Today is my blow off the boringness and be stunningly creative day. I didn't plan on it being such a day. I planned on doing statistics (don't ask) and maybe scouring the bathroom before making a spirited jaunt townward to buy cat litter. But no. Not only did I awake on the half shell (see post: I'm Too Sexy for my Blog), but I had a legitimate need to visit the most excellent place to find the answers to questions I did not know that I had. I speak of none other than Goodwill.
Poor people are fabulous too. In fact, rich people copy us and call it "ghetto fabulous." And while I am not exactly Lil' Kim, I know how to throw together an ensemble assembled from the scraps of the privileged and the dead. We of the less-than-solvent caste deserve our own collections of fashion and home decor, full of quirky, vintage, artistic and sometimes moldy haute couture and kitsch. Enter The House of Goodwill, a hodge-podgey treasure chest/trashcan in which you can spend hours, never knowing what you're going to find on any given day. Never been? Well, come with me now for a virtual tour of Goodwill, our special feature for today's segment on Lifestyles of the Artistic and Underemployed.
The first thing that will hit you when you walk in the door is the smell. You will be greeted by an irritating odor that is part dust, part grandma's basement and part delousing laundry detergent. I usually take a bottle of water to wash it down and also so I can wash my hands if I end up touching something truly gross -- like somebody's unattended ADHD-riddled child. Note: just hand the kid a shabby drool-encrusted stuffed animal from one of the shelves and keep walking. Otherwise, you'll end up becoming a free babysitter, which the harried mother will view as a threat not a favor when she realizes her child likes you better.
I am totally accustomed to trying on clothes in the dressing room in which three of the four hooks are broken, the mirror hangs so low that it cuts off the view of my head and the cracking linoleum floor is awash in a field of tumbleweeds composed of other people's hair. And sometimes the lines to get in are long. But poor people are used to that (think government cheese), and those lines usually lead only to condescension from snippy social workers who think they are better than us because they have enough money to take a yearly vacation to some southern state to watch Nascar. Nobody judges you because you're on work comp at Goodwill. Nobody accuses you of ripping off your employer. Plus, the fashions can be absolutely awe-inspiring.
Today I am wearing me some red boots. That's what I said. And they are kick-ass! Part Foxy Brown/part gay ranch hand (Brokeback style), these clodhoppers are just the thing I needed to reassert my dis-ability to walk in heels. We're talking almost three full inches of chunkiness on which to balance my fashion sense and sensibility. And ladies, we all know what a difference three inches can make. Plus, at the rock bottom price of $7.99, even the insurance adjuster who thinks I can live on $800 a month will beam with approval!
My jeans are vintage Old Navy (boot cut!) bought at Goodwill over the summer. My cute schoolgirl cardigan with it's peach flowers on a creamy yellow background is actually schoolgirl size, but commandeered by me it's quite babelike, as is my belt with silver rivets. All told, the outfit cost less than $15, and I have a whole grocery bag of similar fashions just a-waiting for me in my car (which I did not buy at Goodwill.)
Super savvy thrift shoppers may choose to go to the sprawling Goodwill drop-off center aka "The Dig" to get first dibs on the stuff that gets brought in by the truckload after estate sales and floods. This is the Mecca Goodwill. And, like many places in the middle east, you risk your life by shopping there. I don't recommend doing this unless you are feeling especially tolerant of humanity that day. I've seen a woman sucker punch another woman because she'd grabbed the last piece of Fiestaware from the half-off table. Definitely not suggested when you have PMS. You'll leave in tears, trust me. And who needs to hate people any more than you already do?
Sometimes, usually Saturdays, Goodwill sports the occasional hot dork that attracts me so. He's got an I-know-how-to-read vibe about him and not too much meat on his bones. Nice, sometimes ink-stained hands because he's often an artist. He's usually looking at the leather coats or bowling shirts with names like "Lloyd" embroidered on the pocket. Unfortunately, these guys are often gay, or about to become gay. Or else they have a slinky Siamese cat of a girlfriend skulking about the Girl Scout uniforms and hurling evil looks when her man says, "Excuse me," when I knock my plastic shopping basket into his totally on accident.
Other golden Goodwill finds include: an almost brand-new pair of Doc Martens, a leather coat, a set of stainless steel bowls, a Morrissey CD, two cookbooks and a pair of magical platform sandals that drive men to drool at my feet (possibly the best two dollars I've ever spent.) So what I'm saying is this: I'm ghetto fabulous and proud of it. Maybe you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear. But you can buy one. It'll be $2.99 and beautiful, and it will match your boots perfectly.
