Being Thrifty

With respect to my moving plan I have been making trips to the post thrift shop to sell our wares. You know, the miscellaneous crap which fills our homes; mostly stuff we think we care about, but in the end, it is just stuff. That is what has been making an exodus from my house. It is no longer my home, merely a shelter in which to dwell until I again have a home.

The thrift shop opens three days a week, every week at 9:00 am. It is also open two Saturdays a month at 10:00. When the doors open, consignments are taken until the staff feels they can no longer accomodate the consigners wanting to sell on any particular day. I have never been turned away, but I am never there later than one hour after opening. In fact, I am usually one of the first people there, but not because I am trying to arrive so early. I go there after dropping the kids off at school and before hitting the gym, which puts me there most days no later than 8:20.

When I get there, I take my bag of items (most are allowed ten items per day but being on orders allows me to take twenty) and put it in the line near the front door. Sometimes there are one or two bags already there. Sometimes there are more. And, on very rare occasion, I am the first. Again, I am not trying to be there first, but if I get there early, I get out early and it makes for an easier day. I may not work outside the house, but I am a busy chick. I gots a lots goin' on.

I am one of the few non-retirees consigning regularly. Most are not just retirees, they are geriatric. Scratch that, they are uber-geriatric. When they try to chat, I smile and converse back, but sometimes they are so hard to understand. Today was no exception. There was the new old guy who is convinced that everyone cuts in front of me in line and states every day that, "She was first, she was here first, give her the first number." Usually the lady handing out the service numbers just ignores him and carries out her task like always. There was the German lady who has been in America for 61 years (she told me so) but still sounds like she just got here. And, as always on any military installation, there was the very little Korean lady whose English vocabulary is quite limited and difficult to understand. I have become accustomed to these folks, who like to make small talk but can be very vicious.

Today when I pulled up in the lot I put the truck in park and got out to take my bag to the door. When it is chilly or windy, as this morning was, everyone just takes their items to the door, places them in line and returns to their vehicles. As I was getting around to the passenger side, this one old lady (who incidentally has disabled plates) sprung to life from her driver's side seat with an enormous bag in hand, ran up the ramp to the door like an Olympic sprinter and put her things down. She was trying to beat me to the line. OK, whatever. I am not into competition with old folks, I just want to sell my crap. But, interestingly enough, they almost all act like this. I just laugh. Today, I laughed out loud. I couldn't help myself. I wound up with number three.

There are technically seven counters for consigners to use and if they were all in use, there would be seven shop volunteers accepting consignments, one to a counter. Since I began consigning again in December counters number one and two have not been in use, nor has counter number seven. Therefore, the person holding service number one (like numbers at a deli counter) is usually seen at counter number three, and so on. Since I was service number three, I was at counter number five. The person with service number five would be helped at counter number three, after service number one is finished consigning. Its all good, right?

So, I set myself up and began hanging my items and my volunteer clerk was introduced to me, as she is a brand new volunteer, by the lady who runs the thrift shop. She then took the next counter. No sooner had I started to pin my third item on its hanger when some crack-head of an old lady came up behind me and started yelling at me because I was at counter number five and she had number five and she wanted to know if they handed out two number fives or if I was just so rude and inconsiderate as to assume I was allowed to go to counter number five because I thought I could. I stopped what I was doing, attempted to make eye contact (which was pretty hard because although she had two eyes, they seemed to be looking in seventeen different directions, none of which was toward my eyes), and tried to tell her calmly that they would call her number to the specified counter over the loudspeaker as soon as they were ready for her.

Then, it was on. She got pissed. She turned on her heels, bitching at me about being disrespectful and complaining that it hardly made sense to her that this type of business would allow people like me to do business there and it was totally confusing to her that she wouldn't be served at counter number five when she was holding service number five.

I shrugged one shoulder, turned around and kept hanging my clothes.