A labor of . . . desperation
To some, it might seem a stretch to say there are similarities between giving birth and having a yard sale. I doubt there are many women who haven’t–while in the absolute midst of doing one or the other–loudly declared, “There’s no way in hell I’m ever doing THIS again.”
But after it’s over and time passes, the woman’s memories will begin to soften. Slowly, she’ll forget just enough. Gradually, she might even begin to reminisce fondly about (a) breaking three fingers of her husband’s hand when he was too slow with the ice chips, or (b) unloading a used pinata for $5 and a mismatched pair of crutches for $10.
Forgetfulness is nature’s way of ensuring that, in time, a woman will be willing to do it again. Before long, she’ll begin dreaming of having another. And so it goes with the most natural of all instincts: The urge to procreate and the equally powerful urge to get rid of all the crap in the basement.
And depending on the condition of the basement, both can take up to ten months to accomplish.
Not long ago, I was struck with just such an urge. I can still recall the precise moment of conception. I was listening to the radio early one morning when I heard my cats fighting. I hurried to the basement to break up their spat and in doing so, toppled over a stack of books, upended a chair piled high with clothes, then had to climb Mount Old-Linens to get at the two cats. When I returned to my desk, I heard Steve Bishop talking about the upcoming semi-annual yard sale on V100.
And miracle of miracles, the seed was implanted.
In no time at all, I was busily nesting–assembling garment racks, emptying cabinets, writing prices on stickers. My husband and daughter soon joined me. Together we shared our dreams about the big event as we prepared wistfully for our new arrival-an empty room.
Although the basement room was still mostly full at the time, I wrapped my arm around Geoff’s waist and began to imagine how the room might look after the sale. “I bet it’ll end up looking like you,” I said, knowing it’s genetically unlikely that such a dominant characteristic (compulsive book hoarding) would not somehow emerge.
“I bet it’ll look like Celeste,” he said, likely imagining the games and game parts that trail behind her in a cloud much like Pigpen’s dust.
Our cat hacked up a hairball, apparently voicing her opinion that the room would, before long, look just like before, decorated with hairballs, shed fur, and junk.
And so, last Saturday morning, it was time. With my parent’s van and our hatchback filled to the top, we headed for the Kanawha Mall parking lot. We thought we were well prepared for what lay ahead. We’d read tips, listened to advice from friends and relatives who had been there before. We had dozens and dozens of bags, plenty of change. We even had ice chips, although they melted long before we had a chance to get near them.
Although I’d attended that sale as a buyer before, I’d never considered what life might be like on the other side of the table. It was insane.
Before we had even emptied our vehicles, cash was being thrust at us from all sides. This is not something I have a problem with. (Readers in doubt should feel free to thrust cash my direction and watch how well I handle myself.) But in the midst of attempting to set up our space, it was discombobulating. No sooner had we lifted a loaded garment rack out of the van than we were dealing with negotiators wanting even more of a bargain. We’d priced our stuff low, the goal being to free up our basement more than to raise cash, but I soon learned there are right ways and wrong ways to bargain with me.
If an item is marked $4 even though it still has the original $32 price tag attached and is still mostly IN this seller’s van, saying, “I’ll give you a buck for that” is not likely to work. But asking, “Could you possibly do any better on this?” works every time.
By the end of the day, when the Goodwill truck came by to pick up the leftover wares, we didn’t have much left to give. It was over. We were done. The experience, rewarding as it was, the labor was exhausting and even painful at times. And now, it’s behind us. And there’s no way in hell I’ll ever do that again.