Poor people are fabulous too. In fact, rich people copy us and call it "ghetto fabulous." And while I am not exactly Lil' Kim, I know how to throw together an ensemble assembled from the scraps of the privileged and the dead. We of the less-than-solvent caste deserve our own collections of fashion and home decor, full of quirky, vintage, artistic and sometimes moldy haute couture and kitsch. Enter The House of Goodwill, a hodge-podgey treasure chest/trashcan in which you can spend hours, never knowing what you're going to find on any given day. Never been? Well, come with me now for a virtual tour of Goodwill, our special feature for today's segment on Lifestyles of the Artistic and Underemployed.
The first thing that will hit you when you walk in the door is the smell. You will be greeted by an irritating odor that is part dust, part grandma's basement and part delousing laundry detergent. I usually take a bottle of water to wash it down and also so I can wash my hands if I end up touching something truly gross -- like somebody's unattended ADHD-riddled child. Note: just hand the kid a shabby drool-encrusted stuffed animal from one of the shelves and keep walking. Otherwise, you'll end up becoming a free babysitter, which the harried mother will view as a threat not a favor when she realizes her child likes you better.
I am totally accustomed to trying on clothes in the dressing room in which three of the four hooks are broken, the mirror hangs so low that it cuts off the view of my head and the cracking linoleum floor is awash in a field of tumbleweeds composed of other people's hair. And sometimes the lines to get in are long. But poor people are used to that (think government cheese), and those lines usually lead only to condescension from snippy social workers who think they are better than us because they have enough money to take a yearly vacation to some southern state to watch Nascar. Nobody judges you because you're on work comp at Goodwill. Nobody accuses you of ripping off your employer. Plus, the fashions can be absolutely awe-inspiring.
Today I am wearing me some red boots. That's what I said. And they are kick-ass! Part Foxy Brown/part gay ranch hand (Brokeback style), these clodhoppers are just the thing I needed to reassert my dis-ability to walk in heels. We're talking almost three full inches of chunkiness on which to balance my fashion sense and sensibility. And ladies, we all know what a difference three inches can make. Plus, at the rock bottom price of $7.99, even the insurance adjuster who thinks I can live on $800 a month will beam with approval!
My jeans are vintage Old Navy (boot cut!) bought at Goodwill over the summer. My cute schoolgirl cardigan with it's peach flowers on a creamy yellow background is actually schoolgirl size, but commandeered by me it's quite babelike, as is my belt with silver rivets. All told, the outfit cost less than $15, and I have a whole grocery bag of similar fashions just a-waiting for me in my car (which I did not buy at Goodwill.)
Super savvy thrift shoppers may choose to go to the sprawling Goodwill drop-off center aka "The Dig" to get first dibs on the stuff that gets brought in by the truckload after estate sales and floods. This is the Mecca Goodwill. And, like many places in the middle east, you risk your life by shopping there. I don't recommend doing this unless you are feeling especially tolerant of humanity that day. I've seen a woman sucker punch another woman because she'd grabbed the last piece of Fiestaware from the half-off table. Definitely not suggested when you have PMS. You'll leave in tears, trust me. And who needs to hate people any more than you already do?
Sometimes, usually Saturdays, Goodwill sports the occasional hot dork that attracts me so. He's got an I-know-how-to-read vibe about him and not too much meat on his bones. Nice, sometimes ink-stained hands because he's often an artist. He's usually looking at the leather coats or bowling shirts with names like "Lloyd" embroidered on the pocket. Unfortunately, these guys are often gay, or about to become gay. Or else they have a slinky Siamese cat of a girlfriend skulking about the Girl Scout uniforms and hurling evil looks when her man says, "Excuse me," when I knock my plastic shopping basket into his totally on accident.
Other golden Goodwill finds include: an almost brand-new pair of Doc Martens, a leather coat, a set of stainless steel bowls, a Morrissey CD, two cookbooks and a pair of magical platform sandals that drive men to drool at my feet (possibly the best two dollars I've ever spent.) So what I'm saying is this: I'm ghetto fabulous and proud of it. Maybe you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear. But you can buy one. It'll be $2.99 and beautiful, and it will match your boots perfectly.
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