This weekend was our annual neighborhood garage sale. It covers a large area so the traffic is impressive. I must say, I missed Gill at this year’s event. It’s always such fun. (She’ll tell a different story, but I recall a time when she loved them. Mostly, she wandered around the neighborhood buying up other peoples’ shit and bringing it back home. The net result was that, by the time the sale ended , we had more shit in our house than before the sale!)
But she did get into the spirit of the whole thing. We made cookies to sell, lemonade, anything to attract customers and bring in suckers…uh, make that clients! Some years we even brought Poochie out and tied her to the front tree — she was so cute everyone stopped to pet her. I didn’t go quite so far as to put up a sign that said:”Yes, I’m whoring out my adorable dog so you’ll stop and buy something horrible that I don’t want and you don’t need”…but I was sorely tempted.
Now I know that people expect BARGAINS at garage sales. But mentally, it pains me. I know what some of the things cost originally and they weren’t cheap. I discount them a lot(any deeper and we’d be in crater territory) but still people are so stingy they want to nickel and dime me to death. Really, although I did mostly just want to get rid of stuff, I would have been better off putting the stuff on the driveway with a “FREE” sign and walked away, thus saving myself three hours of shivering in the cool air– hours when I could have been doing something useful. The only positive thing was that, for once, I got the Saturday papers read.
At the end of the day, I unloaded a few large items — items (file cabinets)I had to beg the neighbor to lift from the basement . So, no matter the pittance I received for them, I couldn’t pass up the price since even I didn’t have the nerve to ask the poor guy to take them into the house, down to the basement again. And even though Crazy D was coming the day after, I knew, if I asked him to carry the things downstairs, he would have said:”You mean this shit? Not a chance. Pitch them to the curb!”
And I know that, if HE says something involving storage is worthless, it probably is. He, after all, is the King of All Plastic Storage Bins. His life is contained in such bins. It’s a good thing he didn’t have to resort to Match.com to find a partner, ’cause I have to say, a profile that reads: “Single white male with good (if irregular, sometimes dangerous) job. Hobbies include quality yet painful time with several physiotherapists (not war injuries, just tendency to throw himself off cliffs while undertaking sports more suited to 20-somethings). Lives, not with cats or dogs, but mountains of plastic storage bins in which his life is stored”…is not seeing much action.
I understand, though, that what he says about filing cabinets should be taken with a large grain of the pink Himalayan salt he prefers since he rarely, if ever, opens his mail or files anything. His stacks of unopened mail are legend in our family. Hence, he has no obvious need for a box that could store his paperwork. His girlfriend currently (we and the CRA thank god for her!) handles his ‘correspondence’, invoices, receipts and incoming cheques. She likely already HAS file cabinets.
And while one might assume that he, like many others, has gone digital, I’m just betting his online files are as messy as his paper ones. Not that I’m one to talk…some might conclude that the fact that I’m selling my file cabinets is a sign of an organized, streamlining person…au contraire, it simply means I’ve given up since there’s no hope!