for him to drop most of the dinner into the trash. Love is lovely and keep up the good work,
Veronica
It was just the other day, over cups of coffee at The Gryphon, that Isabel made a profound statement - and you know, that is exactly what it was, too. A statement. Isabel made this statement to me, Lolly Dejardins and Iggy Braithwait. Iggy had been spending quite a bit of time with Isabel and I ever since I managed to resurrect her fractured sense of self. And Lolly, of course, has been our third since school. Pretty girl, Lolly is. All curls and smiles and smart plaids and very much a backbone sort. Of course, she can't keep up with Isabel on the tennis court, but then again neither can I.
But back to Isabel, sipping and listening as Lolly and Iggy dished on the hats they planned on wearing at the tailgates. Placing her mug on the table and leaning in to emphasize the important nature of what she was about to say, Isabel interrupted the hat talk and spoke.
"I find it quite suspicious that Constance Cortnoy is hosting such a major tailgating event," and with that, Isabel resumed her sipping.
Well, you can imagine the effect that this statement had on the remaining three of us. What were we to think, mind you we're not an overly suspicious set. But I do abide by the principle that Isabel has quite a bit of perception about her. And, since I've become a career gal, and a newspaper person at that, I've acquired quite a keen sense myself. I decided to stay quiet, which is saying a lot to be sure.
Lolly spoke first, wondering if "CC may be making a play for Best Hat?". But Iggy poo pooed that thought straight off, quite convinced she was that no one could beat her in the hat competition.
"I think she's trying to assert herself in the hierarchy," Iggy offered, but Isabel gave a slight roll of her eyes. Very intelligent eyes, she has, too.
Off handedly, Isabel noted that Constance has always been a follower and would stay that way. And that, Isabel said, is what made the whole affair quite suspicious. "Why would she be braking from the tradition that we've always had." You see, the steeplechase races have been a part of life along the Main Line since as long as I think there has been a Main Line. But never, as Isabel now pointed out, did one couple host such a large tailgate all by themselves. Quite typically we'd set off with the couples we are most pleased with, parking along side of our other friends and neighbors and then set off to enjoy a day of strolling from one tailgate to the next. Why, I must admit that there have been some years that I've been quite unaware that a horse race was even on the grounds.
I couldn't help myself, the words just came bubbling out of me before I had the chance to swallow them back in. "She'll never have enough silver wear for the whole lot of us," I nearly shrieked and Iggy and I looked at each other, both remembering the thin, bony frame of Constance Cortnoy hurrying out of The Second Hand. "Poor Mr. Heung doesn't have that much silver wear in his store in an entire year."
"There has to be at least fifty people invited!" Iggy added.
"Well," Lolly harrumphed, "I can tell you, I'm not about to loan her any of my silver wear. I think she's doing this just to ingratiate herself with the committee and curry some favor in the Most Beautiful Hat competition."
And with that, Iggy and Lolly took to a cold stare at one another. I don't even think they noticed that Isabel and I set off on our way.
I often think that it should be Isabel, and not me, that answers the advice letters in The Weekly. But "no", Isabel demurs, she says that I have a sense about me that is quite real and that I "get it", or maybe that I am "getting it" or on the path to "getting it". She is so clever with words, I say. She is oh so good for a giggle, too. And as we said our toodle oohs for the day, Isabel tipped her head and told me "keep an eye on Constance, my dear investigative journalist."
With Isabel in mind, I approached Mr. Petigrew with a question. Well, he barely heard me,running into his office and slamming that door shut the way he always does. I do think that man works too, too much and needs to slow down. Always running. So I slipped a note under his door suggesting that I take on some more writing. Another column, mabye as I really do have a lot to say. I don't think he read my note, though, as I heard him quite loudly shrieking that something was going to "do him in".
Dear Veronica,
My wife keeps pushing me to do things that I don't want to do. I admit, I'm a bit afraid of her. I think I'm in too deep and don't know how to stop it all. I don't want to disappoint her, but I'm really afraid of getting caught.
Night Job
Dear Night,
I know just how you feel. I once spent the entire day making a dinner from scratch for my husband and I insist that there were typographical errors in my recipe book that lead me astray. But Charlie pretended to love it all anyway and I pretended to look away just long enough for him to drop most of the dinner into the trash. Love is lovely and keep up the good work,
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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