Ever since we were forced to downsize our studio space, which resulted in a mountainous obstacle course of boxes, totes, and piles of junk at the new place, the Blackbird girls have been trying not to buy new junk. We really need to finish sorting and organizing the stuff that we already have. Whenever something actually sells on Etsy, we spend an hour or so unstacking and digging through totes trying to find it so that we can pack and ship it. This may also involve me crawling beneath or between furniture, getting my hair caught on something in the dark depths, spending five minutes untangling myself, and then having the other Blackbird pull me out by my ankles. Then we end up finding the item wrapped in a shirt that was stuffed into an ice bucket "to keep it safe." So, an unofficial moratorium has been in place on the junk buying.
We've both been feeling it. Withdrawal. The depression. The fatigue. The irritability. This certainly isn't helped by working in an antique store. But we've been pretty good. Until last Thursday.
I ran errands while she was doing shop maintenance on Etsy. I came back, trying to shrug off a bad mood, trying even harder to figure out something to keep me busy for the rest of the day. Two minutes after I walked in the door, she looked at me and said, "Can we go to a thrift store? Please? I think I'm going crazy." I said yes and promptly went back to the car, feeling lighter than I had in days (possibly weeks).
We were just going to the Salvation Army. It's close by, and has great potential for a 49 cent treasure. We started the usual route, and somewhere between the Murder She Wrote board game and the vintage chair and ottoman, we both fell off the wagon. Hard.
As we wrestled the chair into the car, she said, "I feel better. We can go home now, if you want." But, I could tell she didn't mean it. So, I suggested that it would make sense to swing by the Goodwill on the way home. It isn't actually on the way, directionally speaking, but with traffic and all, it made better sense to turn right and drive a mile and a half so that we could turn around in the Goodwill parking lot in order to go home. (It makes sense!)
It would have ended there, if not for the 1960s Pendleton and the silver shoes, both found during our last scan on the way to the register. If not for those, we would have gone home. But when I saw those silver shoes, my heart started pounding. The blood rushed in my ears. Endorphins flooded my system, and I felt
good. And so, on the way home, we drove fifteen miles to another town in order to browse another Goodwill.
And the buzz continued....
All stores close eventually, so we had to actually go home after that. And we were both in really good moods. The next day, I had an appointment in another city, and casually asked if she wanted to ride with me. You know. To keep me company (because who doesn't like to sit in the car while somebody is conducting other business for an hour?). It is total coincidence that my appointment was fifteen seconds from a Goodwill. Total coincidence. And then, because we had already used the gas to get there, we just had to make the rounds to (*ahem)
four more thrift stores.
But who could blame us? We found Veras! Vintage clothes! Linens! A lamp! You can't leave that stuff behind, and you never know what's lurking on that bottom shelf in the next dim thrift store (and thrift stores are getting dimmer and dimmer these days). I feel a rush just thinking about it. My bank account, on the other hand, has taken a hit. And, we have to figure out where to put it all. Maybe in that ice bucket we just recently cleaned out....
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