Uber Thrifting

Not too long ago, my niece Emma (The Girl Who Loves Hats and Sweaters, September 22, 2010) bragged to me about the great deals she found at Gurnee Mills, the mega mega mega outlet mall near the Wisconsin border. Apparently, she talked my sister into escorting her and a friend up there for some serious credit card activity.

“Look at these Juicy sweats,” she sighed, proud of her less than retail priced purchase. “Only twenty-five dollars!” (I seemed to remember when her sister Liz was the same age, ten years ago, the IT brand was Abercrombie & Fitch.)

‘You think that’s a deal?” I roared rhetorically, feigning competition and extending my forearm for her to examine the leisurewear I was sporting.

“One hundred percent cotton hoodie from the GAP purchased at Village Discount a couple blocks from me. Dollar-fifty.”

I don’t know if she was not into pre-owned clothing or if she simply realized that she was not going to out-thrift her aunt, but she dropped the subject.

I had to laugh thinking about the many different levels of thrift shopping there are. My concept of thrifting has changed many times over the years. When I was in grammar school, my mother used to buy my sister Ronna and me a special new school outfit each September. For the most part, after that, we would look for super sales at the stores. We really didn’t want for anything, but we were conscious that we couldn’t spend money on new outfits frivolously. Dad worked too hard. It wasn’t until I was out of college and a poor working girl, in a fashion, still too conscious about not having surplus cash to buy clothes “in season,” that I discovered second-hand stores.

My friend Lin made going to second-hand stores fun. She was quite the discriminating shopper. Sometimes, we went to consignment stores where they had pretty high-end pieces that wealthy women apparently discarded when they were bored, and sometimes we went to Howard Brown or to The Village. Lin had a knack for finding the cashmere sweater without snags amid the rack of acrylic castaways. Going to The Village was like going on a treasure hunt. Once I found a short, black wool dress jacket with 3” diameter buttons. When I reached into the pockets, I discovered black stretchy gloves that nearly went up to my elbows. For $3.50, I felt like Audrey Hepburn. I wore that damn jacket until it practically disintegrated.

When I got older, I realized that thrifting went both ways; that second hand-stores were not just places to find bargains but were places where I could take what I wanted to give away. When I lost weight and when I moved to Wisconsin, I got to clean my closets in good conscience. Cleaning my personal space of things I didn’t need or use anymore was such a great feeling. It literally made me feel lighter. This was good to recognize, and still, my concept of thrifting was to evolve more. Even though I was giving things away, I was mostly thinking about how it made me feel. By giving things away, I was unburdening myself.

When my mom died a few months ago, my sister Barb and I gave away most of her clothes. We talked about it first. “I don’t want to simply give away things to some thrift store,” I told her, “not somewhere people like me shop looking for bargains. I want to give her clothes away to people who really need the clothes.” We ended up giving several boxes to The Salvation Army and several more to an organization that helped down on their luck women dress to get back into the working world. I found an organization that accepted donations of bras which they distributed on the west side of Chicago and also in third world countries. I had reached a whole new understanding of thrifting.

There is a sort of hierarchy to thrifting, I think. First, you set out to find good deals on quality pre-owned items. Then you seek out the freedom that comes from letting go of things you don’t need any more. The final stage is imagining the most consciously appreciative person taking pleasure in the transaction. Now, I like to think about a working mom wearing a formerly favorite sweater I once owned. I like to think of her looking good in the color or maybe enjoying how the fabric feels on her skin. And when I go to The Village to buy a mismatching set of champagne glasses because my best girlfriends are coming over for dinner, I don’t just think about the 99 cent piece price. I think about how great it’s going to feel when we’re around my dining room table clinking them in a toast.

Making good use of someone else’s old treasures and consciously relishing a second life in a garment or knick knack is no small thing.

Metro Tourist

Last week, Lin, my best friend for almost 45 years, came back to Chicago from Sonoma, California where she now lives. Another good friend, Laura, who moved to St. Paul fifteen or so years ago, also decided to visit the same week. It was a great reunion.

I got to play tour guide to my cousin and a friend of his last Thanksgiving and enjoyed myself tremendously. I thought about places I really liked and introduced William and Jean Marie to some of my favorite local haunts; the Chapel in the Sky, the Tiffany dome ceilings at The Cultural Center and Katerina’s for jazz. For my hosting duties this past week, my approach was different. I tried to make arrangements so that both of my friends would get to see and do what they missed most since leaving the Windy City. Of course, hearing about what they wanted to do seemed to be just the perfect trigger for me to remember things I love about living here.

