This afternoon I went to the farmers market near my office. The farmers market should be called "the large gathering of people who walk too slow and don't watch where they're going." I've made an art of maneuvering around the stalled fat suburbanites like they're orange driving cones. Don't eff with me at the farmers market. I make a beeline for the tomoatoes and basil and them I am outta there.
I think farmers markets should be equipped with a moving sidewalk that makes a loop of the vendors. You pick out your salad greens and it's on to the farmers cheese. If you miss something, too bad. Then there would be no lingering, no picking up things and sniffing them, no standing RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the street with your baby stroller and chatting with Patty, the mommy-and-me swim teacher.
I don't think I'm going to go to the farmers market anymore, Diary. It's kind of harshing my mellow. Did I mention the dirty college kids playing Arlo Guthrie songs for money right in the middle of the market? Like, really, really loud? It was a problem.