[From a Letter I wrote today. Yes it's recycled, technically, but I'm tapped out after writing the letter!]

Fridays I get a half-day at work. It's for the summer, something nice they do. So on my half Friday, I usually go home and get started on laundry, or go out and do my grocery shopping. But it had been a long time since I went to the thrift store, so I decided to do that instead.

I used to go to the thrift store almost every day. In fact, I made a living for a while buying clothes and accessories there, and then taking them to the vintage shops on Melrose and reselling them. I once found a pair of big 70's sunglasses with a little rose painted on them, bought them for fifty cents, then sold them for thirty-five bucks. I guess people wanted that kind of shit.

Everything important to me happened in or around thrift stores. The kids I hung out with in Whittier would meet up there, make fun of stuff, buy some ugly clothes, and head out to cause trouble. My world was decorated by them. My identity formed with pieces of them.

But since I started working full time, going to the thrift store has been pretty tough to find time for. So, I went down to the Salvation Army on 11th street, where all the Mexican migrant workers wait to be picked up by one truck or another. I hate going to this thrift store for that reason, but it's the only one this side of town. The men all stare and say things that they think I don't understand because I look like a gringa. Once, I was walking past a group, and they made kissing noises, and said What a butt she has!

I told them in their own tongue, "What would your mother say if she heard you talking that way? You should watch what you say, because you never know who is going to understand you." They apologized, although I think it probably turned them on to find out I was a saucy guera they could objectify, instead of just a white girl with a big ass.

Thrifting has become so much more popular in the recent years, it's really hard to find anything good anymore. Salvation Army caught on to this, and started making "Boutiques" adjacent to their main thrift stores, where they send any items that are really worth money. I am opposed to this practice, because the joy of thrifting for me is to pull something great out of a pile of crap myself, without help, but I'll stop into the boutiques anyway. Typically, they just use them for "brand" clothes, formal wear, fur, and nice furniture or china. But there are sometimes lovely vintage bags, hats, and knick-knacks. I found a gorgeous shirt, sheer, with bright flowers and flowing sleeves. It looked like something Janis Joplin would have worn. But it was new, still had a tag. So I plunked down my ten dollars (outrageous, Salvation Army!) and took it. One of the men working the shop, who was sitting on a sofa having his break, looked over and said, "Oh, she got the nicest shirt in the shop!"

A lady hanging up tacky bridesmaid's gowns in the back asked, "The one with the pretty sleeves?"

The cashier ringing me up told me they had just put it out that morning, and that they knew it would go fast. This made me feel very satisfied with myself, as I put the bag into my purse and strolled into the much larger, smellier, messier shop next door.

There was a customer at the counter, a woman with stringy dishwater blonde hair, and very brown teeth, asking the clerk if she could leave some things there. The clerk told her she could, but they would not watch them.

"It's just for my friend," the woman told the cashier. "She can't breathe right now, she's back there and she can't breathe." It sounded like one of those stories that people who feel compelled to lie concoct, totally unnecessarily.

I walked past their little scene, and through the furniture aisle. There was a small trampoline, and a little boy was bouncing up and down on it.

"Te dije que no!" his mother, a petite and dark woman, scolded him. But he kept right on jumping, and she didn’t stop him.

Going down the rack of women’s blouses, I saw several cool polyester shirts with tacky prints, but it's too hot for that. I also saw a nice gold lamé disco shirt. Really though, it's just not my style anymore. "It Must've Been Love," by Roxette came on, and I found myself singing along.

"I must've been love but it's over now
it was all that I wanted now I'm living without
It must have been love, but it's over now
From the moment we touched till the time had run out

It must've been love but it's over now
It must've been good but I lost it somehow
Yeah, it must've been love but it's over now
it's where the water flows, it's where the wind blows"

I adored this song when it was big in 1990, and I was eleven years old. I was a very dramatic eleven-year old. Hearing it made me remember a time when I could like a song, and not be worried about whether it was mainstream, or cliché, or whatever. So I was singing, and loving it, and the lying lady walked by, she was singing too. She said to her friend, "This is Christine's song. You know that? This is Christine's song." Her friend wasn't listening. Maybe she dislikes Christine. I imagined Christine and the lady at some divey bar, drinking domestic beer and playing Roxette on the jukebox, Christine crying and saying that Ray had made a fool of her for the last time. I wondered if Christine was someone the lady knew from another state, her best friend, whether she missed her, or if it was possible she's dead. I also wondered how a fifteen-year old song could be "someone's song" today. But I guess if I had to name my song, it wouldn't be by Beyonce or Chingy. Probably Pearl Jam or even the Cure, so give me five years and I'll be as out of touch with current trends as Darla (that's what I'm calling the lying lady) and Christine.

I spent some time looking through the plates, and knick-knacks. This is always sad, because there are lots of cast-off souvenirs, personalized things, mugs proclaiming that their bearer is the Best Dad in the World. I don't understand how people can part with those things. I think that I couldn't, unless I was dead. Then I think that maybe their owners are dead. That's usually pretty depressing. But not as depressing as the huge piles of walkers and canes at every thrift store.

I picked up and put down the same ugly terra cotta jug three times--it was painted with a man having a siesta under a cactus, and said Recuerdo the Mexico--Julia. I asked myself, if Julia thought enough of her trip to buy a big-ass personalized souvenir jug, and lug it back across the border, why would she dump it in the end? But the bottom line is that I can't bring home everyone's throw-aways, as much as I'd like to. Maybe when I have a bigger place.

I saw a fellow looking at the CDs, which I'd never really considered. When he stepped away, I notice that there were stacks and stacks of tapes, and they were fifty cents. I love tapes. I still have a sentimental place in my heart for them. I was delighted when I saw The Pet Shop Boys, A-ha, Bananarama, The Police, The Smiths—it was like someone threw a party and all my old friends were there. I got into the tapes, getting down on my knees to move the stacks around and see what was all the way back. I couldn't believe it when I picked up a cassette single in a blue sleeve, and it was Roxette "It Must've Been Love." I think I laughed out loud. I debated taking it home. But I didn't want to own the single on tape, when I could just find it on the internet in less time than it would take to rewind the cassette. In the end, I picked out three tapes: Fleetwood Mac (Self-Titled), Cure (Wish), and Paula Abdul (Forever Your Girl). I bought the Paula Abdul tape just to spite the voice that screamed out loudly inside of me, "DORK!" when I picked it up and felt the urge to sing the title track. I loved those songs, and don't tell me that when you hear "Straight Up" you don't feel like dancing around a little and getting all saucy.

So I took my tapes and my cool new shirt home. When I got back, I started washing dishes by the open window. A car pulled up in front of my building and parked. Their windows were down. Their stereo was blasting. They were playing...guesses? "It Must've Been Love." I got goose bumps all over, and started wondering what on earth it meant. That could not all have been sheer coincidence. I thought that maybe I was supposed to buy the tape. Maybe if I went back for it, I would meet my soul mate as we reached for the cassette simultaneously. I thought about this all night, as I played Landslide over and over on my tape deck. The cosmic forces were speaking to me, through Roxette.

I was going to go back anyway, for some other things. If the tape just happens to be there, well, then, fifty cents says it's mine. It's just like me to think that a fifteen year old cassette single from the Salvation Army might be the talisman that causes true love to fall into my lap.