I guess this is called being a metro tourist. The idea is that you can go on an adventure from exactly where you are. You can eat at a favorite restaurant, or make it a point to try a place you’ve always wanted to try. You can stand in line at Hot Tix and see what play you can get seats for at the last minute, just like an out-of-towner. You can ride your bike or get a CTA weekend pass and pack in as many rides as possible. You can come up with a set of neighborhoods you want to explore, or a theme for your destinations. You could decide only to visit places that were built before World War II, or make it a rule that Lake Michigan had to be visible from anywhere you chose to stop. You could restrict yourself to destinations that offered free admission, or scope out plazas or buildings with public art. You could make it a point to buy tee shirts from every stop and boldly announce where you’ve been. (There can never be enough people wearing Mr. Beef tees. Am I right?) At each destination, you could imagine historical markers sharing some interesting bit you would never see in Fodor’s or in Lonely Planet.

Since we had a beautiful summer day, I thought we would include a boat ride in our plans. Rather than a simple jaunt down the river and onto the lake, Lin wanted to go on an architectural cruise where the docent would provide history and stories about some of Chicago’s most famous buildings as seen from the river. Chicago’s great skyline and architectural tradition is something she misses since moving to the left coast. Laura wanted to go to the Art Institute. Specifically, she wanted to stand face to face with John Singer Sargent’s famous portrait of Mrs. George Swinton. I wanted to go to Xoco, a Rick Bayless restaurant I hadn’t been to yet. The weather couldn’t have been nicer. We walked through the Lurie Gardens at Millennium Park, down Michigan Avenue. We took a water taxi to Navy Pier. We caught a jazz set at the Museum of Contemporary Art as part of their Tuesday on the Terrace summer series.

We had so much fun! Why don’t I do these kinds of things all the time? I had to ask myself this.

Visiting destinations that you know you’d love can set a day off in the best of directions. Sharing time with friends can make any place fun. But I think the most potent ingredient for a great adventure is an openness to enjoy whatever crosses your path; the intention to have a good time.

Loving where you live – loving wherever you are, is no small thing.

Remembering an Icon

The other night, my boyfriend and I were reminiscing about favorite old movies. It was extremely hot and humid during the day, and I joked about how, in The Seven Year Itch, Marilyn Monroe felt compelled to tell her new neighbor that she would indeed join him for a cocktail as soon as she got her panties out of the freezer. A short rest in her Frigidaire, apparently, was her preferred remedy for beating the oppressive heat of August in Manhattan.

I remembered how the character Ewell played, a mild-mannered man suddenly bachelorized when his wife and son went to the shore for the summer, indulged his rich imagination by picturing Marilyn Monroe’s character walking through his doorway. In his mind’s eye, she would be dressed in a low-cut evening gown, holding a smoldering cigarette dangling provocatively from the end of a long black lacquered holder. He imagined himself wearing a sophisticated smoking jacket as he sat at the candelabra topped piano, rolling his head with feeling as he played Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto. “Ah, Rachmaninoff,” he said in anticipation of his alluring neighbor’s visit. “What woman could resist Rachmaninoff?”

Of course when Marilyn did join him on the piano bench, the duet they played was Chopsticks. It was such a classic scene; the good husband, a lothario in his dreams but not in actions, and Marilyn, so fresh and funny – an unconscious temptress. She was a wonderful actress in her comic roles, in her beauty and her unabashedly, wide-eyed, sexy innocence.

Since it seemed I had Marilyn on the brain, I was bowled over the next day as I unexpectedly saw a crew erecting a thirty foot tall statue of Marilyn on Michigan Avenue, just across the street from the Wrigley Building. When I saw it, her torso and head were not yet attached. But the long white legs and startlingly white skirt, blowing upward, depicting her from another scene from The Seven Year Itch, was unmistakable. The image was one of the most universally recognized from her career. She was an icon.

For a few seconds, I laughed at the scene in front of me: the workman happily positioned at the statue’s feet polishing her ankles; the tourists, with their cameras, trying to snap a remembrance from under her billowing skirt; the summer-suited businessmen who had to check out what they didn’t get to see in the movie, the backside of her panties; and the working women who passed by. They seemed to be simultaneously upset by the objectification of a sister and titillated by it. It was so cute and kitsch, wasn’t it? A relic from glamorous, old Hollywood. After all, even Marilyn’s private parts belonged to everyone, didn’t they?

Then I felt very sad about the spectacle. I thought about Marilyn growing up in a series of foster homes and about how her career goals always seemed to be in conflict with her relationship goals. I thought about her impeccable comic timing and craftwork, her desire to be taken seriously as an actress, and the irrepressible sway of her fans who wanted her to be their blonde bombshell forever, to always perform in the type of role they imagined for her. And then there was the Kennedy connection… I have already lived almost twenty years more than she managed to.

I am happy I am not an icon. I don’t have to negotiate a gap between my personal life and a public persona, the difference between how others see me and how I see myself. Thanks to video recordings and garage sale memorabilia, the songs and literary characters she inspired, it would be hard to forget Marilyn, Marilyn the icon. But remembering the person calls for a different response.

And remembering the person, not the icon, with genuine love and respect, is no small thing.

Still Point of the Turning World

A friend recently turned me on to this incredible book, The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains by Nicholas Carr. Not long ago, in an Atlantic cover story he penned, he posed an important question for our time. “Is Google making us stupid?”

