I spent Friday and Saturday debit card-deep in field after barn after circus tent of antiques and crapola. Love! My taste level is always much bigger than my wallet, but I seem to be able to find some small bits of affordable grandeur – all about the illusion, doncha know. Like, I found this so-called “Bejewelled House” that has no idea the amount of embellishing I have in store for it:
Sweet, right? But it needs some attention, mainly of the German glass glitter variety. Big plans.
And I have lusted after this woman’s jewelry for several shows, and I finally found The Piece that spoke to me the loudest:
It’s called “Upward - the best place to look for guidance.” She displays everything on old photographs and then puts the name and what items she used on the back. Mine includes a crucifix from a Victorian rosary, for which I bent my no-rosaries-as-jewelry edict because it was just the cross after all. I wish she had a website to share, but I did find this. I predict more purchases in my future.
I also bought Peach a long-desired GIANT electric red petticoat, which I would photograph for you if she weren’t twirling around in it (again) as we speak. The search continues for a smaller one for Olive – all they had was pink, and I’m pretty sure we’ve got that covered.
So there I was, having a very successful solo outing Saturday morning, as the rest of my crew (wisely) hit the road before the impending deluge we all knew was coming. I was armed with my umbrella and mucky shoes, ready for the rain. And I made it through eight or so tents, no worse for wear, in about two hours. I’m fast like that. It was all going swimmingly, until … until. I got back to the car and couldn’t, for the life of me, find the GD key.
When I tell you I am anal retentive about losing, well, ANYthing, I’m talking Outer-Limits Loca, y’all. I’m still lamenting a baby sock of Peach’s that T-Bone lost at the laundromat almost 10 years ago. (It’s yellow, if you see it). So to say that I have ever, EVER, lost my keys, in 25 years of driving? Never even “misplaced” those sumbitches.
After frantically searching my bag (which only had four things in it to start with – sunglasses, wallet, lip balm, and car ke… shit), my pockets, and the surrounding area, it hit me. In my uber-preparedness, that of donning my mucky shoes as I sat in the back cargo area, I must have locked the car, set the key down to change, and left it there when I shut the hatch. I think. Right?
Fortunately, I was parked in the front row, right across from a gaggle of local gents who collect the parking/ticket fees. Included in the group was a local sheriff’s deputy, who I approached about a “tool for unlocking cars,” thinking it wise not to ask for a “Slim Jim,” lest I sound too “street.” Seriously. That’s the kind of shit I think about. Fast forward 90 minutes, during which time I’ve called T-Bone 17 times and become close personal friends with every member of The Gaggle (“I sure wish I could help you, darlin’. If your husband gives you any trouble about this, lemme talk to him.” As if.), and two more deputies show up – on horseback, of course - with “the unlock tools.” After a few kisses for the Appaloosa I was holding on to, they got it open, and all three of them converged on the car, looking for that GD key. Which, by this point, I had decided was in fact NOT in the car, but lost somewhere amongst the rows and rows of pretties I had spent two hours wandering through. And indeed, I was right. No GD key in the car.
They suggested I try the Lost and Found in the show office, but really, what was the point? That key was literally like a needle in the haystack because guess what they put all over the ground in the tents? And add more of when the first layer gets muddy because of all the rain? Yup. NOT needles.
But because I had about two hours to kill before T-Bone and las ninas could get there, and because it was across from the café tent where I intended to drown my sorrows in a basket of fried potato, I stopped by the show office. And as I was going in, an official-looking woman with a walkie-talkie was coming out, and she asked if I needed help. I said, “Well, I’ve lost my car key, and did any…” And she said, “Was it for a Kia?” And had it IN HER HAND. I almost started crying.
It’s all a blur now, but I just keep saying thank you and she kept saying it was her pleasure and something about she had just gotten it or something, meaning, even if I had gone straight there two hours earlier, the GD key wouldn’t have even been there yet. I think I hugged her, too. Not sure. Anyway, I galloped off, and when I got back to the top of the stairs leading down to the parking lot, I just stopped and held up the key. And The Gaggle erupted in cheers. Thanks and hugs all around, and I got the hell outta there.
And after all that excitement, imagine my delight when I woke up Sunday morning only to discover that I have The Strep Throat. Actually, I didn’t know it was The Strep Throat at first because I’ve never had it before, and I thought I was probably reacting to the flu shot I got on Friday. But by Monday, when my main symptom was that it felt like someone was shoving their fist down my throat every time I tried to swallow, and their fist was on fire and shooting needles into my neck, I decided to call in the professionals. The rapid test said “way positive,” so I’ve been on antibiotics ever since. No longer contagious, but you may want to wash your hands after reading this. And maybe I should have told you that to begin with.