Jan. 22, 2010 Lists are Fuuun

The much-anticipated query arose last night during the nightly phone chat with Himself, "So, how much stuff did you take to Goodwill?" The question was slipped in among routine but always charming conversation and asked in a tone that belied his curiosity. Question mark hanging in the air, I responded in a similar tone that I hadn't yet dropped off anything at the shop because I was still adding to the pile.

Truthful response, yes, but I didn't admit that I was scared to drop off the flotsam on the same day I packed it all up. Out of the foggy recesses of my brain I can pull out a memory of packing up a few items of clothing and casually tossing in a small brass and black metal Grecian urn looking thing that was, undoubtedly, made in India. I dropped off the box before class, and while sitting through Gratuitous Transfers my semi-nimble mind landed on a memory of the odd little vase. As I thought about it the small stirs of panic began to set in. Wasn't that the vase that my dad had said was purchased by he and my mother? The same one I plucked out of a garage sale later held by my stepmother? She, ahem, most certainly didn't know the provenance of such a fine little oddity, but I could not claim such ignorance. How could I toss out something that my broke but in love parents had cherished during their brief romance? Was I so heartless?

I rushed back to the shop as soon as classes were over, frantically scouring the shelves topping the clothing racks for the distinctive little urn. I was scanning the last section, the one apparently reserved for misfit junk, when my eyes fell upon the vase. At least three green $4.99 stickers were randomly plastered on top of the metal, but I rushed it to the checkout counter without hesitation. Breathlessly I told the woman what had happened, and she said it was very lucky that I had found it, although the look on her face upon further appraisal of what she was wrapping said otherwise. In the eye of the beholder I guess...

So, to prove that I am letting go of a "few" things, may I present an inventory of our household's rejects to date, soon to grace several abodes near me:

2 A-Z silver bookends that vaguely reminded me of erector sets
1 wobbly Samsonite rolling bag that has flipped over in more domestic and international airports than I care to remember
1 silver-plated footed iced tea pitcher with awful proportions
1 antique glass frog with no base, used for arranging flowers
6 white odd Ikea ceramic shot glass looking things that cook your fingers if you use them as espresso cups
1 unused magazine rack
3 wall-mounted candle racks
1 vintage glass dish
2 unused weathered-wood picture frames
1 slightly scuffed millefiore bottle stopper I purchased in Italy
1 really horrible Fossil purse- brown and black should never be put together like THAT, yeck
3 pairs of lightly used flip-flops
1 pair of pleather boots styled for a dominitrix that I bought on eBay- oops
1 vintage straw and lace hat that time has not been kind to
1 green table lamp purchased in a small Florida town with my Gram's encouragement, then given to her, then returned to me shortly before she passed- except I have no place for it and won't unless I open a country themed bed-and-breakfast in 30 years
1 pair of are they brown, are they purple? suede heels
4 belts, 3 of which are mine and one of Himself's that is more appropriate on a scruffy frat boy than my hunky husband
2 chipped marble dishes
1 giant antique Atlas jar

Phew.

Jan. 20, 2010

I have a second-hand life. Hand-me-down, reused, recycled- however you phrase it, my whole life has been marked by thriftiness and repurposing. And it didn’t start out from any intention to be green. After all, becoming your grandparent’s 6th child isn’t due to anyone hugging a tree. Much of what followed has been born out of necessity, chance and a bit of really fantastic fortune.

Throughout my childhood black leaf bags bursting with donations from my uncle’s church were always a cause for celebration. The thin-walled smelly plastic held heaps of amazing and slightly scary clothing styles to choose from. Weekend trips to flea markets and thrift shops also yielded great treasures, so long as everyone kept their patience and a .40 can of Coke in hand.

As I sit here typing, a glance down at my brown and black stained fingers tell me that while I’ve moved far from 2144 Peach Drive, some things will never change. My discolored digits give away the fact that I just finished re-dying a lovely estate Ferragamo bag and a cute little brown (authentic) Coach purse I picked up last night at the local Goodwill. Can I afford to buy these things at full price? Perhaps. Do I want to? Not really.

I haven’t always appreciated the gift for thrift that my grandparent’s meager income and Depression-era values instilled in me. As a teenager I had the unexpected privilege of attending a fairly well-to-do private school, all the while living between a trailer and my grandparent’s two bedroom post-WWII asbestos-shingled house. Uniforms blurred the income lines between my classmates and me, but my penchant for thrift soon drew a horrified reaction from a pair of classmates that would help to firmly place me in the realm of “other” for the rest of high school. It had something to do with a road trip, junk shops and my explaining how to mend a hole in a t-shirt.

Cruising through Goodwill last night I realized that while my standards have changed (just because you appreciate the value of McCoy pottery does not mean you have to buy it), in this period of recession I’m no longer an oddity. No more am I young woman standing shoulder-to-shoulder with only little white-haired ladies telling me how they repurpose shoe racks for planters. In the aisles I now also smile at fashionable-looking women looking at furniture and teenagers ooing and aahing over DKNY jeans that look brand new and ring up for $5 a pair.

My Goodwill trip last night was an odd way to mark my return to my residence from Southeast Asia, but for some as yet undiscovered reason it felt like the right thing to do, although it may have just been a symptom of procrastination. Now that I’ve returned to my home I have to face the thrilling task of packing up for a move to the District. Unfortunately I’m finding that my treasure-seeking habits, while now fairly refined, have led to some clutter blunders. Over the next few weeks I’ll be clearing out my old life to make room for the new. My husband of seven years and I will finally be living in the same country after 3 years apart and we really, really need the space. Wish me luck!