Junk in My Trunk

What doesn’t kill you … makes you tired. I participated in a 20-booth garage/tag sale last Saturday. Enough said. Notions, facts, and criminal acts follow ….


One week home purge. Not a hoarder, should be a snap. Closet #1: filled to the brim with shit belongings. (Could I be a hoarder?) Filter through 800 pounds of baby clothes, shoes that pinch, purses (I wondered where these were), lacrosse sticks and everything in between. Meh!

Would find myself spending way too much time evaluating items. Oh, this is eldest daughter’s first C on a paper. Hoarder, hoarder! Three hours into it, everything went to sale, trash, or Goodwill. A combined 40 hours later, I had my items for the sale. To tag with prices. Another 10 hours and everything was ready to go. Except me. Because I was half-dead with exhaustion. Oh God, do I really want to do this? God: “Yes, you have no $.”

Load’em Up and Move’em Out

At the bright and shiny hour of 5 am, it was time to load the massive amount of sacks and boxes containing my trash/another’s treasure. Whoops. I drive a car that accommodates me and a bottle of water.

 Immediately sent up smoke signals. After promising my Cooking Partner all sorts of “favors” in return for transport, he loaded everything in his truck and we were on our way. (I do not intend to provide any “favors”; it is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.)

Madness and Mayhem

My sales associates, Partay and the Tamster, were staging our booth when I arrived. We had the best “stuff”, we had the “best” booth, we were all going to retire on our take. The gates opened and mayhem ensued. Sharing:

  1. My parents, always supportive, arrive to check on the situation. Cooking Partner and Daddy (shut up, he’ll always be my “Daddy”) start talking about fishing. I pipe up and say, “CP caught and ate mackerel last week”. My father laughed till he cried. CP just cried. Holy Mackerel – no one eats that! Then my father got on the “had to walk 100 miles roundtrip in the snow to get to school/couldn’t roller skate on gravel roads” poor stories topping it off with, “We were so poor we didn’t have garbage.” Blah, blah, blah. Cooking Partner took this cue to excuse himself. My dog would be crossing and recrossing his legs, waiting for a restroom break, which CP would provide. Afterwards, he took off to go catch anything but mackerel.
  2. The first customers at these sales are always professionals. They sweep up the good “stuff” so they can sell it themselves. They also pay the “big bucks” ($1) because it is the beginning of the sale.
  3. Time does not pass, period, when involved in this sort of enterprise. I was looking for my car keys when Partay said, “Where do you think you are going?” I said, “Home, it’s over, right?”. Her reply, “NO! It’s 9:15 am!” Gag.
  4. There is a criminal element working these sales. A man distracted the three of us (not difficult to do) while his accomplice made off with some of our best “stuff”. Note to garage sale criminals: you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law when we find you. And we will find you.
  5. After about three hours, it’s crying time. Every single customer approaches us with items clearly tagged $8, $15, etc. and offers $1. At first, our response is “The tag says $8!” But they beat us down, repeating “$1” until all three of our heads explode. “Just take the whole bloody booth … for $1”. We are so over and so out.
  6. Do not bring your dogs to garage sales. Especially if they are puppies who eat garbage while you are yakking. Because they hurl brown foam. Brown foam does not help sales. Thank you very much.
  7. These “happenings” are very good for people watching. Seen: perky pregnant moms scheduled for delivery in three days, man in pajamas, and scores of folks in need of dental attention. Oh, and there’s always the couple who haggle you to death, then make off with a huge haul in their Mercedes. Really.

Once it was over, we had accounting and payout. I made $1 and change. I looked and felt like this:

I’m still in recovery. If you want to have a garage sale, contact Partay and the Tamster. Don’t ask me or I will cut you.