It was an insane shopping weekend. Insane shopping weekends make me happy, because really, as an adult, there really isn’t something akin to the plastic toy inside a cereal box kind of joy anymore (if you don’t count sex, of course, which isn’t really a joy but rather an itch that you can’t reach and it has been driving you completely insane and lower no over right no the other right oh my god, yes, that’s it, scratch that mutha, scratch it oh fuck yes my god harder harder harder yes yes FUCKING YES) but shopping fills that jones. Or at least shopping at its best: fabulous deals to reward the patient pure of heart, with pit stops for blended coffee drinks and foofy makeup counters, and most importantly, a day filled with infinite possibilities.
In some ways, I wish that it wasn’t such a meaningless task, this marathon of materialism. I wish it were possible to encounter on some forgotten clearance rack the cure for cancer, marked down to $24.99, sitting next to world peace, which has been slashed to $9.99. But it is not to be. Instead, we find adorable deep pink summer dresses at Banana Republic for $14.99 and must be happy with that. And also, Nerd Ropes, which are better than any non-chocolate candy has a right to be.
On Saturday morning, I woke up at my normal insanely early time and then couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got up and went to the farmer’s market. It was a strange feeling, being at the farmer’s market at quarter to seven. First of all, even though the calendar says that it is mid-August, it was freezing. I had on a t-shirt and a hoodie, but could have used another jacket. The vendors were walking around in winter coats and mittens and my nose was so cold that it had started running. And apparently, the farmer’s market does not officially open until 7, so it was not very crowded. In fact, aside from the Wisconsin weather, it was everything I wish the farmer’s market is all the time, birds chirping in the century old oaks lining Cherry Street, vendors saluting each other by name over huffs on thermos caps of coffee, the smell of dill piled high in a Red Rider wagon. It was too early for the girl with the violin and her tap dancing brothers. The church bells were just starting to give tentative peals and on the Fox River, a boat gave a sleeping honk to the bridge tender, undoubtedly lost in his crossword puzzle and morning Danish.
I got three tomatoes on a single stem, more blueberries (my giant crate of blueberries is currently in stasis betwixt the ice cream bars and Ore Ida Crispers in our freezer), a giant bag of caramel popcorn, and a baked donut (which I don’t really understand but it’s like the mating of a donut and a muffin and has a little bit of salty sweet going on so automatically I love it very much) along with the enormous sense of Midwestern satisfaction that I get whenever I shop at the farmer’s market, along with an extra dollop of smug from having woken up so early. Of course, I was tired for the rest of the day but so what. Blueberries! Tomatoes! A cold running nose!
I then spent the day shopping with my mother-in-rock June. I had a quest for shoes that apparently could not be met, but any day spent eating CPK’s gouda/cabbage/bacon salad and laughing at hooker shoes is not bad. When I got home, I received an invitation to spend Sunday shopping with Penny, so I heartily signed up for round two and scored a wealth of cute items for pennies on the dollar. We were an act of God barely contained in our clothes. We were weapons of god damned mass destruction but not too pithy to stop for a food court cookie. Also, I got to mock the shoppers in JCPenney, so it was a day well spent.
In other news, I am having my standard pre-trip panic attack and Esteban has exacerbated this by bidding on a car (another Chrysler! How did we become Republicans without my noticing?) and then thrusting a fistful of financial paperwork at me with the plea ‘Fix?’ like he’s four and just made a boom boom in his pants. My head may well explode, but who needs the top of ones head? I’m too tall anyway. Note to self: investigate Kate Spade’s hat line.
