Lost Treasure

While out for a reading and running errands Saturday, I saw a big blue box where people deposit clothes and shoes for people who need them.

“Just the thing!” I thought with relief, and popped my new camel coat with the hood , tags still on, into the bin. Well, yes, there’s a story there.

Now, I don’t mean to brag about my great generosity. I would probably have given the coat to someone I knew if I thought it would fit them. But that was exactly the problem, you see. I wasn’t sure exactly who would find it the perfect fit.

I had fallen prey to optimism again, one of my favorite afflictions. I bought a coat online. By all descriptions, it seemed like it should have fit. I loved the camel color, just what I was looking for, and the hood was a real plus. It shipped so quickly, too, all the way from the United Kingdom. But it didn’t fit.

All that and it didn’t fit. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say the ship of state has a notable prow and the coat was inches away from buttoning, no matter how enormous the size tag said the thing was. In fact, I had been concerned at first it would be too big, since the company had sent one size larger than I had ordered. I think perhaps they knew something though. All I can say further is that if worn it would have provided a notable gap in coverage.

With much of the country in the grip of worst-ever cold weather and so many sad and amusing photos of pizza shops suddenly converted to drive-in restaurants by uncooperative vehicles and all, I decided I wanted a decent coat. I haven’t had one since I left Illinois and that was a very long time ago.

Just before tossing it into the bin, I checked the pockets for treasures. It’s a habit. I put things in pockets and leave them there. These were at least still sewn together, still factory fresh in its never-worn condition.

I’ve been concerned that I’ve lost some things by leaving things in pockets. I can’t be sure, you see, because if they are never found, you never know where you put them. Right? That’s some law of the universe, like socks missing from the laundry. But knowing my habit, having found enough important things stuffed in my pockets in the past, I check pockets for cash, important papers, driver’s license, credit cards, jewelry, keys, electronic gizmos. Someday I expect toads or something like a naughty child’s pockets betraying the fun of the day.

When I found that the coat didn’t fit, I did look up the information to get a refund. The seller does have a refund policy but requires that the less-than-satisfied buyer return the coat through shipping with tracking. This is inexpensive and easy when the item is purchased in my own country, but annoyingly, international shipping with tracking costs a king’s, or at least a princess’ ransom. Calculating that the cost of the return shipping with tracking would easily approach the cost of the coat, I decided it was not worth the trouble to return it with a net gain of … well, not enough to buy a pizza. People here need coats. Give it to someone who needs it. They merely have to figure out the annoyance of ignoring the size number on the tag.

I bought a new camel wool coat, no hood, alas, but nice quality from a company in my country so just in case I suffered the same fate of misplaced optimism I could at least return the thing. Coat 2 fits, just scrumptious, thank you, and as I had hoped the “mid-calf” estimate of its length, true for most mortals, is the desired ankle-length on my Hobbit-like frame. When the red gloves I ordered came in, of course I stuffed them in the pockets of the coat. I am, after all, true to pattern. I expect I’ll find the gloves there when I need them.

Online shopping has its downfalls, but for the most part I like it, except for purchasing books. So while nosing through lists of things for sale that I hardly intend to purchase I found myself in the jewelry section. I remembered I am looking for two items that have been mislaid.

One has been missing since 1998. I know this because that was the time that I cleaned out the closet in that bedroom in the rental house I was moving out of in preparation to move to my current house. I had taken that opportunity to cull some items from my wardrobe and taken them to a women’s shelter, then discovered that a pin I had had made from other jewelry was gone. I had checked pockets! I had! I had checked lapels too. Had I checked underneath a lapel? Would I have pinned a pin underneath a lapel to hide it? I might have. And is it gone? Or, did it fall into a box of doll furniture? I miss it terribly.

And the other piece, a gift from a friend far away, a lovely pendant that was a very special present. It’s here. Somwhere.

Where the heck are they??

What’s a card reader to do? Pull a card, of course. So I did. 7 of Wands.

Hmm, I thought, at least this means there is some hope of finding them because the 7 of Wands is a card of success after all. The kind of success it means is peculiar to it. I would say when I find them, optimist that I am but also reading the card, I shall find them one at a time, perhaps stumbling across them while I’m doing something else. My success will be with effort and I will not necessarily be well-prepared for the task. This should be no surprise to me as I am seldom prepared for anything in the realm of housework. Last, while 7’s have a somewhat magical quality about them, I reflect how wands are fire and specifically wood. Perhaps, in the bottom of some treasure box with other goodies, in a drawer in a dresser, in a box of…hmm, furniture for dolls… perhaps. Best to clean out my dresser drawers anyway to get rid of clothes I no longer wear, mismatched socks and all that. And perhaps, I’ll find them.

Best wishes!

&&&^^^&&&^^^**** =^-^=****^^^&&&^^^&&&

Looking for a friendly Lenormand class in San Francisco? Coming soon Feb. 22, 2014!

http://tarotmedia.corecommerce.com/Workshops-and-Classes/Lenormand-Come-to-the-Table-The-Gran-Tableau-with-Marcia-McCord-Feb-22-2014.html

The Shoe on the Other Foot

Remember wardrobe malfunctions? Yeah, me, too. I think I told you all about my swimming suit catastrophe in high school. That was an accident. Strictly speaking, it was a series of accidents, the kind of cataclysm that makes you think there has to be something to waking up under the wrong stars. My mother used to quip, “I should’a’ stood in bed.” But the keyword on that unfortunately funny day was accident.

