I am sick.

Confession.

Hi. My name is Olive and I'm a shopaholic.

What's that you say? Shop for what?

Oh, well, anything. Let's be honest. I'd shop for more stores to shop in if I could. Heh. Wait. I think I have. I LOVE to shop. I simply, truly, undeniable love it. The hunt. The find. Oh, the find! And a sale? Are you kidding me???? It's my crack. I got a good taste when I was younger and it was good; I was instantly hooked. Now, I'm a full-blown addict. I can't help myself.

"Tomorrow, I promise to stop."

Yeah, heard that one before. The seduction of another, beautiful sale inevitably lures me in with its addictive cracky-ness. That sick, black-magic woman and her schemes to find nice, vintage Pyrex a good home. Why, Goodwill, why??!! You're price-points are clearly rooted in some sort of devilish, crack-filled schemes. And I fall for it every time.

I fall victim to my crack addiction every time. Rescue vintage dinnerware, certain for a fate of someone who won't love it as well as me? Oh, no, I couldn't do that to it. I'll volunteer to rescue it. Milk glass? Bring it on! Vintage fabric? That's the mother-lode. It's my meth.

Sick. Sick. Sick.

That's me. And, I'm ok with it.

Well, at least mostly.