Saturday, I sniffed bazaar in the air. November is bazaar month in my little village, which makes it one of my favorite months of the year.
I decided to drag Sven along. He needed a break. I’m kind of a high maintenance writer, notwithstanding the bunny slippers. I dropped him off at the silent auction room. This might have been a mistake, because his eyes shot to a set of drums that I thought might end up in my office. Payback is, well, payback.
Mr. G, honey made a beeline for the recycled retail room, probably making sure I hadn’t donated any of his treasures. Yep. Definitely knows his woman.
I made tracks to the used book room, only because I’m too tall to meet the height requirement for the kids only shopping room. Secretly, I think they have the best stuff in there. I’m sure of it.
I always bring a limited amount of cash and say to Mr. G, honey as we go out the door, Now, I’m not buying this year. This is just in case. Even Sven’s shoulders were shaking at that whopper of a lie. Each year I spend every penny and hit the sweetie up for a contribution to bazaar fever. If he’s smart, he came with empty pockets — not even a credit card.
I managed to bypass the baking room. Might of been because Sven was sporting a big old fat smirk. That smirk ran from my writer’s butt to his face. Hey pal, you’re the word count police. I hate that Sven is so buff, and I’m a buff-in-progress.
No one leaves the bazaar without hitting the lunch room. I had a bowl of turkey barley kale soup so good I wanted to cry. Best ever. I left Sven and the G standing in front of the dessert table looking for all the world like two little kids who’d just discovered the Christmas kitchen of Mrs. Claus.
This year, I met a year-old miniature Pomeranian named Angel, whose maximum weight will be 5 lbs. and doesn’t bark. She was being held by a guy dressed in long hair, fringed leather and cowboy boots. A tea cup dog. What I call a Birkin bag dog, only this guy didn’t look like the Birkin bag type. I was totally charmed by Angel — of the angel eyes. She, and her entire clan, could ride Gracie Golden Pup like a pony.
Two hours later, we were out the door. I had visited every room, had a beautiful, fresh, white poinsettia in tow — just right for my sideboard — and just enough purchases to make my contribution to a sagging bazaar economy.
I didn’t see any drums with Sven, but he’s wearing a grin that’s giving me pause. That could be a sugar high. You’ve got a few little sprinkles right…there, Sven. I’m pretty sure Mr. G, honey has something in that bag tucked under his arm that I donated mere weeks ago. Tis the season!
So what does this have to do with writing anyway? Plenty. You have to leave the keyboard once in a while. Get out there and mingle with life. Feed the senses. Broaden your horizons instead of your butt. I want to say ass, but I have difficulty doing that here without the word bad in front of it. I like to save that for the badass characters in my stories. Okay. That bordered on a tiny white one. Sven and Mr. G, honey are both laughing. They’re bonding way too much. What I do know is that a tea cup dog totin’ dude is going to show up in a story. For sure.
Monday, so dependable.