I Think I'm An American Picker

Ever since my sister pretended Mike Wolfe of American Pickers was her BF, I made fun of her on Twitter and ended up interviewing him over the phone for BlogHer, my family has been all about the pickin'. The Easter Bunny even brought me an Antique Archaeology tshirt.

But this Mother's Day, the pickin' got serious.

I know, right? Aren't they so creative?

My mouth hung open, sort of salivating in anticipation. It's possible being from Iowa makes one prone to sorting through people's junk. Maybe it's because we didn't have any cool stores growing up, so we were forced to make do with vintage. Maybe it's because people in Iowa have sheds where they can store forty years worth of crap no urban dweller would have room for. Whatever the reason, I've always liked looking through old stuff even if I had no intention of bringing any of it into Chateau Travolta or wherever I was living at the time.

We headed to breakfast, and then we pulled up at my favorite antique store/flea market in Kansas City. It's four stories tall, you can see through the floorboards to the people walking around below your head, it has a wicked-scary freight elevator that swings eerily in an open shaft, and by the time you've walked through and made eye contact with all the stuff, four hours have disappeared -- along with your nasal cavities, any liquid left in your eyeballs and your common sense.

I got a potting table.

Mike Wolfe would be proud.