I don’t want to belabor this, but back in 2007, when I first met David Puterbaugh, he was near-cocktailed out of his mind. Since he knew full well I’d wanted to meet him sober, he asked what he could do to get back in my good graces. I pointed ceilingward and said, “You must get that for me.”
No, it wasn’t a palmetto bug, even though I always say it’s not a true Southern story of the coast until that flying cockroach makes an appearance. (Which it did, but that was later.) No, what I was seeking was this:
This chandelier would look so elegant hanging at The Compound. David agreed to procure it for me, but months went by and no chandelier ever arrived. To say I was shocked and heartbroken would be an understatement.
Same lobby, same hotel, 2008. By then, I’d conceded that maybe I was asking too much of Mr. Puterbaugh. After all, he was trying to write short stories, begin a novel, finish his MFA program, travel the world staying in fine hotels, blah blah blah. So when we met again and sat under the same chandelier (this time, it was Famous Author Rob Byrnes who was cocktailed, but I digress), I told him that I’d be satisfied with this:
The large crystal at the center of the magnificent chandelier.
Once again, David agreed to get it for me. Once again, months passed and…nothing. Is anything so perfidious as a man’s promise? I think not.
By Saints and Sinners 2009, I’d written off Puterbaugh as a failure. I couldn’t hold it against him. The man is a Yankee, and certain allowances must be made. When we met poolside at a different hotel, I tried not to even bring up the complete lack of a chandelier at The Compound. After all, he was excited about the imminent arrival of Manfred/George/Manfriend/Michael, and eager for us all to meet said MGMM, and I didn’t want to be the palmetto bug in the ointment.
But it was Puterbaugh who aimed his Nikon screen toward me and said, “In my hotel this trip, I found you another one!” And he showed me this photo:
Fool me once–you know the routine. I smiled weakly and said, “I’m assuming you’ve already had this boxed and shipped?” “Of course!” he answered.
Oh, my friends, you knew, didn’t you, that there’d be no package in Houston upon my return. And in vain have I waited for USPS, UPS, Fedex, DHL, Pony Express, anyone to show up with a box of crystal beauty.
Until today. Today, David Puterbaugh came through.
The models were thrilled, as any fifty-year-old doll knows good lighting makes all the difference in maintaining an “I’m thirty-five!” myth. I texted David immediately to say, “You rock.” And he texted me back to tell me not to worry; he knows he still has a job to do.
Of course, I COMPLETELY BELIEVE HIM!
LULZ!
Isn’t that just like a man?
See, MGH promises nothing but smashing repartee, provocative holes in his sox, and McDonald’s chocalate shakes. This is honest male behavior, the kind I’m used to.
Truth in advertising!
This would be the point when Mr. Harris should step in and beg me not to catalog any of his vices, untruths, etc., for the Internet.
AAUUGGHHH!!!
Okay, I’ll translate that as begging.
Never was it more true to say “it’s the thought that counts” !!
Ah well, start on a small scale, and who knows . . .
Ah well, start on a small scale, and who knows . . .
Ohhh. As Scarlet might proclaim, “If I just weren’t a lady, what wouldn’t I say…” 😉
Small is beautiful…
Definitely true in this case. =)
“The man is a Yankee, and certain allowances must be made.”
LMAO!!! True…
As my mother used to say, tongue-in-cheek, “They are more to be pitied than scorned.”
Of course, in my case, I married one.
ha! how cute!
I love it. =)
Next time I’ll send you an exterminator, I think. You appear to have a rabid marsupial in your garden. (Not to mention a bloke wielding a water gun in your clock tower.)
I think it looks fantastic, and I’m glad it arrived safely. You are one patient Ram, m’lady.
Ahem. Hi. My dolls’ ceiling is awful bare.
I’m on it. Look for a package to arrive in about three years.
hahaha! Damn.
[Cackle.]
And you are the best sport ever, David Puterbaugh. Not to mention good blog fodder.
She looks completely delighted to have a new chandelier. I know nothing about decorating, but I think she may need a table to go under it, and here’s why. My parents had a very low ceiling light (chandelier is too fancy a word for the fixture), and I kept not paying attention and walking into it until they moved a table underneath. So, since it probably took a while to make her hair that fabulous, it’s probably best if she doesn’t walk into the chandelier, although something tells me she’s not as clumsy as I am.
This totally makes me want to do a hurricane picture–her hair all caught up in the swinging chandelier–but since it’s officially hurricane season, maybe I won’t mock the Hurricane Powers.