“Have a yard sale!” they said. “It’ll be fun!” they said. Alas, dear readers, I naively fell for their hateful lies and recently turned my driveway into a B-grade flea market smelling of sweat and desperation. I did make around $500 and managed to purge more than a decade of accumulated trinkets and trash from our basement and several forgotten closets, but fun? Absolutely not.
For starters, I spent days sifting through boxes and containers sorting everything from old college textbooks to my husband Doo’s outdated hunting equipment into three categories: Throw Away, Keep and Sell/Donate. The thrill of rediscovering a beloved wedding photo was vastly outweighed by the hours hunched over baskets full of discarded Barbie accessories and probable exposure to mold.
Next, I had to haul the junk upstairs, wipe away dirt and spider webs and arrange charming vignettes in such a fashion as to draw the buyer in, to make them think they wanted, nay, needed, a semi-broken train set circa 1998 or a collection of mismatched Christmas mugs. I even meticulously stickered every item with pink price tags in anticipation of a fast-paced, crowded Saturday.
Of course, then it rained. I nearly stroked out last-minute prepping in my hot, humid garage before finally deciding to postpone it until the following day, when I had to compete with dumb church services and family lunches. Ugh. Where are all the people?
Ultimately, I made some cash and cleared our storage room by half, and Goodwill received two van loads of decent artwork, toys and glassware. But my friends are big, fat liars. Because having a yard sale was definitely not fun.