My life is filled with things that have been given up on, given away, or passed down. My car is secondhand, my house has sheltered many before me, and even my thoughts and beliefs are often borrowed and mindlessly regurgitated—not all of them, but some. You could say not all my thoughts are all my thoughts.
I am a secondhand Rose. I love recycled goods—things that have been pre-loved. Worn-in jeans and broken—in leather, mix-matches china and other objects that carry the imprint of a life before mine.
I love people that way, too. Those who've been around the block a few times and wear their wrinkles like badges of experience. The ones with a weathered look that says, Oh yeah, I've been places, I've done people, I've got stories.
I don't trust the overly manicured, sanitized, and shiny—the synthetic, surface-level scripts. The mundane doesn't just bore me; it gives me a spiritual migraine and makes me want to pull it into the cloakroom and fill its pretty little vapid head with dirty jokes and sage wisdom that'll make its toes curl.
Too much shallow, surface-level talk can crush a soul and drive a person mad. We yearn for awkward angels and artisan, offbeat exchanges. Most of us crave—or at least appreciate—the dusty bookshop, the mom-and-pop coffee shop, the secondhand treasures draped in floral, forgotten patterns with chipped edges, slight imperfections, and a soul.
I come by this naturally. I grew up with five older sisters—every piece of clothing a hand-me-down, every toy pre-chewed, every bit of wisdom hard-won.
I have always been a pirate, prowling thrift shops and backyard sales. If I'm honest, this is my true religion—I rescue things. Especially if I spot a statue of the Blessed Mother lurking among a cluster of Hummels and coffee mugs stamped with sayings like "There's a chance this could be vodka" or "World's greatest stepmom." She's coming home with me.
My quest for color has led me to all kinds of treasures.
When I lived in L.A., garage sales were legendary. People would discard the most incredible things. Once, I bought the Catwoman costume worn by Michelle Pfeiffer's stunt double.
It was awesome. I wore it for Halloween and then sold it at my garage sale—this was before the days of Facebook Marketplace. I could've made a pretty penny off that suit, but I surrendered it for a few bucks to the next curious Catwoman waiting for her costume.
There's something oddly satisfying about passing things along, setting them free, and keeping the cycle going.
Because the alternative? That can be devastating.
When I Googled the open-ended phrase, "Hoarding can cause…" the results were grim: health problems, cancer, a fire, mold, dementia, PTSD, anxiety, and bed bugs. Sounds like the bad news buffet, right? Better to let that shit go.
I know it's not easy because we get attached. We think something must have value just because we see value in it. But it doesn't—it really doesn't.
Do you know those things in your home that were once valuable but no longer spark joy? You look at them and think, "I should sell this and make some good money." And then it sits there—for years—taking up space.
Sometimes, you catch yourself thinking about Marie Kondo
But you don't do anything. You think about her. And that thought leaves you feeling heavy, incapable, wishing you could be as ruthless as Marie Kondo.
Instead, the item that should have been shipped to the Salvation Army or put out on the curb is saved for another 100 years.
With the thought, I could sell that on eBay or have a garage sale.
And then, one day—on your way out the door to drop stuff at Goodwill, the stuff you really, really, really don't want—you spot it.
And you realize, yeah, this has to go. I am never going to sell it on eBay. I have never sold anything on eBay. Why did I think I would? I am never going to have that garage sale.
Besides, garage sales are a pretty odd practice, when you think about it. I've had a few.
They require you to stand in your front yard or driveway with all your shit—all your failed plans on display, all your discarded things: a broken ukulele (once hoped to be the instrument of your rockstar dreams), unopened Zumba tapes, a 1,000-piece puzzle that's missing half the pieces, a half-finished knitting project of a scarf that ended up looking like the map of New Jersey. And you're supposed to stand there with your cold mug of coffee and sell that shit as if you still believe it has value.
That just seems kind of rude, doesn't it?
To you, to the item, not to mention the new owner. I could be overthinking it.
It's not that I want to dissuade anyone from hosting a garage sale—because I love going to them. They allowed me to meet people who would never otherwise let me into their houses, and they gave me a chance to forage for what I consider real gold, second only to abandoned Marys. Stories.
You can find them if you look. At the last sale I attended, I got this ring. It's a silver band with a small fake diamond, and on either side of the stone were two names: Olivia and Brandon. These were not the names of a designer—they were the actual names of two people I don't know.
I bought the ring at a garage sale hosted by Olivia's brother. I asked him, Is this ring real?
He said, "I don't know. It was my sister's, and she doesn't want to talk about it."
I was so intrigued. I had to buy it.
The only information I could pull from the reluctant brother was that Olivia was 16 when Brandon gave her this promise ring.
A promise ring is the perfect thing to find at a garage sale.
Because it's such a bad idea, to begin with. To try to get someone to promise they will love you forever when you're 16?
It's promises like these that make keeping promises fucking hard.
So I spent ten bucks on that ring.
He wanted five, but I insisted it was worth more.
And I could not, I would not—
devalue this symbol of unrealized love.
My daughter, who was with me, thought I was crazy, but I was mesmerized
by this promise ring that was given in love to a girl who, in the end, could not keep a promise. I loved it. I loved the idea of wearing a broken promise ring. There was something so human about it.
Something that said, Look, who are we kidding? We're only humans, fickle, funny, inconsistent people.
The ring was a true sign of self-preservation and courage. It's not easy to give up what you no longer love, and when we settle, we live a lie and give up our chance at reality.
That's what that ring represented to me. All the ways that 16-year-old Olivia stayed true.
It made me think of all my lucky breaks that came because someone had broken their promise.
I wouldn't have half my wardrobe if someone hadn't given up. If someone hadn't abandoned their dream of being a painter, I wouldn't have a cabinet of art supplies I never use! If someone hadn't abandoned their faith, I wouldn't have an army of ceramic Marys.
If all the women who dated my husband hadn't given up on him, I wouldn't be married to him; we wouldn't have our kids. In the end, all rejection is redirection. That saying is, of course, borrowed from someone wiser than me.
So much of what we cherish started as someone else's discarded thing, abandoned dream, or lost cause. We are all currently caring for someone else's leftovers. And we should be grateful to them. Raise a glass to all the brave Olivias.
We are currently in the year of the snake. It's time to shed, baby. Get your Marie Kondo on and be ruthless about letting go of what no longer serves you.
Everything deserves to be loved as if they are the pirate's first pick at the booty call.
I held onto the broken promise ring for a long time. I had big plans for it.
I thought I would bring it to Voice Box, the storytelling show I produce monthly at FitzGerald's. I imagined a contest—I'd ask the audience to tell me what happened with Olivia and Brandon, and whoever had the best story would wear the ring.
Instead, the ring sat on my dressing table for years. Then, one day, while cleaning out my jewelry box, I gave up. Out, it went to the Goodwill, along with all my single earrings and broken pins. At that moment, I joined Olivia and Brandon in the quiet acceptance that not everything is meant to last. Sometimes, plans bloom only in our minds. All those beautiful promises—to love forever, cherish, learn the ukulele, finish that puzzle, lose weight, finally speak Spanish—all the things we swear we'll do but don't.
Maybe that was the karma of the ring—to travel from hand to hand, dashing hopes and teaching lessons, reminding us that sometimes it's better to be present than promised.
Who knows what happened to Olivia and Brandon? Who knows what will happen to any of us? It's all so shifty and fleeting. Maybe the only promise worth making is to do whatever you need to do to stay true to your fickle, funny, and ever-evolving self—even if it means breaking a promise.
LOVE, Maur
SHOP
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Announcement
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Dessert
These are a few images that bring me happiness.
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