I’m walking down Madison Avenue and see a spectacular display of fabulous martini glasses in the window of an equally fabulous shop.
I’ve been looking for martini glasses to grace the shelves of my teacart, an item I use about as much I will be using the glasses. No matter, they look great and for true Girly Girls, that’s the barometer of what gets to come live with us.
I stroll into the shop and am greeted with studied civility by a wan gentleman who floats over to speak with me.
“Yes Madam” he says, “May I be of some assistance?”
“Yes,” I say, cheerily gesturing to the window display, “how much are the etched martini glasses in the window?”
He rises up on demi-point and glides over to the display, taking one rare jewel of a glass off the gleaming pyramid and placing it in my hand. He then launches into the entire lineage of the glass, each charming detail elevating the cost by ten percent.
I dutifully admire the glass as he beams at it like a newborn. I sigh and look up at him.
“And how much would this little treasure be?”
He proudly declares that each is a numbered, one of a kind, hand-blown gem with the distinctive artisan’s mark on the underside of the curve, at the melding of the stem and the foot and sells for a mere $250.
“Each?” I query, trying not to appear apoplectic.
He nods evenly as he reaches to take it back.
“They are quite something, aren’t they?”
I agree, ask for his card and assure him I’ll be in touch.
We both know better.
Back on terra firma, I am still without stunningly useless glasses for my equally useless teacart. But a true Girly Girl is not without her guile.
I am visualizing glasses on the cart and a bevy of admiring friends gathered around, cooing over my fabulous finds as we settle in for one of those equally fabulous salons I want to host in great costumes reminiscent of Rosalind Russell in “Auntie Mame.”
The movie, not the musical. The “real“ Auntie Mame, darling.
I am looking for my vegetable peeler.
I look and look and then realize the problem.
I don’t own one.
Spending as little time in the kitchen as I do, it’s not unusual for me to lose track of the inventory.
Something possessed me to download a recipe that requires peeled potatoes. With potatoes scrubbed and awaiting their fate, I accept mine. I have to go get a peeler.
Not wanting to spend a whole lot of money, I go to one of those stores I vowed to never enter again unless being pursued by a pack of wolves.
Just as I’d remembered: unattended carts with shrieking infants, cavorting siblings from embattled, multi-generational families, fighting over a mountain of purchases in overflowing carts, a blaring intercom and the buzz of garish neon lighting. This is what I get for thinking I should cook.
I round kitchenware and see an assortment of chef’s tools. There are several kinds of potato peelers. I select one that will match my décor and look lovely in the drawer. Leaving the aisle, almost past giftware, my heart skips a beat and I come to a screeching halt. What?!
There, nestled between a multi-colored, cross-eyed chicken vase and a ceramic lamp in the shape of an outhouse, is one lone, achingly fabulous martini glass just like the ones I’d seen on Madison Avenue!
I carefully remove the glittering glass from its rude surroundings and examine it like a coroner on CSI. It’s not a knockoff! I see the delicate artisan’s mark etched on the curve between the stem and the foot, verifying its lineage. And, wait for it… it’s only five dollars and ninety-nine cents? From $250 to $5.99!
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Right into my trembling hands!
I hold it up like the trophy that it is, imagining myself receiving a Gold Medal at the Shopping Olympics!
My revelry is short-lived. I realize there’s only one. Oh, cruel Fate, to put this lovely treasure within my grasp and not provide just one more to at least make a set?
This is where Law of Attraction kicks in.
Gazing ever so quietly at the glass, I hear my Inner Voice whisper:
“If there’s one, there are two.”
I scour the shelves. Zip. I‘m crushed. Then, the Voice whispers: “Turn around”.
There, behind a miss-matched jumble of pots and pans, is another!
I now have a set.
So, do I go home and gloat over my two or go for a Personal Best?
The risk is that if I do find one more, three would drive me as batty as only having one.
The Voice assures me “There’s yet another”.
Up and down the aisles I go, scouring unrelated items for the crazy-making third, deciding that if I do find it, I’ll start a Trend of Three.
I spot a nice set of sheets marked down from $199 to $39.95.
C’mon, who can’t use a nice set of sheets at a great price?
I take the package off the shelf and ponder purchasing it.
I gasp. Hiding behind the sheet set was…you guessed it, the third martini glass. I slowly slide the glass out of its linen cave and into my welcoming arms.
I am at a crossroads. Do I accept this odd bounty of three martini glasses knowing I will now spend an inordinate amount of time online, trying to track down a fourth, at any price, or do I trust the Law of Attraction, my Inner Voice and the Cheese Sandwich with the image of the Virgin Mary and see if there’s a fourth?
I wait for a message.
“If there’s three, there’s four.”
I’m on it, plowing through parts of the store I’ve never visited before:
Men’s Underwear. Yes, it’s come to that.
And there it was!
Snuggled coyly between Beefy Tees and Tidy Whitees was… The Fourth!
Standing in the check-out line, I didn’t care that all cashiers, except one, were on a lunch break and the sole one working was a trainee from the planet Zoid. I was about to make Retail History!
So, whether it’s Law of Attraction, your Inner Voice, or the Virgin Mary on a cheese sandwich, believe that if it’s meant to be, whatever you seek is out there, waiting for you, and allow the Universe do the rest.