I hate the word 'tacky.' All my life I've heard this put-down, and as far as I can make out, it basically just means "something I wouldn't do." Well, who asked you? 

Nothing says “I live in a fantasy world of my own making” quite so well as a wardrobe full of sarong-like dresses suitable mostly for leaning seductively against palm trees. The fact that I rarely sidle up to palm trees, even platonically, hasn’t prevented me from amassing dozens of brightly colored sundresses, sarongs and Cheongsams. My closet looks like it belongs to Dorothy Lamour rather than a woman with a job. (However, if I ever get a job as either a Jungle Princess or a hostess in a tiki bar I’ll be all set.)

 Why the Hawaiian closet when the closest I ever get to a luau or puka is this guy Lou who ingeniously finds new places to puke on the sidewalk in front of my apartment each Sunday morning? Because tropical frocks walk that fine line between glamour and costume, allowing one to inject much—needed exoticism into everyday humdrummery. Dressing like a showgirl, trapeze artist, or coming to work in a peignoir is generally frowned upon, so we dames must look elsewhere for garb befitting our imagination and our curves.  When done well, dresses with giant blossoms and hibiscuses (hibiscusi?) bring a uniquely festive glamour to clothes. But the prints must be done well, which is why I’m obsessed with vintage Hawaiian and Pan-Asian clothes.

Starting in the 1930’s, Hawaiian prints and tropical styling became a go-to get-up for vintage vixens. Dorothy Lamour made a big splash in the 1938 movie Jungle Princess, single-handedly adding the word “sarong” to Americans’ vocabulary. (Though it wasn’t exactly her hand that did it.) The Forties brought Pearl Harbor and our boys stationed in tropical locales far and wide. Eventually Hawaii became the 50^th state and vacationers’ suitcases came back overstuffed with shirts and muumuus that seemed like such good ideas back on Waikiki.

Hawaiian prints, like Hawaii itself, are an accessible exotic. The hula (and hula hoops, for that matter) is a perfectly innocent and acceptable form of hip-rolling. Wiggling and grinding can be illicit, but slap on a grass skirt and all of a sudden it’s kinda cute, and even elegant. Wearing beautiful Polynesian and Hawaiian-ish prints is a non-threatening, festive kind of exoticism. Plus, they’re easy and fun to wear! Form-fitting sundresses and cheongsams are extremely figure-flattering no matter what figure you’re trying to flatter, and muumuus are extremely bloat-friendly.

I’ve gotten into collecting dresses made by Alfred Shaheen, especially his Surf ‘n Sand line. Yes, it's another huge money suck for me (see my post on ebaying). But they’re just so darn Dorothy Lamourthy, twirly, and drinks with umbrellas-tastic! Perfect for dames who want a down-to-earth exotic, fun, rockabilly look that isn’t retro-ying-too-hard.

Frankie Manning, the guy in the overalls choreographed this number in the film "Hellzapoppin" (as well as dancing in it) and he was MY Lindy Hop teacher here in Manhattan and at a Swing Retreat in Avalon. You WILL love this...forward to about 2 and a half minutes in... 

Here are my cute friends Lisa Beebe and her one-eyed pup Stitch, before and after haircut. Click on the photo to see both the "Before" and the "After."

When I was young, Hollywood Squares was on every afternoon after school. Like Match Game* and Tattletales, it made up a big part of my pre-teen entertainment pie. These game shows were uniquely innocent and lewd at the same time. Quasi C-list celebrities (who more primarily celebrities by virtue of being on game shows) responded to innocuous questions with quasi-bawdy retorts. 

I'm hoping this diamond distracts from my wizened, veiny hand. Anyway, it's really, really sparkly in real life and I'm constantly mesmerized my its sparkly-ness when I should be listening in conversation/looking out for traffic/voting/operating heavy machinery. 

 

Did I mention it came in the famous little blue box? I must say, that hue does make the heart beat faster...

Hi, I’m Dixie and I’m an ebayaholic. (Hi Dixie!) No, that’s not true. I’m not addicted so much as co-dependent. Ebay is more like having a dysfunctional relationship with a boyfriend. When it works it’s really great, and when it doesn’t, it sucks the life right out of me. But just like the Skinnerian rat that I am, the intermittent good times keep me pressing the lever even more, hooked as I am on trying to re-create those sporadic highs.

I’m not necessarily an every day bidder, but I am close to being an every day searcher. That’s the beauty of ebay; every whim, every personal, unique combination of search terms (“reindeer skirt 40’s”) can deliver results. How man things in life have the potential of giving you, at the push of a button, what you uniquely, bizarrely crave? I love the serendipity of flea markets and thrift store trawling, but the rewards of physical world vintage hunting and gathering can be few and far between. But with ebay, there’s not only a better chance of getting the arcane thing you think you want (“carnival chalkware cowgirl”) but it allows you to discover and excavate an endless parade of fresh whims. Whether you know the exist in the world, or just wonder if the do, ebay is there to help you manifest ever nutty materialist pang. Chanel bird belt?  Gucci red patent 8? Squirrel dress L? Rhinestone bombshell spider fringe? I’ve done them all.

And of course, no transient search combo ever need die. There’s always the ever-helpful “save this search” device to ensure your whim 3 months ago is resurrected when, against all odds, a taxidermied two-headed duckling finally does come up for auction.

Yessir, ebay is a bitch goddess. She giveth, and she taketh (money) away.  Maybe about 30% of my acquisitions aren’t total wastes of money. (For example, ew of the clothes I score ever really fit.) But those special items…they keep me coming back for more.

And more.