thrifty sunday: be happy

The past couple of weeks have been especially fruitful, thriftwise. I've replenished George's dwindling shirt supply (his torso is lengthening at an alarming rate!) and Zelda's dwindling leggings supply (her thighs are expanding at an adorable rate!), and even found a dress for myself, pleasantly reminiscent of a suzani and good for spring which is when you might see it. Right now I need sleeves. But the best thing I found while perusing the Goodwill was a renewed faith in humanity. Aww, gross! But seriously.

As I stood in line to pay, I watched a tall man in ill-fitting, worn clothes wheel around a child I guessed to be two in a tiny, tattered umbrella stroller. The boy was asleep: slumped over as far as one could slump -- head nearly resting in his own lap -- and unbuckled, as I'm sure the straps were too small to fit around his body let alone the bulky winter coat he wore. The dad went outside to look at the strollers on display next to the rack of bikes for sale, and an employee rushed out to ask accusatorily, "Can I help you??" as though the guy could realistically take off with two strollers, one of which barely held his sleeping child. The father shook his head and came back inside where he poked around for another few minutes. A woman in line at another register left her place to retrieve the stroller the dad had been looking at -- reclining, with a large sun shade, a cup holder and nicely padded seat -- and she and I walked out with our purchases a few yards behind the father, who left empty handed. 

She jogged over to him with the stroller and called out, "Excuse me!" As I put my bags in my car, I heard her say, "I've seen you guys waiting for the bus. It's so hard to afford everything." 

"Holy shit!" the man said. "Are you serious?" She walked off quickly to her car, giving a wave, and, grinning, he wheeled both strollers to the curb for transfer. As he picked his son up out of the old stroller, he began crying, yelling "Thank you!" and waving to the woman as she drove away. He left the old stroller in the place where the new one had sat, for sale, and he and the still-sleeping boy headed for the bus stop. 

Only one thing seems fitting to post after that. A sign for the entry way, $2.99.

thrifty sunday: hot fudge

Winter means extra expenses around here. Wood for the fire. Early sunset, early lamplight. Space heaters. Old houses have some great aspects (character, nice floors, weird nooks and crannies, history) and some truly terrible ones (drafty windows, knob and tube wiring, secret fuse boxes we have yet to find). We pile on the blankets and put on socks (though I am loathe to do so -- socks are the worst punishment for living in the cold North, by my estimation) but it still costs money to keep warm and illuminated through the 14+ hour long nights, these months. That means no or very little fun money, and whatever, really, because the holidays have just passed and we are generally unfit for public consumption, anyway. The visibly ill make others so uncomfortable despite all the well rehearsed wing-coughing-into, even when conventional wisdom and WedMD say we aren't contagious. 

Two things from the other day, when I got ambitious. 

Clothing brands, especially kids' clothes, from the 70s and 80s are so funny sometimes. Hot Fudge? Okay, sure. Mister Persnickety liked the aprés ski vibe and I did too, so we bought it for $2.99

There he is posing with the bottle of Elderberry syrup that has done us no good, because this cold is apparently karmic retribution for everything we've ever done wrong in our lives and homeopathic medicine is not the traditional cure for that, I guess.

Ikea doll bed, $4.99. Zelda, baby enthusiast that she is, immediately put her babies, Donna, Gob and Huzzah, to bed and then tried to get in with them. There is very little in this world funnier or cuter than a one year-old trying to cram herself between the head and footboards of a doll bed so that she may lie with her babies. For Valentine's Day I made her a blanket, but I also kind of like the glamping aspect of the bare wood/play silk situation. 

Value Village is having their yearly Presidents' Day sale tomorrow, so maybe there are some bargains in store (literally)! Have you scored recently?

thrifty sunday: long time, no see

I mentioned that we moved, right? To a whole different city, with different places to shop. A new co-op, which, incidentally, is about a thousand times more amazing than the Bellingham co-op; a new farmer's market that we explored for the first time this weekend; and, of course, a new set of thrift stores. While I appreciate the old standbys -- Value Village and Goodwill -- much like I appreciate familiar chain grocery stores, I dearly love finding new weirdo charity shops because they're usually cheaper and stocked with older stuff. 

