And if she asked -- and she wouldn't even have to be nice -- I'd do it again.
My story of prejudice and pain, First Time For Everything, is now up as part of Lily Childs February Femmes Fatales.
Yesterday, B decided I needed to get out and do something fun and different. We went to the Dixieland flea market in Waterford, MI. Flea markets are an entire world of their own, a microcosm of society's most interesting, distilled into its purest form among packages of athletic socks (3 for $5), glittering Jesus wallart that shoots electricity to its highest evolutionary point, metric tonnes of VHS tapes, and used lingerie. Used.
I swear I met a real witch, though she said she was just selling old Life magazines and dusty Avon products. And there were two guys who might have been wearing the same baja-style poncho. Which apparently is grounds for serious argument. Though I would suggest that the marijuana leaf stitched onto one made it sufficiently different.
I bought things. Magnificent things. And no, not the 1920s stuffed cheetah wearing a pillbox hat and pearls. Although gorgeous, the cheetah's rump was completely worn through by countless hands caressing its wire-framed haunches. No. I bought something more wonderful!