That Time I Died and went to Flea Market

Today with little to do, I did some serious meandering around the Fairfax Flea Market, which might also be called the Melrose Trading Post, which is a fairly giant collection of vintage and handmade art vendors hosted every Sunday on the grounds of a high school. 2 bucks a head entry fee raises funds for said school. Um, really smart. If you’ve known me for more than five minutes, I’ve most likely made it clear that I loved Goodwill and thrift stores, but I can’t stand vintage stores, where it’s already sort of all been picked out for you. I want the thrill of the hunt, and flea markets give me said thrill. I also don’t mind the mandatory pineapple lemonade that accompanies the meandering. So this Fairfax flea situation is basically the best  market I’ve ever patroned, and if I happen to ever live in LA again, I will probably be furnishing my home entirely from items with it. It was really hard not to buy every framed picture of a weird baby from 1943 and every salt and pepper shaker and every orange desk lamp and each clown portrait. I had no problem, however, resisting these:

which are essentially mangled and destroyed jean shorts that you wear REALLY high up your crotch so that it’s perfectly clear to everyone surrounding you that you’re capable of bearing children, which every girl in LA seems to be wearing right now. Instead, I gifted myself with a necklace:

The artist also made tiny gold fork necklaces, airplanes, toilets and rabbits and pies, but, feeling classic and practical after resisting fertility shorts,  I went with this little guy. It reads C’est la vie, but you must stick your face directly onto my collar bone to tell.

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