G-1 today, and things are at a fever pitch. Well, a slow simmer anyway. The garage is busting with junk, and will continue to be since there is rain in the forecast for tomorrow morning. Drat. I still have to find a good way to hang up all of the clothing we have ready to go, there is still a ton of toys and things to price, the garage is still in a shambles and we need about 17 more tables. It’s all under control.
Yikes.
The big question is: at what time will hardcore garage salers show up on a rainy Saturday morning? We have plans to open the doors at 6:30, but will that be early enough? Tough to know.
In any case, Jordy is ready with her cookies, coffee, and juice to rake in some serious dough. There’s a real business model. Nikki bakes the cookies, we will be making the coffee and juice and absorb all costs, and Jordy sells the stuff for pure profit. Man, that would be sweet.
I’m currently reading yet another Bob Dylan biography that Nikki bought me for my birthday. It’s quite good, and slightly more interesting than the last one I read, mostly because this one focuses only on Bob, and not anybody else. He’s an interesting character. Even more evidence in this one that Bob was frustrating his peers with refusing to appear at rallies, or any political event, although he continually wrote songs that were quickly adopted as cultural anthems for the revolutionaries of the time. He was always careful to make the songs timeless, never mentioning specific names that would date the songs too quickly. He is once again quoted as saying that he thought “Masters of War” would sell. Perhaps that wasn’t his motivation for writing it in the first place, but it’s still really interesting.
I will have more here on that when I finish it, maybe.
I was doing so well; three normal nights of sleep in a row. I think I would have slept tonight but Jason is away and the security alarm is doing funny things. Now I’m feeling paranoid. Nothing a little gin can’t cure.
Had I known about your blog back in 2003, I could have given you solid counsel on the subject of the garage sale. My parents used to be hard core garage sale hoppers and I, being too young to stay home alone, was forced to participate. By about age ten I found the entire venture to be quite embarrassing—rifling through unwanted items like a family of vagrants happily accepting whatever scraps are tossed our way. I started bringing a stack of books and waiting in the car. I chose to lie there, reading, sweating, sticking to the vinyl upholstery—this was, by far, the more attractive option.
I honestly believe that people who attend garage sales begin preparations the evening before the slated sales: They gas the car, secure adequate funds, lay out their garage sale-shopping outfits complete with sturdy walking shoes, and circle a batch of addresses in the newspaper listings. The really savvy shoppers draw up a map of the town, highlighting areas that (due to the affluence of the neighbourhood) are likely to feature the most sought-after items. Is 6:30 early enough, you had asked. Pish! There is no such thing as too early in the minds of these bargain sleuths. This is a serious business, to be approached with austerity and painstaking preparation. If you’re lazy enough to wait till 8 or 9 a.m., well then you’re just not committed to the task, are you. Plus (and I swear I’ve heard this phrase uttered by many garage salers) if you’re not out there by at least 7:00, “all of the good stuff is gone.†I had neither the heart nor the audacity to inform these folks that there is no “good stuff;†it’s ALL junk. That’s why people are selling it for quarters. If it even resembled good stuff, they’d be keeping it.
If you were still about to have your garage sale (and yes, I’m beginning to grasp the pointlessness of these tips, given that your sale happened 7 yeas ago . . . but you can keep all this in mind should you choose to embark on another garage sale adventure at some point in the future), I would have informed you that if you are including anything in your sale that is truly worth selling—anything of actual value—you should list it on Kijiji. Yard sales are for people who infamously expect to never dole out more than $10 for any item. Even a $1 request will incite haggling . . . maybe it could be had for 50 cents.
For no good reason I’m going to share a few of the highlights from my garage sale experiences (as you can see, I’m blessed/cursed with a positively ridiculous memory for childhood details):
At one sale a man (who looked as though he probably stored a combat knife in his boot) found a velvet painting of a sunset (with a busty, leather bathing suit-clad lady rising from the water; it was a very confusing picture . . .). He asked the host of the sale how much he wanted for it (the most frequently asked question). The seller stated that he had hoped to get at least $15 because it was (and I kid you not) “limited issue authentic Mexican velvet.†Or maybe it was “limited edition.” Either way, I was only 8 or 9 years old but I already knew that this particular group of words did not deserve to own a sentence together. The prospective buyer was so outraged he threw the picture to the ground and spat on it. A weighty statement, I thought.
At yet another sale I saw a group of ladies in long, multi-layered skirts with matching kerchiefs move as a unit around a table. They would handle the items, smile at one another, and then place the objects back on the table. I watched one lady walk around with a small porcelain elephant. I had been eyeing it up myself, so I watched her carefully, hoping the $2 price tag might scare her off. Right before my eyes the elephant disappeared. I looked everywhere; it wasn’t on the table and the lady was no longer holding it. After watching her for several more minutes I had my answer: The elephant was tucked in the folds of her skirt along with a small pinwheel crystal candy dish and a pewter jewelry box. When her skirt swallowed an Anne Murray cassette, I tried to startle her by making eye contact. But she just gave me dirty look and went right on thieving. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I wasn’t terribly upset about the criminal part of the act; I was just stunned that anyone would waste such obviously polished shoplifting skills at a yard sale. If you had this magic skirt coupled with nerves of steel, wouldn’t you hit a highbrow store and lift nice things that are worthy of the deed?
One Sunday there was a sale at the mayor’s house. I was pleased as punch to find an entire box of costume jewelry. Some other shoppers were happy to find that the mayor’s wife enjoyed hats. She had an extensive collection and she was practically giving them away. One lady, who appeared to be about 90 years old, picked up a lovely mauve hat only to be confronted by another lady (about 20 years her junior): “I had that hat first,†she claimed. “Well, I don’t see you holding it,†the other countered. “I just set it down for a moment and you swooped in and took it from me.†The feud went on for a few minutes, the eldest lady never letting go of that hat. The other woman followed her around the yard—glaring, pursing her lips. Finally the hat warden threw in the towel, hurling the hat at her nemesis and snapping, “Take it, you stupid cow.†The winner happily paid her 75 cents and marched off with the prize. What a shame. I was fully expecting and hoping to see a few punches thrown.
If you do decide to hold another of these sales, I have one last piece of advice for you: You need to calculate the value of your time, come to the conclusion that it is simply not worth it, and then pile all your crap at the end of your driveway. Trust me, by sunrise some wacko bargain hound will have found and claimed it, feeling as though he has just won the lottery.
The gin is taking effect. Cheers.