Dave and I got up early on Saturday to go yard sale-ing. I know I’ve written about it here before, but I cannot believe some of the stuff people around here try to sell. It’s not that I expect to find Eames chairs or Louboutins for $5 in somebody’s dirty garage, I just don’t expect to find things like used PedEggs. Or packets of tuna months past their expiration date sitting out in the full sun on a 95-degree day. You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?
I just … my brain can’t handle this. OLD FOOD = TRASH. DEAD FOOT SKIN IN A PLASTIC EGG = TRASH. Wouldn’t it would be easier to just throw this shit the garbage instead of artfully arranging it on a table so you can maybe become 25 cents richer?
I need to lie down.
One particularly aggressive lady trapped me next to a futon that smelled like it had been marinating in urine and burnt hair for several days (only $40!) to show me the wide selection of bikinis she was selling. And I was like thanks lady, but I’m going to go ahead and pass on paying actual money for a piece of fabric that your crotch has touched.
Speaking of crotches, we found this at the next sale:
Yes, that is used lingerie seductively laid out on a picnic blanket. No, we did not buy it. I did want to buy this though:
Until I realized that her arms do not open up in order to flash you. Just your run-of-the-mill oven mitt with a giant-jugged lady wearing a nightie on the back. Bo-ring.
Dave and I wound up getting into an epic fight late in the morning because I “never let him buy all the good stuff he finds.” I know I can be annoyingly picky about what I buy at yard sales, but for the record, here are the things he wanted to buy that I was less than enthusiastic about:
– A big movie theater-style hot dog roller grill. (Me: You’re right, that would be awesome. If we lived at the multiplex. Him: Oh, now you’re too good for hot dogs? Me: You know I love hot dogs but that does not mean I need the ability to cook 30 at a time. Him: YOU DON’T DESERVE TO EAT HOT DOGS. Me: OH MY GOD WE ARE FIGHTING ABOUT HOT DOGS IN FRONT OF PEOPLE. WITH EYES. WHO CAN SEE US.)
– A set of four dirty, peeling metal patio chairs he wanted to “clean up and paint.” (Me: Seems like a lot of work when we can buy new ones at Target for $15 that won’t give us tetanus. Him: I’ve never seen chairs for sale that cheap. Me: Fine, let’s go to Target right now and I’ll show you. Him: I AM NEVER TAKING YOU YARD SALE-ING AGAIN.)
– A stack of mismatched floor tiles that would have covered maybe one quarter of one room of the house we are in the process of buying. (Me: I’m pretty sure there’s not enough to cover the floors. Also they don’t match. Him: YOU’RE A MONSTER.)
Now that I’ve typed those out, I do feel like a monster. The guy has willingly watched Center Stage with me multiple times; letting him buy a hot dog cooker for five bucks is probably the least I could do for being willing to suffer through Jodie Sawyer talking about her “sweet sweat” more than once. I would have gone back and gotten it for him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of being recognized as “that girl who got in a fight about hot dogs.”