Sal's Sectional. A.K.A. Lick Me All Over.

Yes, I realize this sounds like I'm about to subject you to sexy talk, but stay with me here because the heading really does bear some relation to today's thrift store find and I assure you, there will be no sex involved. 

My story begins one Saturday afternoon as I was on my way home feeling dejected (a tale for another time, perhaps) and decided to stop in the Salvation Army "family store" for a little retail therapy. The thing I love about thrift hunting is that I never know what treasures await me; I have the relentless hopefulness of a prospector, wading into the creek with my little pan, sifting and hoping for that telltale sparkling beneath the grit.

I didn't find anything at first, just the usual hodgepodge of sad discarded dolls, the hundreds of unremarkable glass vases everyone already has and doesn't want (I mean, who has that many bouquets of fresh-cut flowers besides Martha Stewart?) and, of course, the aisles and aisles of clothes, crammed together in no discernable order because the Salvation Army hasn't yet picked up on Goodwill's trademark merchandising approach, grouping clothes if not by size then at least by color.

I was a little uneasy on this day, having spotted a pair of tattoed young hipsters in their skinny jeans, tight plaid shirts with snap buttons and hornrimmed glasses, but they were only trolling for paintings of big-eyed children on fake woodgrain plaques.

Then I spotted it. All three pieces of a nubby yellow-green sectional sofa, not unlike the one I remember from childhood, the one that occupied a living room corner in apartment 2E on Ditmas Avenue in Brooklyn. I didn't necessarily love it when I was six years old but now that I'm nostalgia-addled and enchanted by all things mid-century, it had to be mine.

Pricetag: $50.

I found someone to truck it back to my house for $20, and as the fellas were loading it up, I had the unmistakable sensation that someone was staring at me. I turned to see one of Sal's employees, an elderly gent who must have fancied himself rather smooth with the ladies given his confidence in approaching me. "You have a boyfriend at home waiting for your fine self?" he asked, scanning my body like an MRI. "A husband?"

"More like a wife," I told him.

"Ohhhh." He looked surprised and I could tell he was considering whether to attempt talking me out of my crazy choice. He hoisted himself up onto an old oak desk, cocked his head and regarded me through narrowed eyes. "Why you don't want a nice man? A man who be real good to you."

"It's complicated," I said. "I mean, I was married. To a man. For a very long time. And it was a pretty good marriage, don't get me wrong." At this point I realize I've already told him much more than he needed or deserved to know.

"You like perfume?" he asked.

"Sure. I like perfume."

I could see the store manager, a young woman with a very long, very curly weave, glaring at him, arms crossed. "Emmanuel. Get back to work."

He responded to her reprimand with a weary sigh, then turned back to me, his voice lower now. "Just stay right here. I got something for you."

When Emmanuel returned, he had a small glass bottle in his hand. It was filled with liquid the exact color of Triaminic. He glanced back to be sure the store manager wasn't around. He opened the cap and held it out for me to catch a whiff of the nauseatingly thick, fruity, smell. "You see what it's called?"

I didn't have my reading glasses with me so I had to push his hand back before the handwritten label came into focus. LICK ME ALL OVER. He watched my face as I realized what I was reading and he smiled slowly.

"Five dollars."

I dug into my pocket and produced the cash, turning my body so the manager wouldn't see. 

As I made my way out of the store the manager stopped me. "Did he try to sell you something? Because I keep telling him, leave the damn customers alone but he don't listen."

I assured her that he didn't try to sell me anything except the three-piece sectional, and I couldn't be happier with my purchase.

There is a right way to go Goodwill hunting.

Goodwill hunting can be a joy and a rush that has you basking in your victories for days. It can also be a bitter, tedious and frustrating experience that makes you wonder why you even bothered leaving the house. In this blog I will share my tried-and-true tips for successful thrift shopping.

Tip of the Day:

Do not bring along Miss Crabapple Grumpypants.

In other words, you must absolutely not invite anyone who doesn't share your love of thrift store shopping. She will get bored and restless after ten minutes and make the rest of your shopping experience a living hell without ever saying a word. That's because you're a sensitive people-pleaser who wants everyone around her to be happy at all times, which is an issue for a different blog and probably a few sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy. Bottom line: Leave Miss Frowny McGrumpis home with her Battlestar Gallactica reruns and everyone will have had an enjoyable afternoon.

Call me lucky.



A midcentury modern Farberware toaster finds a new use
because using it as a toaster would have been disgusting (read story for details).

 Half of my house is furnished by a toney shop in an upscale college town. That would include the hammered, hand-burnished copper top dining room table, the loveseat called Baby Grand for its piano-like shape, the black leather coach and wrought iron coffee table. Five thousand dollars worth of furniture, all of it beautiful.

The rest of my furniture comes from Goodwill or Sal's (of Army fame), junk shops, and garage sales and, frankly, I like that stuff even better. Not because nothing cost more than fifty bucks. It's the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush of finding a perfect mid-century modern (MCM) sectional couch or an entire set of American Limoge Triumph china with the 50s pattern known as Bermuda.

Do you want to know where I live and shop?

I'll never tell. I'm not trying to be mean but please understand that one of the great advantages of living where I live is that it's a rare day I walk into a thrift store and find myself competing with some version of me, or a Brooklynite hipster trolling for an MCM fiberglass lampshade. When I'm on the hunt, the only shoppers are old guys looking for power tools, and big, loud families in search of cheap clothes. Like I said, I'm lucky.

In the case of the Farberware toaster, however, I guess I was only half-lucky: fortunate to find this old beauty with its fake woodgrain and sleek typeface ($6) but not-so-fortunate because when I fired it up it smelled like old men, dirty socks and stinky basement. I didn't worry (much) until I tasted the toast itself and guess what it tasted like? Yeah, you got it. Blech. But I had to figure out a way to work this cool piece into my life, and I did. What do you think? (BTW, I just found this toaster on ebay for $68. Presumably, it doesn't smell.)

I'll be regularly posting my finds. I look forward to hearing about your favorite thrift shop scores.

Happy Goodwill hunting!