✍ CURRENTLY WRITING FROM: SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
As you can tell from the pictures (to be noted: I just took the biggest breath, I’m trying to contain my excitement and be as professional as you can get), I… I… I got an actual typewriter. Not the electric one that was featured in this post, but an actual “press down on the keys, makes a ding sound when you return it back to its place, 300-pounds heavy” typewriter. (I should include yet another parenthesis where I let you know that I wrote that previous sentence five minutes ago, I’ve still been staring at that typewriter.) And how did I get that typewriter? I went to my first antique shop ever. All of these things require actual bolding. I mean, I understand that the blogosphere is full of people who’ve been to antique shops or vintage stores or just perfect places like these, but I had never visited any place like this before, and when I walked into this 10,000 square feet place of magic, I couldn’t contain myself.
I went up to my parents and sister’s about five times each and repeated “I’m going to faint, I’m about to faint in this store right now, I need help.”
The shopkeeper (curses, I didn’t get her name) was so nice and every time I did a giddy little dance (embarrassing, the amount of squealing that went on that day), she would politely laugh and say “Oh, it’s so exciting to see this first-hand experience!” and I wanted to be her best friend because she understood me.
And then there was the moment where I died: The nice old man who was also there running the shop let us play around on the typewriter to make sure it worked, and my sisters and I played around with the keys and wrote our names. I wrote my full name and I felt like I invented Nutella, and I walked away to pinch myself in private. But then the nice old man called out “Er, who’s name is Jessica?” And I popped out from behind a bookshelf and said “Me, my name’s Jessica!” And he said “Well holy sh*t—the original owner, her name was Jessica, too! Talk about a good omen, amirite?”
To this I had to walk outside and compose myself then walk back inside and quietly shake the man’s hand.
R.I.P Jessica’s Youth
It’s a Remington Quiet-Riter from 1958 and… I just… every time I look at it, I just feel like crying, or something more dramatic, if you will, like jumping out a window into the bushes below.
I typed this out the second it touched my desk:
“My name is Jessica Samantha Sandoval. I got this typewriter on February 17th, 2012. It was sold to me by the kind people at Antiques on Kettner. The kind old man told me that the last owner of the typewriter was also called Jessica. I had a heart attack and a half. But then they brought out the case the typewriter came with, and then I truly lost it. Then we went to Buffalo Express [you know that thing where you’re writing something and you concentrate accidentally on what someone else is saying while you’re writing and you write out what they’ve said? My sister kept calling the Buffalo Exchange ‘the Buffalo Express’ and whilst I corrected her I accidentally typed it out, curses], and it smelled like drugs. But I still loved it in there and got a buttload of old dresses. This day goes down in the history of all the best days there have ever been.”
That’s right—I also went to my first thrift/vintage/whatever you may call a shop that sells secondhand clothing ever. The Buffalo Exchange in San Diego did indeed sort of smell like drugs at first, but everyone there was so lovely, it was refreshing (except for the cashiers with pinched faces, but they kept snorting every time someone walked in the store, it was hilarious, I kind of had to love them by the time I was leaving)—when people bumped in to me they smiled and apologized, when someone pushed the clothes on the circular rack too far that they pressed my hand they stopped to apologize, when I reached for the same thing at the same time as someone else, they wanted to let me have it and I just wanted to individually hug everyone in that store—I didn’t, unfortunately, and I always let the other person keep whatever we both wanted, and it made me feel like a woman because that’s a womanly thing to do.