Haggling Like a Pro

The first Sunday of every month is the local flea market. Generally, I avoid the flea market. You have to haggle at flea markets and I hate to haggle. Almost as much as I hate cleaning the bathrooms.

My youngest daughter loves to haggle with people. She's pretty good at it, too. Either she's good at it or people think it's hilarious that a nine year old tries to haggle with them so she gets a good price. Whether she's a decent negotiator or merely amusing, it's a plus to have her in my corner at the flea market.

Normally my husband takes her to the flea market and they have a terrific time, but he was traveling this weekend, so I said I'd take her. I wanted to see what the big woo was. And I wanted to see my daughter in action. And I wanted to see if some fool was selling something I needed. Like a manual typewriter or a Madonna 'Crazy For You' 45.

*Side note: Found both a manual typewriter and a 'Crazy For You' 45. Both were priced at three bucks. Didn't buy either one. My crack negotiator said she could get them for a better price at the antiques store downtown. I believe her. She knows her stuff.

About halfway through the booths, I stopped to tie my shoe and looked up to find something wonderful. Amazing, really. Something I felt I needed to own. A pair of mounted animal horns.

Yep, some fool was selling a pair of horns. No idea what kind of animal, but that's a minor detail. It was destiny after all. I was destined to go to the flea market on this particular Sunday. I was destined to come to this particular card table. I was destined to wearing the Nikes with the laces that never managed to stay tied. And I was destined to see a fine set of mounted horns.

Immediately I could envision them attached to the front of my Honda. Yeah, those horns would make me look like even more of a badass than I already look. They'd be a strong warning to all other animals in the vicinity of my car. Nothing makes deer rethink their live expectancy like a pair of horns on the front of a red Honda. The deer would see the horns bungee corded to my Honda's grill and think 'Whoa. Those could have been my horns, man. Better stay on the side of the road.'

Alas, me purchasing the horns was not to be. It's sad really, but the horn dealer and my nine year old couldn't negotiate a price in which they both felt comfortable. They shook hands and parted as friends. Being the perfect role model of maturity, I pouted all the way back to the car.

I still mourn the loss of the horns.

The flea market wasn't a total loss though. My nine year old haggled with a crusty old fellow over the price of three totally kick ass hats, getting him from a buck apiece down to three hats for two dollars. Two of the more reserved and low key hats my children wore all over the rest of the flea market.

And then to Target.

And then to Meijer.

I knew there was a reason I avoided flea markets. Pin It Now!