As I write these words I know they’re wrong. I know it’s wrong to deal with emotional turmoil using a shopping cart. I’m also having quite a time at my job, and am tired to singing the same song to my Crafty Mister, who, to his credit, doesn’t tire of hearing it.
My office is in a terrible part of the Chicago area, in a built up McMansioned, retail hell containing fake-blue-water fountains, “upscale” chain stores and restaurants, and flocks of entitled drivers of ridiculous, expensive vehicles. Also, it’s 22 miles from my home and though we changed offices this year, the Powers did not even consider proximity to public trans for the 5 of us (out of 9) who live in the city, close to said public trans. Grrrrr.
The only upside to working in awful materialistic suburbs is the thrifting (grocery shopping is convenient, too) . A-holes who live at malls shed a lot of clothing, and leave all kinds of quality merch at 2 particular Salvy stores – one on the way home, one that requires a little more of a trip. And since my taste differs from the Mexican ladies who shop the one, and the Polish and Palestinian ladies at the other, I usually hit the jackpot.
Last week while passing each store, I stopped in.
Bunch of these goodies will go to Etsy. Bunches of the purple sort will stay in my closet where they await me.
I used to skeeve thrifted shoes because they’re harder to clean than your standard hot-water-washable blouse. But now that most shoes are made so cheaply from “man-made materials,” I prefer the older leather ones. Can’t always drop $90 on a single quality pair, especially a pair meant for fun, and I don’t want to drop that on shoes that only go to the hated office.
Ashamed to say I feel better.