I Don’t Shop
I hate shopping. I hate online shopping more. Now that Mike has arrived I have been forced to go through my belongings and make room for him in the dresser, closet and fridge. Honestly, I enjoy it, I like perging of old things - it’s very cleansing. I have a rule: If I haven’t seen something for about a month, it goes. I take everything to the Salvation Army and get a little piece of paper that itemizes all the donations for my accountant come April.
Back to the shopping. I had to displace shit. I now need a bookcase for all the DVDs and books that were happily nestled away in the dresser or undisturbed in the closet. My coffee table is burdened with the surplus and looks like the dock for the Staten Island ferry at five o’clock. Both the table and I were quite miffed. I had no alternative. It was Target time.
Up and down I traveled, pondering finishes and tones as well as keeping in mind height and width and that the shelves at Target are far larger than they appear. Of course, nothing fit the bill. That left all 25 second hand shops here to look through. Great. Hot. Love it. I know I could go online and browse in the comfort of my jockstrap and stained man beater tank, but nothing ever looks the way it’s described. It may be a problem with interpretation, but that’s a story for another time. Now I must brave the natives and make the long and arduous trek into the uncertain land of Cathedral City and North Palm Springs.
I usually find times like these can be soothed with the proper use of a good glass or two of Burgundy or perhaps a few tugs on a doobie. Both are very useful in making my transition into the wide open space more graceful and painless; however, neither should be consummed in excess. When that happens everything seems to fit and looks absolutely perfect when it’s really anything but. Then I just have to go back for a round of returns. Don’t get me started on returns!
