A couple of weeks ago, Ben and I took the kids to the Orange County Swap Meet. I’m not sure if they have swap meets in other parts of the country; when we lived back East, we called them flea markets and they mostly consisted of cast-off used items or purported antiques of obscure background. Our swap meet consists of a large number of vendors peddling items they can’t readily sell elsewhere — if people really wanted to buy their stuff, if they were making a profit, they’d be able to afford a proper storefront. In other words, it’s a matter of wading through acres of cheesy crap. About once every six months, on a Saturday or Sunday, Ben and I have the following conversation:

Ben:  We could go to the swap meet.

Me: Yeah, we haven’t been there in ages.

Ben: It’s a good way to get our exercise. Let’s go.

Exercise, hell. He wants to go because they sell beer. But I always let it slide. This is the secret of the swap meet: Daddies don’t mind walking all over creation while Mommy browses beauty supply shops and discount shoes, if and only if they can have beer.

I’m such a bitch. A real snob. I’m extremely picky about the clientele in the places where I shop. Meaning, for someone of my means, that I turn up my nose at Wal-Mart. I’m a Target girl, me. I refuse to rub elbows with the Great Unwashed in order to buy printer ink and toilet paper. But the swap meet? Makes Wal-Mart look like Fashion Island.

Honestly, where do these people come from? This is coastal Orange County, after all, and these people look like they’ve climbed on a bus from Jurupa or Rubidoux. Smokers. Scads and scads of them, and the swap meet is one of the few remaining places in OC which hasn’t banned smoking. These people figure no problem, we’re outdoors! all the while they’re practically flicking their ashes on my children. It requires a monumental effort of will to not physically assault them. Well, that and the fact that most of them are 300 pounds and covered in tattoos. I don’t think I could take them.

And morbidly obese people. I’m not talking about stuff like my fat Polish ass, I am talking about people who are so overweight they have to ride scooters because they physically can’t walk around. And who sent out the memo to young women who are 30 pounds overweight that it’s cool to wear belly shirts and strappy tank tops? Yeah, that rolls of visible fat look is all the rage in OC. At least I have the grace to keep my fat to myself.

I always spend my time at the swap meet snarking to Ben about these people under my breath, eventually announcing Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand this place one moment longer.  Next time we get the urge to go to the swap meet, I’m going to insist we go to the Santa Ana Zoo instead. There’s lots of wildlife to be observed there, and at least those animals don’t blow cigarette smoke on my children.