There’s no way I could have known that not one, not two but three bathing suits would, uh, let me down, so to speak, all in one day. It was my own personal disaster movie.

And then there are those self-inflicted wardrobe malfunctions.

I know there is a classic dream sequence that goes something like you are standing in front of your classroom reading your book report when you happen to notice that you have forgotten to dress for the day and you are (fill in the blank) nude, still in your pajamas, in a clown suit or otherwise embarrassingly not ready for prime time.

Seriously, stuff like this really happens. Maybe you’ve been there?

Like many of my contemporaries, I am half-convinced that today’s fashions actually free a person from the fear of wardrobe errors. After all, if it’s OK to display various sections of your undergarments as a fashion statement, doing so by accident could at worst be seen as an ambiguous style choice. Which is worse? The classic tradesman dorsal cleavage, or purposefully having your pants waist somewhere south of your own waist? At least the tradesman can stand up and resolve the problem although by that time the viewers’ eyes may have melted right out of their skulls. There’s a scene from one of the Indiana Jones movies that comes to mind when faced with the unexpected moon shot. There but for the grace of, well, you get the idea.

But we’re used to thinking of these things as something to resolve or better still avoid rather than parade. So when the younger folks present themselves with what we would consider at the very least a hobbling trousers-and-drawers combination, we blurt before we can stop ourselves, “Pull up your pants!”

Oh, yes, yes, I know that the baggy pulled down thing is supposed to indicate that one might be concealing something more than the usual equipment, perhaps a deadly weapon, in the extra space created between the wearer’s natural branching and the britches hung low. For me, of course, the deadliest weapon is the laugh-inducing, blushing in sympathy, head-desk inspiring vision of a young person trying to be cool. I’m sure there’s a more up-to-date word for cool now, but in the effort to keep my embarrassment at a distance I have not kept up with the latest patois.

It becomes astonishing to us to learn that the victims of terminal embarrassment we are trying to save are actually ourselves. It’s quite certain that the pants fashionistas feel pride, not shame at their selection. Why, I remember fondly when one’s choice of foundation garments was a secret sense of pleasure at the surprise it would bring that special other person when breathlessly revealed. No, that wasn’t in the 19^th century or in a Bronte novel. So the sudden revelation to an unintended audience was, well, it wasn’t a fashion choice.

Ah, but what about those unwitting choices we make? One of the hazards of the workaday world is that we have to dress for the public and admittedly more conservative professional environment before we are fully awake and often without the benefit of proper lighting.

The key here is preparation. When it came to getting ready for work, this was never my strong suit, no pun intended. I dressed according to my mood for work. If I felt gloomy and dark that morning, I would wear something appropriately sepulchral if only in color. If I felt bright and cheery, I went with pastels all the way. Felt like blending into the woodwork? Beiges and browns, of course! And I never wanted to pick the mood-o-day mode-o-day the night before. No, the day deserved its own mood.

Naturally, this made getting ready in the morning a bit of a daily crisis, which served doubly as a natural sort of double espresso. There’s nothing like a time deadline to get things right when you’re half asleep, dressing in the dark and terrified of being late to work. Anything that went the least bit wrong was magnified.

In hot and humid Illinois summer mornings, I would regularly ruin 3 or 4 pairs of pantyhose by putting my thumbs through them trying to drag them up my humid skin. There was no cure for this except having many, many pairs of pantyhose. God forbid that I wear hose with runs in them or not wear them at all. It wasn’t done. I kept spare pairs in my desk drawer. I did the same with earrings because nothing could horrify me more than the sight of myself, finally awake in the office ladies room with earlobes with holes and no earrings.

Nothing could save me from myself ultimately. My shoe habit, for the purchase of so many pairs of shoes could only be described in terms of addiction, often took the form of buying a style I liked in every color available. At least once I looked down at my feet about mid-morning only to discover one blue shoe and one black shoe on my feet, doomed to wear them the rest of the day.

This is the exact scenario portrayed in the 7 of Wands in the RWS deck. Our hero is essentially not quite ready. He is, at least, on top of things, but it’s pretty clear when you look at him that this could change at any minute. This guy is getting no breaks. If you look closely, you’ll see that he has one shoe on and one boot on. Was it a decision made in haste? He obviously has higher priorities at this moment than fashion. Would a little preparation have helped? He is Mr. Wardrobe Malfunction and he will take care of it later, thanks. Please call back when he’s not busy.

This is one of the best reasons I can think of for having a buddy at work, someone who might help you notice that there is some small thing you want to resolve before it really matters to you. When I was a new computer programmer in Illinois, my buddy was Don. Don was happily married, a little older, funny, smart and not too charming; he was The Friend. We talked over coffee in the break room in the morning.

“You, uh, have a rough morning so far?” He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward my waist where hung the belt to my dress, never buckled.

“Thanks,” I sighed, grateful that this one, at least was easy to fix. And as I left the coffee room, I whispered softly to his shoulder.

“Barn door.”

Yup, it’s good to have a friend at work just in case you aren’t completely prepared.

Best wishes.