Another change: one of us is gainfully employed! And it isn't me! Yeah, I just spend the money. Which is what I did to celebrate. 

1. Saucony "baseball shoes" in George's size, $3.99. He spotted these amid an unfortunate sea of Disney princess slippers and bizarrely inflexible dress shoes and said, "Those fit me!" He was right, and we're nearing the end of Crocs season so it was positively providential.

2. Three books, $1.99 each. How To Talk So Kids Will Listen... has been on my reading list forever, Positive Discipline in the Classroom seemed a helpful choice for a high school-cum-new middle school teacher such as Nathan, and Wonder Play (a book of stuff to do with the under-three set) is put out by the 92nd St Y, so was an easy sell.

3. Seattle Mariners shirt, $.99. What better time to wear a Mariners shirt?

4. Seemingly unworn Hanna Andersson clogs, $9.99. Pricey for a thrift store purchase, no doubt, but seriously: brand new! Purple clogs! 

5. Painting of a lady, $1. Signed "Don '54." It was a dollar! My heart hurts a little anytime I see someone's artwork languishing in a thrift store. Also, I love portraiture. Poor Don. Poor Lady. She's filthy, but she'll have a good home here.

6. Guatemalan dress, $1.99. Perfect for Zelda's fall wardrobe, with some wooly tights and a homemade cardigan, and plenty of room for the giant diaper bum. 

6.5. Again, the clogs!

for girls

On Sunday, as we meandered Goodwill waiting for the baby to fall asleep so we could go eat Mothers' Day lunch, I asked George if he was in the market for anything in particular. He said he wanted a new baby, so to the baby section we headed. Lest you think he was trying to trade in his sister, he did mean a doll; Baby Tony, his little vanilla-smelly Corolle doll, needed a friend, he told me. On the way to the toys we stopped off at the shoe section, because once I spotted a thrashed pair of Wall-E sneakers there and hope to someday find another, wearable pair because I believe in dreaming impossible dreams. I picked up a pair of sandals -- teva-ish numbers in brown and hot pink -- and asked George what he thought. 

"Those for girls." 

What?! "Silly mama, those for girls!" he repeated. 

Okay. I can say with absolute certainty that neither I nor Nathan have ever told him that something was "for girls" or anyone of any gender, for that matter. He owns and regularly chooses to wear hot pink (and purple, and sparkly unicorn-emblazoned) clothes. He doesn't even have a great grasp of who in his life IS a girl (according to him, everyone but his sister is a "guy"). And yet, there he was, poo-pooing the pink sandals. 

There have been a few moments in recent times where I've felt like a contestant on some sort of mean-spirited game show: one where your kid does something, asks a question, makes a comment that requires you to be the perfect parent in response. In this game show, you make the right call and life goes on sort of tenuously as you wait for the next terrifying opportunity to turn your child into a sexist, racist homophobe who eats only simple carbs. An incorrect response, however, is met with a flash forward to your derelict 40 year old son catcalling women on the bus or something. This was one of those moments. I had to stop and suppress the urge to be like what in the hell? I took a deep breath and said, 

"There are no boy or girl shoes, just different shoes that different people like for different reasons." Yes, that ought to do it, I thought. I may have even peered around to see if anyone heard me pull off that expert move. George looked satisfied, even appeared to rethink his dismissal of the hot pink shoes (until he spied a pair of black and red crocs). Feeling like I'd dodged a bullet, or even like I stood my ground and dirty-looked the bullet until it turned around in disgrace, I steered us down the toy aisle in search of a baby doll. Before we made it to the sad pile of naked dolls with one eye permanently stuck open and sharpie stained heads, George got distracted by cars. Something Batmobile-esque caught his eye, but an oversized purple VW Bug with working seatbelts seemed more his speed. I held it up. Then. 

"Mama, this car for GIRLS! I want to hold that one! The scary one!" Good lord. What the crap? I thought we had just settled this! 

