I hate yard sales. I would almost rather just chuck it all in the dumpster and be done with it. First you have to waste a perfectly good Saturday getting up early. Then you set up crap at the end of the driveway. If you have enough stuff, and you look dejected enough, it can seem to passers-by that you just got evicted.
Then there’s the haggling. I’m sorry this is 2011 in the United States, not 1920 Saudi Arabia. When I say “that’s ten dollars”, don’t insult me by saying, “will you take eight?”.
No. Its ten dollars. Actually now it’s twelve, I had to add two bucks for dealing with you. So pay up, move on, or get the Hell out of my yard. It’s an eighty dollar car seat, you’re getting it for ten bucks. Quit bitching.
Then there’s the, um, types of folks that attend yard sales. Sure there are some relatively average people, but then there are those people… The atavistic throwbacks that you know just learned how to use that opposable thumb (isn’t it cool?) and who might just fling poo at you if they don’t get that old VCR for a dollar instead of five. They grunt and scratch their bellies and spit chew on the ground, and hand you a few grubby bills, before you watch them leave, oil dripping. The last thing you see are those Yosemite Sam mud flaps.
I guess it’s not a total waste. If I wasn’t enjoying this humid morning, out here feeding the mosquitos and watching people drive by giving me derisive looks, I would be inside asleep.