I wanted double pointed knitting needles, fruity deodorant, rubber gloves, slippers, baby wipes, plasti-dip (google it--it's incredible), and bed sheets... because there are holes in the sheets at our current tiny furnished casita where the neighbor's dog has not stopped barking for two days and which Ben suspects might also sometimes function as a halfway house. I will actively seek out a fairly high level of funk in search of adventure, but we are two miles from downtown Tucson, not camping in the bush of some developing country. Even if I do love a burlap washcloth, I strongly prefer intact linens during the domestic leg of this journey. Acquiring this short list of truly necessary items naturally required trips to four or five separate stores.
This is my first product shot. Try to be nice. Ben is making me post my own photos as a not very sneaky form of encouragement.
The craft store was horrific, as expected. I spend far too much time in crafty stores to talk trash about the other freaks who frequent them, but those people are freaks. You know who you are. The Home Depot was dreamy, as usual--no drama. Then we went to the Rack and Target, back to back. We almost didn't make it to Target because I had a breakdown at the Rack after trying on a pair of True Religion skinny jeans and a pair of Crocs (yes, together. And no, I am still not buying clothes.) Then Target was this traumatic psychic and sensory assault of fluorescent lights, plastic products off-gassing into stale air, small children wailing over the candy they could not have for at least another five minutes until they wore down their parents' weak resolve, and couples bickering over the difference between a sweater and a sweater dress. Okay, one couple, but it was illustrative of the other couples bickering over other inane topics.
Though at times needful, middle-class American shopping today was very much not a rich and beautiful experience. It reminded me of the lives we left behind and the perpetual acquisition of cheap, shiny, new crap. We have a giant storage space full of once shiny, once new crap that we don't really care a whit for. Aside from Ben's tools, my sewing machine, some kitchen wares, and few pairs of hip-loving jeans that I can actually pull over my own calves, there is almost nothing worth replacing. Being surrounded by everything we are supposed to want in order in be normal only made us grumpy and tired. Normal fits a lot of people--most everyone, really--but it's like skinny jeans on me; I can't quite squeeze myself into it without feeling and looking silly and uncomfortable. I'm finding more and more that quirky, old, handmade, and downright funky suit me better. I'm knitting a pair of funny wool slippers now.
Thank you, shopping in America, for reminding me to make a wild and beautiful existence instead of a normal life, to be rich instead of having everything.