"George." I said, "This car is for boys or girls! It's purple; you like purple. Papa has a purple shirt, right?" He looked at me warily. "The black car is for bigger kids." "For bigger GUYS," he insisted. "No," I told him, "bigger kids. Any kids. Any bigger kids." Things were taking a...less articulate turn. I scanned the microfiche in my mind for some relevant article or text on feminism or gender studies and how not to reinforce stereotypical expectations of gender presentation and allow for free expression while supporting your child's own gender identity and and and...

"I want to hold THAT." Huh? "That baby! Oh, so cute! I want to hold that baby! I love it." He was shoving the purple car back at me and pointing excitedly at a half-lidded, cloth bodied doll with limbs akimbo. I took it off the shelf and he snatched it up, cooing at and rocking it like he sees me do with Zelda. He planted a big kiss on its plastic hair. "Is that the toy you choose?" I asked him, and he nodded emphatically. At the cash register, he tried to garner compliments for his new baby by repeating to the cashier, "so cute! Aww, so cute!"

He didn't notice that the woman behind us was buying a black and metallic blue remote control car, and I didn't point it out. It seemed that, despite all my reading, despite my anxiety over the right way to correct him -- gently, factually, without overloading or shaming him -- he figured it out. You know, I'm sure some real a-holes wear pink shoes, but it takes a pretty nice "guy" to fawn over a lazy-eyed, misshapen baby. 

thrifty sunday: boring

I'm still alive. Sometimes barely, as this baby keeps me awake all night with punching, kicking, somersaulting and various other acrobatic moves we can only guess about. George was never so active. I mean, he kicked and wiggled and everything, but as memory serves, it was pretty tame in comparison. Added to the sleepiness is the fact that it gets dark before 5pm, and every day seems a little shorter...because it is. By the time the solstice rolls around, it'll be dusk at 3:30 and I'll never change out of pajamas. 

During the Halloween season, George was really into "spoosy" -- or spooky -- stuff. When it was rainy but we felt cabin-feverish, an easy outing was strolling the local, newly-moved-into-a-huge-building Value Village. They had aisles of masks, wigs, hats, sparkly wings, and clothes being sold as costumes that I would usually buy to wear as normal parts of my wardrobe. I am somewhat shameless in my appreciation of thrift stores' ramp-up to Halloween policy of gathering everything I like into one section -- 70s prairie dresses, fur vests, 60s minis and sequined formalwear -- and I try to ignore the stigma. This year our budget didn't allow for much and I don't fit into anything without at least 10% spandex, so George and I roamed the store with mostly empty pockets as he begged to see more "spoosy stuff." Here are the things I decided we couldn't live without:

A sweater-romper-thing with oranges on it! $2.99 - The thought of leaving this on the rack was unbearable. The cinched waist is a little hilarious given six to nine month-old babies' chubbiness. 

A teeny little velveteen and eyelet dress, $1.99 - For a baby born circa Valentine's Day.

A fancy-ish wintertime dress for a little lady who's moving to a colder clime. San Diego doesn't have much use for long sleeves or high necks or things that go nicely with wooly tights, but no Pacific Northwestern six year-old should be without a few calico statement pieces. A belated birthday present still waiting to be sent. 

Awesome coloring book, untouched by crayons, $.069! Another present, as George is still too little to appreciate creative prompts like the ones found here. No outlines of cartoon characters or funny-looking animals, just open-ended ideas bound in a book. I think its intended recipient will love it, as she has a newly-found interest in art. One holiday gift down.

A new shirt for George, $1.99 - Poor George is kind of low on clothes. He has t-shirts and leggings but not many long sleeved tops or regular pants, and with his opinions on daily outfits growing stronger I want to give him realistic options that don't leave him looking like a clown when put together. Not that there's anything wrong with a toddler dressing like a clown. 

You've undoubtedly noticed the weird, shady quality of these photos. There's no daylight indoors and I hope you'll excuse me for not standing outside in the wind and hail(!) to snap some pictures of my meager thrift store finds. Have you gotten anything good lately?