The yard sale gods have come back to haunt me — Updated

This is BS. Unless of course she's really saying, 'look how much money I got for pretending to have fun hosting a yard sale.' Then it's spot-on.

This summer, my parents finally had their house fitted for an air conditioning unit. When I heard, I was thrilled (my room faces East, so it begins heating up at sun-up and becomes stifling by 9:00). That is, I was thrilled until I heard that the air conditioning unit had to be installed in the attic, meaning that my free storage unit for memories, knick knacks and other junk accumulated from age 5 and up was now cut in half.

So when I arrived back in PA my old bedroom (and closet) was filled with boxes and boxes of stuff I had either 1) been too lazy to hunt through and organize before moving to Belgium; 2)  known I rationally wouldn’t be able to use but was too expensive/useful to throw away just in case; or 3) completely forgotten about.

My thoughts on dealing with changing the cramped living space into something more manageable? Yard sale.

I mean, how hard could it be? Gather a bunch of stuff, throw them on a table out front, put up a couple of signs around the neighborhood and BAM! suddenly I’m surrounded by cash instead of old Barbies.

I was so naive.

Funny, but I'm too desperate to get rid of stuff to make jokes.

Yard sales suck. Not only have I already put hours and hours of time into sorting through the boxes of junk that somehow survived my Mom’s yearly purges (she vowed never to have another yard sale after the one she hosted the summer of 1996*), but I also spent yesterday night rooting through my sister’s crammed storage unit (we literally had to climb our way through it, balancing very carefully on assorted furniture and this-looks-like-it-could-hold-my-weight boxes to snatch up old toddler toys and baby clothes) and all morning putting depressingly low price tags on all my formerly cherished possessions (I know that my collection of miniature “homies” dolls will get little more than a cursory glance from yard-sale goers, but for years it sat on a prominent shelf above my dresser. That’s worth something, right?).

And now, after all the price-tagging, sign-making, stuff-sorting fun, it’s supposed to freaking snow on Saturday.

Hi ho, hi ho it’s to the dump we go. Ba da da ba ba…

 

UPDATE: It did snow. A lot. But most of it has already melted so the yard sale has been pushed to this coming weekend. If another freak storm hits, it’s all going in the trash (or to the Salvation Army. Reduce, reuse, recycle, people).

*I was too young to really observe what specifically turned my mom off of yard sales for good (though after the last couple days, I’m thinking this experience won’t be repeated by me anytime soon). I do, however, think it may have had something to do with a certain 10-year-old girl, when asked by a customer if we had any other vintage Pooh Bear dolls for sale, going into the house, rummaging through her mom’s closet, taking a stuffed bear that was not for sale (you know, being in the house and all), and selling for it for a total profit of 50 cents. I still feel guilty about that (can you tell?).
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