The book very thoroughly discusses the evolution of intellectual tools and technology and, with compelling scientific data, more than suggests that the technology we incorporate into our daily lives actually causes our brains to permanently adapt. Availing ourselves to the technology of the Internet, Carr maintains, actually makes our brains operate differently. The benefits of the omnipresent WEB, with immediate access to windfalls of information, needs to be considered along with the pitfalls. We are losing our ability to read lengthy pieces of writing and dive into the zone of deep thinking, a mindset that requires time and concentration.

Of course, the question about our cultural propensity for immediate gratification over anything that might require time and renewed intention merits more serious thought than I could try to unpack now. But I have to say The Shallows has prompted me to contemplate the importance of reading books. For me, reading magazines or web-icles or even screen readers carrying books, can’t approximate this experience.

I can appreciate books on culture and philosophy and can value other books as instructive, but I have a special love for novels. My favorite books, the most timeless works I have read, and have often re-read, achieve a kind of truth that feels more truthful than the accurate accounting of a situation. Novels teach us empathy and faith, courage and will. They help us look at ourselves as characters in our own stories, full of gifts and dreams, and, if there can be such a thing, sacred flaws.

It’s not just the stories, but it’s books themselves that I love. Each book, with its different weight and cover style, page size and typeface -- everything about a book contributes towards making a unique experience. And each book I read demands something precious of me. Books demand my time and they require care in handling. While reading a book, that book occupies a special place in my consciousness. Frequently, I will remind myself that I can’t leave it on a bus or drop it on the street. Books demand respect for our relationships, for whatever term that may turn out to be. While reading a book, I feel I have been entrusted with its care.

And now, titles of some of my favorites come to mind; books I couldn’t wait to tell my friends about, or books that I can still talk about thirty years after I first read them.

In my teens and twenties, I loved Pride and Prejudice, Steppenwolf, Anna Karenina, The Great Gatsby, Brave New World, The Good Soldier, Clockwork Orange, Catcher in the Rye, Slaughterhouse Five, To Kill a Mockingbird, Pale Fire.

I was in a book club during most of my forties, enjoying animated discussions after reading many best sellers and classics, and I occupied my time with many other books I will never forget: Stones from the River, Herzog, A Hundred Years of Solitude, The Fifth Business, Middlesex, Mrs. Dalloway, The Liar’s Club, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay.

In recent years, I have found unexpected delight in following up on recommendations from surprise sources, people I have met on airplanes to guest speakers from TED talks, relishing my excursions into Infinity in the Palm of her Hand, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Freedom, The Bastard of Istanbul, The Elegance of the Hedgehog.

In The Shallows, Carr describes how our brains initially had to adapt to the new technology of the written word. “To read a book was to practice an unnatural process of thought, one that demanded sustained, unbroken attention to a single, static object. It required readers to place themselves at what T.S. Eliot, in Four Quartets, would call ‘the still point of the turning world.’”

Getting lost in a book, especially a novel or well-researched history, planting yourself in an author's world, a world made possible through his or her discipline, and then to co-imagine a different life experience altogether – one page at a time – is no small thing.

Here Today

My new honey seems to enjoy getting little email messages from me late in the afternoon, when lunchtime diversions have all been put away and there is too much time on the clock before he can think about going home. Scanning the web for songs, or photos, or YouTube clips, I have been enjoying finding interesting or funny things to send him.

Last week, through the LA Times: Online Edition, I found a link to a gallery of sculptures made out of sand. It featured castles and fortresses, gargoyles and mermaids, and so much more. And I started to think about making art out of sand. Why would people do this? You finish a piece, maybe take a few pictures to prove that something amazing was made, then walk through the structure or let the wind or sun eat away at it. Art made of sand doesn’t last. It cannot last.

Well, of course, there might be contests or friendly competitions. In some of the shots on this online gallery, it seemed like they were having exhibitions at boardwalks or beach town shopping malls, as if sand sculpture was a whole genre onto itself.

But I kept coming back to the basic question: Why put so much love and energy into something that can’t last? I thought about the popular, cynicism on steroids, aphorisms. “Here today. Gone tomorrow.” “Life’s short. Then you die.”

Well, efforts needn’t be about getting a prize, or besting a buddy, or topping out the applause meter. I used to love the Joni Mitchell song, Real Good For Free. “…And I play if you have the money/Or if you're a friend to me/But the one man band/By the quick lunch stand/He was playing real good, for free.”

So, even if the sand castles, or gritty brown sea creatures, or expansive and imaginative scenes from a Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale won’t make the night, they are ever so worthwhile for the artist to sweat and smile over.

I imagine some people make sand sculptures simply because they are good at it, or maybe just because this kind of play gives them pleasure.

Making dinner, or singing in the shower, telling a story, or writing a computer program: We can always do more to imprint our spirits on the world around us. The art is not in the viewing, but in the making.

Making your life a work of art, and a source of pleasure, regardless of how long or short it is, is no small thing.