There aren't any fleas at this market!

For the last three days I’ve been trying to pluck a stray eyebrow hair that is making itself quite at home on the stretch of skin directly between my eyebrows. It’s long enough to be noticeable, but not quite long enough to give my tweezers something to grab onto when I try to yank the sucker out. And it’s super unfortunate too because it’s not a dainty, little wisp of a hair either, but more like a I-might-really-be-a-man, disgustingly thick hair. Until it grows out enough for me to wrench it out of my face, I’m avoiding eye contact with people because I’m afraid they'll end up staring at it and wondering if I’m related to a Geico caveman.

It’s tragic.

But despite my eyebrow issues, I had a really awesome weekend. Saturday Clay and I met up with my mom, sister, and sister’s best friend at a large flea market in a nearby town. Being somewhat of a hoarder myself, I was interested in going because there are few things I like more than buying stupid crap for a nickel. Plus, I feel like anytime you enter a flea market you are interacting with an entirely different breed of American, so it’s always a culturally enriching experience. And this particular flea market did not disappoint … the pot-belly cowboy singing karaoke to no one in the food court was proof enough.

My sister is a master bargain hunter and bought something like 6 Stephen King books for a total of $3. I, being a bit thrifty myself, unearthed a giant Calvin and Hobbes collector's comic book and brought it home with me for the price of only $1.

But, my crowning glory of the flea market shopping trip was this purchase:

Yes, that’s right. Watermelon salt and pepper shakers. Guess how much they were? $.50. I’m extremely into having the world’s most adorable, well-equipped kitchen and charming, unique salt and pepper shakers were right at the top of my list. I had debated buying a set shaped like peppers at Pier 1 not too long ago, but buying these babies just saved me about $20.

I almost solidified this Saturday as the best day ever when I spotted a cow-shaped tea kettle, but Clayton loving steered me away from that booth, gently reminding me that there is a fine line between cute and completely stupid.

However, my loving husband and I did make one more purchase that we both agree was one of the smartest decisions we ever made. I’ve been talking about getting one for years, but I couldn’t find one that I was fully willing to commit to or that I was completely in love with. And who would have thought that after months of searching, I would find one at a flea market in central Indiana?

My cookie jar.

Isn’t it adorable? I’m so not a “cutsie” kind of person, but when I saw this cookie jar sitting on the counter at a booth, I couldn’t resist. My head was instantly flooded with pictures of Clay’s and my future children reaching for home-baked cookies from this very jar (if I don’t manage to break it between now and then). So we made it ours. The instant we got back to town on Saturday night we made chocolate chip cookies and filled this little guy to the brim.

And the bargains kept coming, even after we left the flea market! Back at my sister’s house I couldn’t help but notice a stack of about 7 shoe boxes piled in the corner of the living room. “Are those your shoes or your roommate's?” I inquired, becomming instantly nosey about what kind of footwear those boxes held.

“Actually,” my sister replied, “they’re all shoes mom can’t wear anymore since her office enforced that ‘no open-toed shoes’ policy.”

Come again? It just so happens that my mom has the absolute greatest taste in shoes of any woman I know, and I have spent many occasions standing in her closet, ogling her massive collection or stilettos and mourning the fact that her feet are about two sizes smaller than mine. Seriously, it’s sad that my 61 year-old mother dresses way better than me. And it’s not just her shoes. I can’t wear any of her pants or skirts either because my mom has beautiful, long legs like a gazelle and, unfortunately, I’m built like a tree stump.

“But a lot of those shoes aren’t really my style. So you’re more than welcome to try some of them,” my sister added casually.

I pounced on the boxes and started tearing through them. The first pair I grabbed were corked wedges with a crocheted peep-toe on top. “I’ll make them fit!” I shouted lustfully, having a major Ugly Step-Sister from Cinderella moment. And you know what? I squeezed my big, fat man feet into them and they actually fit.

“They’re yours,” my sister said.

I did a little dance in my new wedges.

Three pairs of free, almost brand-new shoes later, I was pretty dang happy.