It all began so innocently. We opened the garage door before dawn to heave our booty out into the yard for display by sunup. There is always a group of buyers who show up before you’re ready, and our yard sale was no different. He pulled up in front, got out of his car, and we said, “We’re not ready yet (having four things on only one of our many rented tables). He replied, “Well, what time will you be ready?” We said, “8:00 a.m., which is what was advertised in our newspaper ad,” to which he responded, “Great. I’ll be at work by then. Thanks for wasting my time!”
Sally had not finished her first cup of coffee, much less eaten her fried egg to help with her low blood sugar, which, if not properly balanced during the day, causes her to say things she shouldn’t (low blood sugar is not the only cause of that, bless her heart). While I retorted with a curt, “Sorry!” upon hearing the man’s rude remark, Sally blasted him with a “F**k you, asshole.” Not a creature was stirring as he drove out of sight, with his window down, screaming only one word at the top of his lungs, “C**T!” It’s the one word that women never like to hear, and it rhymes with the word, bundt (excluding the silent d) … and leaving out the word, cake.
I reminded Sally that this rudest of all rude yard sale consumers knew where we lived in case he wanted to return and burn down our house later that evening. From our initial visual of this maniac, his scrubs belied the fact that he was probably either a nurse or a doctor in the ER. Considering what those people are privy to on a daily basis, his lack of decorum could be excused. On the other hand, I’m not sure I’d want his assistance were I to wind up in the ER for whatever malady might have required an ambulance.
We carried on through our yard sale with hard work, effective sales tactics, and scones from Starbucks. We made out like bandits by the end of the day, dissolving the bitter taste in our mouths that began on such a sour note. We even sold TAO’s Jazzy Scooter, immortalized in such Midlife Gals’ videos as, Jazzy Scooter Barrel Race, and Jazzy Scooter Gymnastics. The nice Hispanic family who bought it asked if it worked in “sand.” My response was, “I don’t see why not.” The question brought to mind a visual of some poor, disabled, old man scooting along a beach somewhere in Mexico having the time of his life. This is the visual I chose rather than a more depressing picture.
And, we knew TAO was watching over us when Sally opened a cabinet door on a piece of furniture we were selling that had come from TAO’s bedroom, to find an old framed photo of Mother back in the 70s in a tacky turquoise polyester women’s leisure suit. She was sitting on a throne-like chair with a giant smile on her face as if to say, “If you ever sell any of my things in a yard sale, I will haunt you for the rest of your lives.”
Move along, Mother …
Well, that was one hell of a yard sale. Too bad it had to start on such a bad vibe. Come on, really, this guy was an asshole. Could he not see that not only had two middle-aged women already moved a five-hundred-pound, motorized lift chair to the front driveway, we had also moved two large book shelves, a Jazzy Scooter (also 500 pounds), and eight giant banquet tables placed strategically for utmost sales and protection of the grass. The sun was just coming up for God’s sake. He was irate that the sign didn’t state the time the sale would begin and was openly belligerent as he stepped out of his car. Here is what I thought he was going to say, “May I help you gals with that eight foot banquet table with which you are silently struggling in your driveway?”
KK, you forgot to mention that he then went to the corner of Expo and Windsor and took down our sign! Asshole! See, that’s what they do to take their revenge. Garage sales attract the lowest common denominator when it comes to shoppers. We were warned many times about the people who would take things and change the tags on objects they deemed too expensive. This leaves the seller with a kindly, elderly hoarder standing before the money table holding a plastic salad bowl with a forty dollar sticker on it, as the sticker-changing perp waits to pay fifty cents for that treasured silver, engraved grapefruit spoon. You have to be awake and alert lest somebody walks off with that fabulous two-foot-tall, red and yellow, ceramic clown that lived in the garage for forty-eight years and never complained. Come on! Sentimental value!
We should just feel lucky that our mother was a miniaturist, because she was a hoarder. She filled an entire garage with boxes and vignettes, glass domes and dollhouses, and tons of things that would complete every kind of mini room from an adobe kitchen to a whore’s bathroom. I’m not kidding. The miniaturists came to our sale later in the day and had a blast. You could hear them giggling, ooohing, and aaahing as they fingered their way through the baskets of tiny flowers, Victorian furniture, and one-inch plates of perfectly scaled foodstuffs. My favorites were the bagels and cream cheese, the spaghetti and meatballs, and the burritos complete with tiny Margaritas. The last set went to a very nice lady who also handed over a thirty-dollar crystal decanter with a two-dollar tag on it that read, “book/Integrity in the Modern World.”
I’m just sayin’, life is like a garage sale. Trust in Allah but tie up your camel,
Originally published on Midlife Gals