Last week, just as Katie and I were about to leave for an estate sale, Boomerang Boy sauntered in with a request. “I need a jackass Christmas sweater for the P’s party,” he announced. “Something tacky.” Katie and I exchanged a knowing nod. “We’re on it,” Katie assured him. Thirty minutes later, we were at the sale. The late home-owner had been in her house for over sixty years. From the amount of mildew, dust and debris, we estimated it had last been cleaned sometime in the Nixon administration. Katie was appalled. My daughter is neat, orderly, organized. We fear it’s some sort of sleeper gene. I was thrilled. For you see, vintage treasure-seekers, mildew, dust and debris are the sure signs of a packrat. What you want to see at a good estate sale is a pile of old boxes and rotted army foot-lockers and broken furniture at the curb. What you do not want to see is a newly-mopped floor and a plastic bin full of eight-track tapes. Or a family member with a clipboard and a list of prices. Or, Gawd forbid, the latest Kovel’s price-guide in hand. When you approach an estate sale house, it’s always good to see more piles–maybe some rusty lawn furniture or crusty concrete planters or garden urns. We saw these things and more at last week’s sale. The house was a festival of what-nots, geegaws, whimdoodles, tchtoskes, flotsam and jetsam. Katie’s upper-lip curled. Her nostrils flared at the merest hint of mold. I, on the other hand, nearly leapt for joy, despite the cold I’d picked up in New York. We made our way upstairs. And sure enough, heaped on a bed amidst a mountain of clothing and household linens, we found the perfect vintage Christmas sweater. Three perfect sweaters, to be exact. Two of them were identical, intricate patterns of downhill skiiers, expertly executed, but in an unfortunate cheesey synthetic yarn. The third, green sweater, was really lovely, in a good quality yarn. All for the bargain price of five bucks. Downstairs, as we were paying for your goodies, the deceased’s son nodded approvingly. “My mom knit those sweaters for me,” he told us. “She loved to knit.” He, apparently, did not love her enough to keep the fruits of all those labors, but never mind. To the victors go the spoils. Afterwards, Katie took her outraged sensibilities and inflamed sinuses to bed. And Andy and his best buddies Andrew, Kevin and Michael all wore their “jackass” Christmas togs to the P’s party. Unfortunately, only Andy and Andrew were svelte enough to fit into the vintage sweaters. In fact, if you look closely, you’ll see that Andrew is wearing his red sweater under the green one. Michael did fit into a “jackass” plaid sportcoat his mom and I picked up for him at an earlier estate sale, and Kevin wore his own sweater. Pictured above are the four amigos, all friends since diaper days, enjoying some Christmas libations.

Becky 0525–come on down! You’re the big winner of the holiday giveaway. The crackerjack MaryKayAndrews Global Industries Staff conducted a scientific computerized random drawing to determine the numerical superiority of your entry. (Ok, actually my son-in-law picked your number, while watching football yesterday,) Anyhow, the staff will mail off your book as soon as you email me your snailmail address at marykayandrews@aol.com . Today would be good, because the staff, namely Grace, only works for me on Mondays. In the meantime, keep watching this space for another cool holiday giveaway. Also, for some cool random holiday pix.

South Pacific was….magical. My plane landed at LaGuardia at 11 a.m. Sunday. I cabbed over to the Omni Berkshire, dropped my bags, and trotted over to Lincoln Center (ok, actually, I cabbed there too. It was frickin’ cold!) I managed to buy one of the last tickets available for the 3p.m. matinee, nearly choking at the price. But this was, as my friend Beth would say, a from-me-to-me early Christmas gift. Like Nellie Forbush, I’m as corny as Kansas in August, and I just adore musicals. My mother loved musicals too, and always took us to see movie musicals like Gypsy, Sound of Music and The Music Man. I think the first song lyrics I can remember came from the cast album of My Fair Lady. But Mom had never been to New York, or seen a show on Broadway, until four or five years ago, when my older sister Susie and I, and Katie, took her to New York as a Mother’s Day gift. We had tickets to see Gypsy with Bernadette Peters, and we went to see a cabaret act at The Algonquin, lunch at Tavern on the Green, and dinner at Sardis–all the things she’d always dreamed of doing in New York. She had emphysema by then, and couldn’t walk much, so we even hired a car to pick us up and take us to and from the theatre. The weather that weekend was sunny, but a little cool, and Mom was so excited to be in New York, we even got her to walk down Fifth Avenue and window shop at Tiffany’s and Bloomingdales. She dined out on stories of that trip for months afterward, and when she died a little over a year later, we were so glad she’d finally gotten to see New York. For this trip, I decided if I could only see one Broadway show, South Pacific, in its first revival since the original Broadway run ended in 1954 (the year I was born) would be the one. After I bought my tickets, I still had a couple hours to kill, so I took myself over to P.J. Clarke’s across the street, for a leisurely lunch. It was so much fun watching the holiday crowds at the theatre. Ladies wrapped in mink, shod in Prada, ginormous Louis Vuitton bags casually slung over their shoulders, important big girl jewelry twinkling in the lobby lights. I knew I’d bought an expensive ticket, but it wasn’t until the usher showed me to my seat that I realized I was in the fourth row center, orchestra! When the house lights dimmed and the overture began, I got a huge lump in my throat, thinking about how much Mom would have loved being there. And when David Pittinger, the actor playing Emil de Becque launched into Some Enchanted Evening, with that gorgeous baritone voice of his, I found myself fighting back tears. Sure, the song was unbelieveably romantic, but I was thinking of my dad, and his favorite knock-knock joke, which went like this: “knock-knock.” Who’s there? “Sam and Janet.” Sam and Janet who? “Sam and Janet Evening…” Daddy was the king of corn. So I shed another silly little tear, then I sat back, and let the music and the acting sweep me away to that far away south sea island.

It was dark and cold outside when the show ended, but I decided to walk the twenty blocks over to Times Square to try to buy tickets to another show. Alas, White Christmas was completely sold out. So I walked over to a lovely Italian restaraunt near my hotel, Il Corso, and I toasted the evening, and memories silly and sad, with a couple of glasses of prosecco and some pasta. And it truly was an enchanted evening.