Thrift Shop Horror

Indulge me for a minute to listen to a tale of a thrift shop crime that I hope you never experience.  I had already taken things too far by going to Target on a whim after our toothpaste roll began to look a little low.  There are half a dozen toothpaste vendors between my home and Target, a pathetic excuse.  Driving home, my right blinker was on before I knew it under the guise of, "Maybe they will have a cool record player!"  I pulled into the South Shore's chain of consignment shops with my guard up. Think a Hybrid of Goodwill/The Dollar Store/Kohls.  I had been burned here before after buying a coffee maker that was missing a major piece, but the pain of that had faded away and was a distant memory of last fall. (That broken coffee maker still sits in my garage.)  It was a new day. After a pleasant surprise in the used bathing suit aisle. (Who doesn't need an extra vintage Speedo around the house for stray visitors who forgot their suit? Purely a hospitality move.) I saw the blue circular tin on an old table labeled, sold. My mind re-wound a million times a minute to a July morning in 1985 where my sister receives Chinese checkers for her birthday.  I will always remember those shiny marbles resting in their perfect little divots.  And there it was, right before my very eyes! I write it off immediately thinking it is on hold for some other lucky family.

At the register, I non-chalantly mention the chinese checker game over yonder, not wanting to be the annoying person pointing to the sold section saying, "Can I buy that?" where I am given a response of, "That stuff is for sale." I burst out in nothing less than a full sprint over to the table, grab the blue tin, bringing back the wonderful rattle of "the pieces," and thrust it at my heavy eye linered cashier. I am out of breath, but I am victorious. In the car I fumble with the tin trying to get it open to no avail, telling myself with more tools it will open easily at home.

 I arrive at home, stuggle some more to open it, where I realize it is rusted shut. I get excited thinking it has never been played with before, further convincing me that this was the find of the year. The day moves on and concludes. Eric and I are settled down on the couch when I remember my hidden vintage delight.  I go and fetch it, smiling proudly at my find, confident that he probably had one like it as well growing up and would get nostalgic as soon as he saw the game. I handed it to him saying, "I need help opening this."

He stuggles for a few minutes unsucessfully and heads to the kitchen for tools. I hear some rattling, and at this point the omens are wafting in.  This thing is not rusted shut. It has been glued shut to hide the contents. He finally pries it open to reveal this:

The silver linning was that I found two Sophie Giraffes, for a buck a piece. This eased the pain a trifle, but not by much.