I, MorePie, do solemnly swear that I will never buy another unnecessary vintage or secondhand item again for the rest of my life.  I will not be tempted by white chippy paint or barkcloth drape panels or old lace or stained quilts–unless I’m sure I can get the stain out, which I usually can– or Christmas decorations.  I will not give into the temptation to bring home little tables, vintage tablecloths–unless they are truly spectacular–or any china with a dog or a rose on it.  I swear, right now as I’m loading up my car with boxes of stuff, that I will never buy another piece of ruby-flashed glass (though I don’t intend to let any of what I already own leave the house) or anything that needs sanding, painting, upholstery or glue.

Humiliation = taking things to the consignment store.

No, I didn’t return to the one that reluctantly agreed to try to sell my furniture.  I had an appointment to bring my offerings to a smaller, cuter, friendlier place.  She took it all, despite my not having known the “20 things” limit.  And was very, very nice.  But I find it weird and uncomfortable to do this.  I would rather give it to someone or donate it or throw it away.

My grandmother went through a stage in her 80’s when I had to be careful what I complimented.  If I said, “Oh, Grandma, that’s a nice necklace,” she’d whip it off and press it into my hand.

(Grandma, I now understand.  And I still like that necklace.)

She also went through a stage when she went through “the change”, as they called it back in the 1950’s.  She painted everything pink.  Chairs, picnic tables, anything wood.  A lot of it was eventually repainted red.  Maybe that was the compromise she made with my grandfather, but I’m guessing.

After the consignment store, I kept driving south to Wal-M**t.  Big mistake.  On the way home I vowed to become agoraphobic:  have my prescriptions mailed to me, shop via amazon and use stamps.com instead of going to the post office.  I bet, if I really thought about, I would never have to be around know-it-all pharmacists, bitchy cashiers and alarms that sound because I bought what, Wheat Thins???, and then have to go back into the store and have my receipt examined by the guy guarding the shopping carts.

Oh, yeah, I wanted that new Lady Gaga cd so badly I hid it between the bags of frozen spinach.

My mother and one of her friends went undercover to the consignment store this afternoon.  They saw my sofa and one of the marble-topped coffee tables near the front.  They looked everywhere, she said, but there was no sign of my yellow chairs or Two-Dog Chair.

And, as my mother pointed out, they are hard to miss!!!

So, whaddya think?  Have they sold already?  Or have they been dumped behind the store, waiting to be run over by the Dunkin Donuts delivery truck?

If I wasn’t agoraphobic I’d go to town and see for myself.

My mother and the ruby-flashed glassware, Christmas Eve 2007