Honestly, I had no intentions of buying anything at the flea market this morning; it was just an excuse to collect some leisure-steps on my pedometer. But then I saw this little Nativity set, and then the guy selling it saw me seeing it and shouted “$2!” How could I say no when I have literally always wanted a Lilliputian nativity set for my desk?
(Might not be entirely based on truth.)
I wish I was fast enough to snap a picture of Henry frowning as he begrudgingly slapped a five in my palm.
The broad in the yellow shirt almost speared my eyeball on the sharp pitchfork she was carrying, dispelling my theory that no one actually goes to the flea market to purchase rusty farm equipment.
Immediately after I took this, my son Mouth yelled, “MOMMY DID YOU JUST TAKE A PICTURE OF THAT MAN’S BUTTCRACK?!” which of course prompted the plunging crack offender to whirl around and glare at us. My solution was to look all around and hum while rapidly (and stiffly) waking to the next table. He kept yelling, “Hey!” but my completely innocent whistling rendered it impossible for me to hear him, you see.
Look, it’s the guy (and his wobbling eye mole) who educated me about Saint Rita and sold me the majestic Last Rites box! Walking past him, something clicked and I realized that he’s also the same guy from whom I (and by that I mean Henry) bought an old portrait of a child, which I immediately named Uncle Otis and wrote a nonsensical biography.
I can’t wait until I’m this old and stylin’. Mixed animal prints: 100% acceptable past the age of 80. (The heads of fashion bloggers are now capped by mushroom clouds at the very thought of this ever being OK. But high-waisted shorts and rompers? Wear with dignity!)
Chooch is REALLY into flea market shopping and takes it very seriously. This is him impatiently waving wrestler figurines in the air, trying to get the vendor’s attention. The problem is that later when we’re at Target, he doesn’t understand why all the toys aren’t $1, arguments ensue, we come to blows, you know how it is.
Since I wasn’t looking for anything, I of course found the most amazing clown artifact for the collection I’m going to put in the house in my head. It’s a 1982 Shriner’s relic and if you pull up on the yellow knob and push it back down, the clown spins in a top-like fashion. I was enamored instantly, but Henry was not particularly in love with the price. But by the time we were ready to leave, Henry sighed and handed me cash, at which point I walked in my usual walking challenge pace (“I hope no one bought it already!” I cried to Henry, who mumbled, “No one bought it, believe me.”), slaloming around asshole kids riding bikes down the pathways (seriously? You can’t just walk, you little menaces?), caterwauling toddlers in strollers, and sun-ravaged biker broads boasting faded rose tattoos on their wrecked bosoms, until I made it back to the men with the prized tin clown.
It was a no nonsense, “here’s the cash, gimme the fucking clown” transaction. I even made real life, unscripted small talk with a tall man passing by, who told me he used to be a clown for parties; we agreed that clowns are so misunderstood when all they want to do is bring joy (and possibly stuff a body or 24 under their floorboards).
Good day at the flea market!