…I am a thrift store addict. I don't know what the 12 Steps might be for curing this condition, and I don't care to find out. Not shopping retail is one of the few pleasures left in life.
I see women scurrying into the stores in the Discount Center we have in my little town. They look so happy, coming out laden with packages. I take note and I think, the poor dears actually believe they are stealing the stuff. Which is often marked up in order to be marked down. Or the same price as in a regular store.
Many of them, I am certain, think that pawing around in a thrift store is a step down, and they wouldn't be caught dead in the aisles. Good. More antiques, more designer clothes, more name handbags, more 50s/60s reproduction Louis IV chairs (that may need only a little tightening) more art by listed artists, for me. Where do you think antique dealers get their precious, wildly priced goods? At swap meets, garage sales, and at Thrift stores. Oh, they'll claim an item was purchased from an old customer, but that's just a dodge. I saw the Roseville vase, under discussion in a shop, at the Swap Meet on Sunday. And where do you think the Swap Meet seller got it? Likely as not, at a Thrift. Yes, it had an age crack, ending in a small chip at the top. But this was older, hard-to-find Roseville, and it is referred to as a shelf piece. Collectors will pay for it, age crack and all.
Today I went to what we locals call the Third World Thrift. It is the Goodwill's depository for everything that failed to sell in the regular stores. One time, I found an Arts & Crafts metal lamp with a mica shade in absolutely perfect condition; about a week ago, I threw myself across a pair of Chinese style Regency chairs, lacquered in Chinese red with beige tapestry seats. Paint coming off in places, a couple of delicate scroll-like backings broken. Put them in a room as is. When driven, some of us have been known to pay retail for furniture that is deliberately distressed (the stone-washed, ripped up jeans syndrome) and we call it shabby chic, don't we? My friend, who will cover a sofa in plastic, or leave the cellophane on a lamp shade, refers to it as shabby shit. But what does she know? If you're able, just get up after sticking to her sofa for an hour and be humiliated by what sounds like a whoopie cushion.
Next time I am there I think I'll take a Polaroid because you will not believe my description of this place where America's rejects go to die. Clothing is dumped out fron bales like one sees on the backs on donkeys in sadly deprived countries and piled so high that a fairly tall woman (5'6") cannot reach the top. Linens--same artful arrangement. Hard goods are housed in containers resembling dumpsters, and they are a casual mix of delicate crystal wineglasses, rotary motors, children's plastic toys, computer parts, Barbie dolls and Teddy Bears up the kazoo. What I do is stand beside someone young and strong as they tear through the pile and let them do the work, content with their rejects because many don't know a Courreges from a saucepan, and don't want to know. They are scrambling for classic button front Levi's to sell on eBay for hundreds. And I am serious.
Customers make stacks of their selections, and cover them with a sheet or tablecloth pulled from the linen mess. This tells you the stuff is already taken, so stay clear.
I came home with an ecru silk lampshade, from another era, that had somehow escaped the fray. And a bunch of great ball caps for the girls in my cartoons. Total: $2.00, which I later knocked down from the grocery bill.
3:54:11 PM 
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