Thrifting

I’ve suspected for a while that I’ve been developing a thrifting problem, but the truth came home to me the other day, when my husband and I were on one of our not-infrequent scavenging trips to a local consignment store, and I turned to him and said, “I think I might start collecting teacups. You know, old, funky teacups.”

He said, “I think you’re turning into an old lady.”

I pondered the evidence. Contemplating a teacup collection? Not a good sign. Also, I’ve started hanging old plates on the wall in our kitchen. But they look nice!

I really, really hate shopping at the mall, but I get a big kick out of shopping at thrift stores, flea markets, and antique malls. I think it’s taken me so long to own up to this because of the Poor Person Paradox, whereby a person who can’t afford to shop full-price retail, and would benefit from shopping used, feels ashamed of buying used, and doesn’t. Even when I went through my late-high school/early-college phase of pseudo-hippiedom, I drew a distinction between thrift stores and vintage stores, and I saved my work money to buy crappy new stuff that looked old.

Many of the items my husband and I have acquired to furnish our house were bought used: the oriental rug in our living room, the secretary where we keep our bills, our dining room china hutch and sideboard, and (my favorite) our pale green, metal kitchenette set with vinyl-upholstered chairs. It was fairly easy for me to get into the mindset to do this kind of spending (though I sweated the rug a little—a used rug seems…used…in a way that a wooden piece of furniture does not), mostly because we couldn’t really afford to fill our house with new furniture, or at least new furniture that would last us more than a couple of years.

Deciding to thrift for clothes took me longer, and actually, I think the only reason I manage now is because I don’t care as much as I used to about how I dress. I was trying to figure out the other day if I even have a style anymore. Now, I should qualify this: I’ve never had good style. I’m too cheap to buy nice clothes, because I have ingrained in me a totally arbitrary list of figures for what certain items of clothing should cost brand new. For example:

T-shirt: $5

Nice blouse, the kind I could wear to work: $25

Jeans: $30

Nice pants, suitable for work: $30, maybe $40 if the cut is really flattering

Dress: $50, unless it’s a Special Occasion item.

Running shoes: $75 (and it pains me to spend that much)

Leather shoes: $40 - $50

Any other kind of shoe: <$20

There are only two categories of Special Occasion items, in which case I might be willing to spend $100 to $150:

Really Special Dress, purchased because I have to attend some kind of Really Special event, such as my graduate school farewell reading or, the once, when I went to the Rona Jaffe reception in NYC.

Interview Suit. I have two now, one which no longer fits, plus one velveteen jacket, all purchased for MLA conferences. I considered them investments each time, and I think they were worthwhile investments. I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have gotten my job without a suit, but I'm sure it didn't hurt that I came looking as if I'd made an effort.

Anyway, I’m cheap, and I also don’t have good instincts. I know a delightful, adorable young woman who shops thrift and can pull off ensembles of funny old-man golf pants and layers of shirts and funky costume jewelry, but if I were to attempt such a thing, I’d look like I escaped the asylum. Also, it seems to me that the women who look delightful in garb like that look pretty much delightful in anything, because they have nice, slim figures and 22-year-old complexions and loads of confidence. No one wants to see me in the high-waisted, tapered trousers this girl was rocking over the summer, even if I paired them with a neat-o pair of high-top Chuck Taylors.

For most of my life, I’ve at least aspired to a certain style, even if I couldn’t exactly call myself stylish. I put thought into how I wanted to be perceived and made efforts toward that end. I favored certain brands, even if I wouldn’t often plunk down money to purchase them.

Now? Eh. I bought half a dozen short-sleeve, button-up, plaid shirts at the thrift store this summer because they were comfortable and not quite as sloppy as a t-shirt. Do I look like somebody’s kid brother in them? Perhaps. At another point in my life I would have cared about that, but now, not so much. At another point in my life, I also would have spent time most days fussing with my hair and applying make-up. Now I just wish I didn’t have these lines on my face.

Let’s end this on a cheerier note. In the category of random thrift purchases, I’ve gotten in the habit of picking up funny old cookbooks, and for some reason I tend to fix on the early 70s-era ones, perhaps because I find those 70s notions of entertaining so—well—entertaining. Here are two of the coolest:

Stewed to the Gills: Fish and Wine Cookery

I like the concept of this one--fish, booze, what's not to like?--but my first attempt at one of the recipes was so-so. I had bourbon on hand (as usual), and so I tried a recipe that called for bourbon, cream, and little tiny “salad shrimp” which taste (I rediscovered) like squishy metal.

Casseroles by Candlelight

Now this one was worth it just for the title, which I like to sing to the tune of “Ebony and Ivory.” One day, I definitely hope to delight my friends with a tasty casserole by candlelight, but for now, I’m just dipping into the offerings, experimenting. Again, the results have been mixed. The recipe for “Carbonnade Flamande,” which called for cubes of round steak, a full pound of onions, beer, and brown sugar, was…odd. Should I have been surprised that it was odd? That it tasted real oniony?