Best. Rummage. Day. EVER.
I am a garage sale aficionado, or if you ask my beloved wife, a whore. Either way, I enjoy taking full advantage of people who are desperate enough to unload their child’s outgrown clothing that they’ll take anything they can get. The experience can be pretty hit and miss. I can waste five bucks in gas plus a couple hours of time just to find a $.50 shirt that, upon inspection without a child screaming in my ear, turns out to be a lot more stained and/or masculine than I thought it was when I bought it. Today is the type of day I dream of, though, when I awaken to anxiously circle newspaper listings hen pore over a street map to determine where exactly those sales are.
My first stop was a near mythical location: A reasonably priced virgin selection of a four-year old girl’s former wardrobe. This is why I leave in the morning, especially on days cold enough to cull the weaker shoppers. I scoured this sale for a good 30 minutes before leaving with a shopping bag stuffed full of pink-hued delights.
Off to the next sale I ventured. It was hidden deep in a residential area. When I found it, I discovered that it was only one of at least a dozen sales in a square block area, an area that was so dense with bargains and the hunters who love them that I had to struggle to find street parking. I finally claimed a spot outside one sale, and figured I would comb as many sales as Abbie, who was getting pretty cranky, would let me. The first sale had nothing that met my twin criteria of nice and cheap. The second sale had a few deals I bought. The third sale had a few more I bought, and Abbie was almost at the end of her patience, so I ambled back to the car. On the way, I spotted one final sale that I missed, and decided to push Abbie to her limit. I found a table and started scavenging.
The proprietor saw us and said, “We have a few little girl’s things but not many.”
Holding up a shirt I liked I replied “yeah, I see this, but I don’t see a price on it.”
“Well,” she said, “another person just dropped off a bag full of clothes, and if they weren’t concerned about putting a price on it, I won’t be concerned about how much I get from it.” Understanding the situation, I started grabbing nice items and mentally attaching lowball amounts, while Abbie progressively whined harder and harder. Then I found the large bag, the overflowing source of the ooey gooey name-your-price goodness. I pulled a few things out, continuing to mentally add, until I realized that Abbie was on a verge of a total meltdown. I stuffed everything I found into the bag and casually walked to the cashier.
“Will you take ten bucks for the bag?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I gave her the money and floated back to the car, fighting niggardly induced convulsions the whole way. We drove home (I drove, Abbie rode) having made many fewer stops than I had planned, but I couldn’t believe my fortune. By the way, what did I eat for breakfast for the first time in years this morning? Lucky Charms.
My first stop was a near mythical location: A reasonably priced virgin selection of a four-year old girl’s former wardrobe. This is why I leave in the morning, especially on days cold enough to cull the weaker shoppers. I scoured this sale for a good 30 minutes before leaving with a shopping bag stuffed full of pink-hued delights.
Off to the next sale I ventured. It was hidden deep in a residential area. When I found it, I discovered that it was only one of at least a dozen sales in a square block area, an area that was so dense with bargains and the hunters who love them that I had to struggle to find street parking. I finally claimed a spot outside one sale, and figured I would comb as many sales as Abbie, who was getting pretty cranky, would let me. The first sale had nothing that met my twin criteria of nice and cheap. The second sale had a few deals I bought. The third sale had a few more I bought, and Abbie was almost at the end of her patience, so I ambled back to the car. On the way, I spotted one final sale that I missed, and decided to push Abbie to her limit. I found a table and started scavenging.
The proprietor saw us and said, “We have a few little girl’s things but not many.”
Holding up a shirt I liked I replied “yeah, I see this, but I don’t see a price on it.”
“Well,” she said, “another person just dropped off a bag full of clothes, and if they weren’t concerned about putting a price on it, I won’t be concerned about how much I get from it.” Understanding the situation, I started grabbing nice items and mentally attaching lowball amounts, while Abbie progressively whined harder and harder. Then I found the large bag, the overflowing source of the ooey gooey name-your-price goodness. I pulled a few things out, continuing to mentally add, until I realized that Abbie was on a verge of a total meltdown. I stuffed everything I found into the bag and casually walked to the cashier.
“Will you take ten bucks for the bag?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I gave her the money and floated back to the car, fighting niggardly induced convulsions the whole way. We drove home (I drove, Abbie rode) having made many fewer stops than I had planned, but I couldn’t believe my fortune. By the way, what did I eat for breakfast for the first time in years this morning? Lucky Charms.
posted by Matt at
10:14 PM
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