Etsy will be the death me.
I've lost hours -weeks- just cruisin' around that little internet village. I've waded through twine-and-linen baby shower banners; collections of antique buttons from the Civil War; iPhone covers with obscure silent film posters air brushed on them. I have seen so many goddamn messenger bags with silk screen bird designs, I could puke. I could just vomit all over the place, and then carry all of my brilliant manuscripts to my local coffee house in my brand-new, hand-made, Earth-friendly shoulder bag.
Etsy
has forced me to imagine a life in which I am whimsical and
efficient. In this
Etsy-furnished life I am organized but not uptight. I enjoy the
sturdy practicality of the past, and I value the process and time it
takes to get me exactly what I Etsy want. I have little spice bins in
my Etsy kitchen; they have pictures of coffee-producing countries on
them. (In my Etsy home, my husband cooks me a vegetarian dinner from
local ingredients while wearing a full-length apron that has a
gigantic handlebar mustache on it.) In Etsy winter, I store my cold
weather accessories in a re-purposed lingerie bag from the 1940s. In
summer, I wear Etsy swim goggles with genuine pieces from Pretty
Pretty Princess glued on them. I store our Etsy beach toys in an old
butter churn. I have my shit together, and it is together in
vintagey-looking, modern-minded, super-expensive (But can
you put a price on happiness?)
style.
Addendum:
If you are a millionaire and/or have an incredible amount of time to
sacrifice, be my Etsy guest. Browse that never-ending rabbit hole of
crafts and bobbles until you die a satisfied, refurbished death.
Otherwise, have a specific goal in mind. Pay for your new hand-knit
leg warmers and get the hell out
of there.
