In Texas, there is a phenomenon known as Canton. Back in the day, folks would load up their covered wagons on the first Monday of each month and head to the li’l town of Canton to sell their cows and horses and vegetables and baked goods and quilts and such.
Back in the ‘80s, Canton was all about country blue and mauve (apparently my home was not the only one with pink & blue geese) and kitschy little crafts displayed in a single pavilion. Still on the first Monday.
These days, First Mondays starts on the previous Thursday. The booths are spread among multiple pavilions and countless open air areas, plus additional storefront areas, all of which are contained within 100 acres. The “crafts” have evolved into home décor, jewelry, boutique clothing, flower arrangements, furniture, food, antiques – anything you could possibly want or imagine.
Which is where I was last Saturday, along with half of the female population of Texas. Which is a lot. We found out by the end of the day that most of them were, in fact, clinically insane. Or perhaps just really, really obnoxious. Crazy Texas women. So glad I’m perfectly normal.
My peeps and I met at the unholy hour of 6:30 a.m. to drive an hour & a half east, coffee and cash in hand. I tried to relay the story of our builder catastrophe during the early morning drive, but soon discovered that I cannot talk before the sun comes up. It’s just not happening. So I just sat back and quietly sipped my Frappaccino.
We walked and shopped and ate for nine hours. Nine. Hours. On our feet. Our poor, poor feet.
With so much going on this past week, I had almost forgotten that we had planned this excursion, so I hadn’t thought at all about what I should look for or what I needed or – more importantly – what I wanted. But just knowing that we will have a new house at some point in the near (or distant) future – well, that in itself made shopping for home décor all the more exhilarating.
I found this for our guest room:
Fell in love with this funky little Christmas tree:
Gotta make a seat for it, of course, but
if when I get that done, it will be most fabulous. My life’s ambition is to be more like Randi, and this is a good start.
I bought more, but I’ll spare you having to scroll down through all those pictures because, you know, that would be obnoxious. And I’m not one of those.
Canton wraps up at 5 p.m. Which, if you’ve been there since 8:30, is a good thing. Our feet and backs were begging us to get back in the car long about 3:00, but we ignored them and kept pushing on until it started raining at 4:30 – at which time there was a herd of big-haired, heavily blinged Texas women flocking to the exits before their mascara ran down their faces and their hairspray turned to glue.
Here’s where it gets really funny.
We made it back to the parking lot (which was quickly turning into a large muddy field) and to the car, which was maybe five or six rows from the entrance.
My friends, it took us ONE HOUR just to get out of the parking lot and onto the street to begin the 1 ½ hour drive home.
We backed out of our space to join the line of cars waiting to get to the line that headed towards the exit. And, I kid you not, no one would let us join the line. The cars kept moving up with obvious deliberation to prevent us from joining their throng, leaving us absolutely stuck. As if letting us in would cause them to move any more slowly towards their own homes.
Somebody needs to review the first lesson of pre-K: play nice, take turns, and share your toys.
(I suppose the Mean Women could also argue no cutting in line.)
We were the recipients of some of the nastiest looks I’ve ever seen from a well-coiffed Texas woman. And we weren’t the only shunned ones. One time we saw a truck actually touching the bumper of the car in front of it so that no one could possibly get between them! It was nuts.
I was on the phone with Michael during the debacle, and the conversation went something like, “uh-huh, that’s good, how did you…OH MY WORD! DID YOU SEE THAT? LOOK AT HER! LOOK AT HER! SHE’S CRAZY! I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE DID THAT! HAHAHAHA!”
At which point, my husband probably thought I had also lost my mind.
My little friendly group just laughed. We knew we weren’t going anywhere quickly, so the fact that these crazy women were getting so upset was quite hilarious. Poor, poor stressed-out women. Their feet must really hurt to be so grumpy and mean.
(Must have been those 2-inch heeled flip flops.)
Or maybe they didn’t find the perfect shabby-chic wrought iron chair. That would have cheered them up considerably.