Secondhand Nation's 3 Clam Challenge: Day Three
DAY THREE
I notice several signs for garage sales near my house and my husband is a rare mood for resale, so he accompanies me.
Our first stop is a moving sale. Immediately, I sense trouble. The garage the sale is in is markedly bigger than the house that was just sold. This is because the family has a bunch of flashy cars, if you think a lipstick-red Dodge Viper counts as flashy.
(Brief Rambling Aside: The Viper's license plates were personalized: VICIOUS. Ewwww.)
The rest of the sale stank, too. Mary Kay products. Beanie Babies. Porcelain dolphins mounted on rainbow glass. Real klassy stuff.
The next sale was held at a house where a couple live who the neighborhood kids have taken to calling "Dick and Bitch." They are the Childless Assholes who collect over-kicked soccer balls and yell at kids every second they can - every neighborhood has one or two these fun duos. My husband and I got all excited that Dick and Bitch might be moving, so we went over there thinking that their Reign of Terror might be over.
"Oh, no," said Dick, when asked if he was cleaning out for a move. He exhaled a big raft of cigarette smoke on us and lounged back in his crappy webbed lawn chair. "The wife and I do this to clean out, you know, every five years or so."
Mmm. How very practical and fascist of you, Dick. We declined to buy his overpriced pasta machine and windchimes shaped like dolphins (what IS it with dolphins?) and headed to the next sale.
Which was even worse, if this is possible. It was a gaggle of junky bikes and a one-car garage filled with old winter clothes. On a 95 degree day, this was unbearable. The woman was elderly and she had what seemed to be her grand-daughters setting up with her. After a bit of smalltalk, we graciously beat it. I don't understand people who bother with garage sales when all they have is clothing. It's really never worth the effort of a garage sale. Nobody wants to buy your wool blazer in July. Either consign it at Turn Style or donate it!
We walk away, muttering and annoyed, my same 3 wrinkly bucks trying in vain to burn a hole in my sweat-dampened pocket.
To be continued...









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