Junk is Junk

Earlier this week we headed out to my parent's home aka "the lakehouse" aka "the inheritance" according to my mom.

She said it not me.

We had the house to ourselves since my parents are whisking through the great state of Maine. I'm so jealous. Why is it parent's take cool trips after we leave the house?

On day 2 boy and I headed out for lunch and a little shopping adventure, or as I told him sightseeing. I found this incredible blog/site that has given me the redecorating bug. She has amazing taste and so I want her home. So I thought a quick trip to an antique store would be in order. I told boy there was this great flea market that I wanted to check out. Flea market seems to be more manly then antique mall, so I substituted a word. What women won't do to get there husbands to go shopping with them. He agreed and we headed over there. As we pulled into the parking lot I get this.

"This is NOT a flea market...this is an antique store. You tricked me!!

"Oh so what, there is no difference. Junk is Junk!"

He begrudling followed me after telling me there is a huge difference and then proceeded to ask every 5 minutes if we could go now. I fear ladies that I have lost all shopping trust with my husband and will now have to photograph each store's exterior and interior to seek approval the next time we go shopping. If there is a next time.