How does this Broke Girl do it? I have a sugar daddy. And a sugar momma, a sugar sister and sugar brother.
I have no idea whom these people actually are, but when the wealthy denizens of Chicago bother to clean their California Closets, I am happy to stand aside, migrant worker-like, and pick up the castaways.
And that I do, at various resale shops around town. Someone else pays the bills and I (gladly) get the goods.
Occasionally a price tag still droops from a sleeve, which I take as a sign they gained weight before they had a chance to don it. Even if an item is not brand-spanking new, a run by the dry cleaner or through the washer keeps it fresh as anything I would pick up in a boutique. (That new stuff's been tried on by a few bodies already anyway).
In a gratifying trifecta for all: the original buyer gets a tax deduction, the Salvation Army raises funds, and I get new clothing at cents on the dollar.
By the way, that whole sugar daddy thing? It is not what it's cracked up to be. When you marry for money—and believe you me, I am right about this—you will earn every red cent.