June 23, 2005
I Can't Believe I Passed Up the Pink Trucker Hat
Well, Sunday was Father's Day, so I took my Dad to the flea market because I didn't want to go to the bar. Or the library. Or the Art Institute because, every time we're there, he makes a scene in the middle of the armor wing.
"Where's the rest of the armor and weapons? I know you have tons of it in storage! Why don't you ever change the display?! I'm not renewing my membership until I see more armor!"
And then the guards come, and he's all contrite -- "Well, can I just get a behind-the-scenes tour?" -- but it's too late. And they kick us out without even letting us puruse the gift shop, so you know they're serious about getting the weapons-obsessed crazy man outta there.
So, flea market it was, causing me to get up at the crack of crack. Shower? Ha ha ha ha ha ha! I'm just going to smell like musty WWII paraphenalia and cheap tube socks when I get home anyway.
My first find was a table strewn with vintage Barbie stuff. Just scattered about like Barbie'd had a hissy and left it all for Ken to clean up. I found a brunette Scooter and started piecing together some outfits, tipping off the seller that I, indeed, know what the hell I'm looking at (much more so than he) and will probably pay more than the average person.
And when he said $35 for the Scooter, it was obvious that he'd had experience with INSANE doll collectors before -- of the Too Many Cats and Ferns set who sleep with creepy Marie Osmond dwarf-baby dolls -- because no Barbie collector in their right mind would pay more than $20 for Skipper's homely friend.
I talked the guy into $40 for the doll and a bunch of clothes. The lot was worth $100, so I made out, but I have to remember to be less eager next time and not drool on the clothes. I could've probably gotten it all for $20, had I not been prone on the table, foaming and growling at all who approached.
There were many great finds that day. Dad got a hand grenade he plans to use as a paper weight (I don't know what's wrong with the pistol he's currently using to hold down his unruly papers). Husband found 10 past issues of a magazine he already has A HUNDRED ISSUES OF. InnocentBystander got a bunch of Star Wars toys for his son, including a piggy bank in the shape of Jar Jar's head. *shudder*
Then InnocentBystander is like, "Hey, try this on!"
I made a face, "Yeah, cuz I need a pink trucker hat that says Princess on it."
"Well, they're all outta the Queen of the Fucking Universe ones."
Ha ha.
Dad has this habit of just taking off and not bothering to see where the rest of the group is -- and, dudes, this place is HUGE -- so I made sure to stop scanning for Barbies every once in a while and take stock of my entourage.
One time, I looked up to see Dad, Husband and InnocentBystander all lined up behind me, shoulder to shoulder. Which was weird because, for starters, they weren't looking at tools. And also because we're Scandinavian and like to keep a good three-foot radius of Personal Space around us at all times. Especially the men.
Clearly, they were hiding something. Something good. And something expensive. I plowed through them to find TABLES AND TABLES OF NEW BARBIES STILL IN THEIR BOXES! The gods were smiling on me that day, my friends.
Accepting his fate, Husband handed me $100 and sighed, "We'll come back around for you when we're done."
But I barely heard him. There was Clara Barton Barbie! And Product Placement Barbie! And Barbie as Forrest's Girlfriend! And Barbie Has Amazingly Huge Breasts for a Ballerina... oh, I could go on and on and on. Don't worry -- I won't. And I limited myself to Calvin Klein Barbie. I like her. She's not an insipid, blue-eyed blonde. And how cute is that jean jacket!
On the way home, my Dad said something to the effect of, "Did you notice that the flea market seemed to be filled with fat, ugly white trash?"
I glanced around the car. At our collective girth, not improved by the Homade Danish Coffee Cake table. At the way Dad's belt (with enormous belt buckle) was struggling to keep his pants up just under his beer belly and over his non-existant ass. At the way my unshowered hair was slicked back into a ponytail, without any use of product. At the goofy gardening hat I made my skin-cancer-candidate husband wear.
And I thought, Hmm. There, but for the grace of God, go us. I don't wanna wake up one morning to find my uncle in my bed, a banjo in the corner, and my car up on cement blocks in the front yard with fourteen dogs underneath it, so I didn't say anything to anger the Gods of Poetic Justice.
Comments
Okay, and everything, but WHAT ABOUT THE DRAWING? Did we get it?
Posted by: Queen of Ass at June 23, 2005 10:32 AM
The Jar Jar Binks Binks Bank Bank has become his new favorite possession (after it went through the dishwasher a couple of times).
Oh, and I'm not Scandahoovian - despite my outward appearance.
Posted by: InnocentBystander at June 23, 2005 11:01 AM
Your dad already plays the banjo, so you have the first element in place.
Posted by: Marty at June 23, 2005 02:04 PM
Ah. Finally got home from work and could actually concentrate on what I was reading. We have one of those lovely flea markets here too. You'd think heaven had rolled forth tons and tons of old crap, with the old crap collectors to go right along with it. Although, they have lots of collection type thingies that aren't crap too, thankfully. It's a bunch of fun, but I wouldn't actually shower for it either...
Posted by: Queen of Ass at June 23, 2005 08:38 PM