Memories Like the Corner of My Garage

We're divesting today.

For Stacy, having a garage sale is a little like selling a piece of your soul. The thought of some undiscerning slob walking away with our prized possessions for pennies on the dollar is an abhorrence. After all, that lid-less lavender tea pot with the burnt orange place mat was a gift from great grandma during her semi-senile years and has been building a wealth of sentimentality tucked in that box in the back of the garage for the last decade. And that macrame owl that lets you put in pots of artificial zinnias and plastic marigolds was inherited from Aunt So-and-So after she died of severe bad taste.

Sta:	"I can't believe that ingrate wanted to talk me down from a dollar on that shirt!"
Ste:	"Would you pay a dollar for that in some other smuck's garage sale?"
Sta:	"Well, no, but this isn't any shirt - this shirt is the one N wore the day he projectile vomited for the first time. That's significant."
Ste:	"I see how that might drive up the price."

Stacy is learning the hard way that sentimentality contributes zippo to net worth. (OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating our conversation a little.)


But I have my heartaches too, not with the kiddie crap I've been trying to get out of the garage for what seems far longer than we've had kids. My separation anxiety kicks in anytime something even remotely tool-like or utilitarian actually gets bought. I put our a set of three-headed track lights. They were decent looking and clean and I always thought I'd put them up somewhere, but never found a spot and was pretty sure that I wouldn't find a spot in the near term. So in the spirit of recovering real estate, I added them to the sale pile for $5. They were snapped up within a minute, so I was immediately plagued with self-doubt and accusation. "I probably should have asked $10... If I had held on to those, I'm sure I could have found a good use for them. That guy practically stole those!..."

The kids seem to be having mixed reactions to the whole thing. L has been very generous adding all N's toys to the pile, but seems quite concerned that we're selling baby bottles and other infant paraphernalia. I keep going back into the house and finding stuff squirreled away back inside.

N just wants to wear all the sparkly red Dorothy shoes that L is supposed to be selling.

So if you want to get some priceless memories for a criminal steal, our junk is for you! But just remember, if you actually buy anything, we'll resent you for it forever.