The thought of turning fifty in a few days doesn’t horrify me.  Frankly, it doesn’t even faze me.  First of all, I’m not easily fazed.  But I’d be lying if I said that the potential gifts I have coming my way don’t make me a little nervous.  I love my friends and family, but one would think that after this many years of “knowing” me, people would be able to get an idea of what I like and what I don’t.  If it’s in my house or on my body, I like it.  If it’s not, guess what?  How hard is that to understand?

I have eclectic, funky and different tastes in everything from food and clothing to design, china and flatware.  Think Italian and Danish (for the china and flatware; Danish food, not so much).  How many people do you know with a vintage "Applause" sign (from when radio programs were broadcast in front of a live audience) standing as a pedestal in their living room?  

A part of me would like to hang that sign over my bed, but who wants to be interrupted with thundering applause when you’re in the middle of enjoying a standing ovation?  If I'm lucky.  I considered the strikethrough; pretend it's there if you like.

I have a collection of  vintage couture clothing as well as 60's modern furniture and refurbished medical cabinets from the 50’s. There's a wild sofa that I designed that elicits giggles of amusement and "wows" or the shaking of traditionalist heads.  I also have a very cool, naked, black vintage Chanel mannequin (with a pair of red Italian binoculars slung around her neck) sitting on a sleek Italian bar stool at the top of my stairs. An Allan Jones bust literally stands out from the walls that are otherwise covered (mostly) with my own paintings. 

I also have a penchant for great bags and boots - ostrich, gator, cowboy.  I like high heels and can  run in them with ease.  I collect old "Interview" magazines, auction catalogues and coffee table books about contemporary art.  I like the unusual as opposed to the pedestrian.  My shoes never match my purse. Like my art, a lot of things about me probably won't match your (boring? beige?) sofa.  I wear one perfume and one perfume only and have for 17 years.  I have a twin parking meter cemented along the fence line of my backyard and  a tricycle from the 30’s parked outside my front door.  I rode it out of the auction house to my car.  That was a painful mistake.  My ass and thighs hurt for days.

I don't go for cutesy or kitsch.  I like clean, modern lines.  If I purchase an object, I’ll walk into the room from every direction possible to see if my eye goes to it directly.  If it does, it’s in the wrong place.  That colorfully painted cow skull (one of my originals) works because it sits on the coffee table and not on the wall where you might expect to find it. 

My friend David loves nothing more than to move something of mine ever so subtly to see how long it takes me to discover that he’s disrupted my flow and disturbed my eye.  He usually receives a call within minutes of leaving my home.  Bastard.

I collect in phases.  African art and vintage posters came and went as did jade and Lucille Ball memorabilia.  There was that year of the keys and wearing something purple every day.  Different decades, thankfully.  Those were tame compared to my adventures with my unicyle, hula hoop and pogo stick.  I still take to my driveway and pogo away when the mood strikes me which is now, about as often as lightning.

I have a couple of fairly substantial pieces of jewelry that I rarely wear but none of them elicits the "oohs"  like the random pieces I have picked up in my travels or designed myself.  I have a thing for cashmere (men’s sweaters in particular) and shawls. I hunt for unusual objects that complement my aesthetic or can be turned into art. Almost anything can be turned into art. Does it not imitate life?

Then, I have this:

He’s the most elegant, gentle and quiet dog you’ll ever encounter. I can guarantee you with 100% confidence that this dog will never bite you. How can I be so sure?  Well, you see, he’s stuffed.  As in, taxidermied.  His life came to an unfortunate and abrupt end 12 years ago only 18 months after I adopted him in France from the local Humane Society.  He was the best dog in the world and the love of my life.   I couldn’t bear the thought of burying him, so I did (what I thought was) the most logical thing.  I drove like a lunatic to the nearest taxidermist and had him stuffed. It took more than a year to go through the process and get  him back and I'm never going to let him go.  "Must love dogs" takes on a whole new meaning with me.  That he's posing on a fainting sofa that belonged to one of the most notorious businessmen from the porn industry is a story in itself.  He was the precursor to Larry Flynt.  (The owner of the porn business, not the dog)

Are you starting to see the problem?

The more eagerly or earnestly someone tries to offer me  a gift, the more likely the chance a look of horror surprise will come over my face upon opening it.  That look has nothing to do with pleasure. There. I've admitted it.  I'm damn near impossible to shop for and now you know why. If you hear me say, “No, you shouldn’t have,” I mean it.  And not in a good way.

The dilemma is that people keep asking me what I want for my birthday.  Other than spa services (did I mention I’m an avid massage whore?),  a great meal  or a nice bottle of wine, I’m kind of a tough customer.  So what does one buy a woman who has just about everything she wants or needs (including a stuffed dog) for her 50^th birthday?  I’m not going to say “nothing” because I’m not willing to get gypped completely.  If you can’t do lunch or dinner, I understand completely.

Send me a check instead and let’s just call it even.