Tuesday Morning

Tuesday Morning has become my go-to "wanderland," a place in which I roam to marvel at all the brightly colored crap on display for thrifty nesters. Maybe that's too harsh. It's not all crap. A lot of stuff is kinda cool if you're into discount tchotchkes with cloying messages about the joys of being a homebody and how God loves you and me and pets and the United States. You might think only women take their custom to Tuesday Morning but you would be wrong. Every time I've gone, there have been men and women, singles and in pairs, creeping up and down the aisles (now uni-directionally because of COVID-19). They were buying bathmats and birdfeeders and jars of olives stuffed with garlic, pillows and end tables in mad displays of impulsivity. Today I bought shower curtains and a cool drying cloth and wooden rack to use after washing dishes. (I never knew such a thing existed!) The stuff is remarkably chea ... , er, inexpensive and I love the dinginess of the store's carpeting. It's like visiting an elderly relative who's an unreformed hoarder. Shopping there is like going out for comfort food, all the guilt without the carbs. Tuesday Morning is Spencer's Gifts for people who would rather burn pomegranate-scented candles and nosh on tea biscuits than have sex.