Garage Sale, Not My Idea!

There she goes again.
She keeps walking by my chair with her arms full of junk from upstairs.  I'm supposed to feel guilty because tomorrow is the neighborhood garage sale and she has big plans for items I deem important. Okay, granted, at the moment I may not be using any of them, but I want them available for special projects I haven't thought of yet.

Buy our stuff!!  It's crap-o-riffic!

It's like that.  Women don't like clutter.  Men, always anticipating complicated scenerios that may manifest themselves momentarily, must maintain a high state of readiness.  Goofy hats, old magazine articles, plastic toys, broken electronic devices need to be at arm's length instantainiously.  Storage is critical to readiness and that is where garages and attics enter in.  If you are lucky enough to live in a part of the country where basements are standard equiptment, you should be ready for armagedon and/or a killer party, whichever comes first.  Stuff should be well hidden from female "search and dystroy" eyes if you are to be prepared.   Favorite old shirts, sports memoralbilia, ammo, drinking shoes, bowling trophies and other cool but completely useless rummage are fair game when the woman in charge of organizing your life goes on a garage sale safari.  Be prepared to stand your ground.

I keep hoping that the lingering hot spell we've been having will cool the ardor of the gals--and it is ALL women--who have insisted on holding this massive purge of collected family detritis.  No guys, for reasons previously stated,  have an interest in waking early on Saturday just to watch strangers paw through treasures they'd planned on keeping.  "That bike will be good as new with a couple of new tires, a seat, handlebars, and a chain."  Women don't get it!

Right now I'm thinking of making book on how many ice cream freezers will be on display at this thing.  Has anybody ever made ice cream more than twice with one?   Though they are perfect for storing old tennis balls and cigar butts, they remain a garage sale staple, right up there with old lamps and  broken weed wackers.

Books never seem to do well at garage sales.  I don't know if typical patrons are mostly illiterate or find that it isn't nearly enough "fun" to grind you down from ten cents apiece to a nickle.  I am fairly certain that my Sunday will be spent hauling printed matter back upstairs.  (The joke is on her.  I didn't want to get rid of them anyway.)

A prize too awesome to give up.  What if Elvis calls?

If you can believe it, there are at least two cherished collectibles that will be headed home with strangers when this is over.  My classic Elvis phone which plays "Jailhouse Rock" instead of ringing  and the always hard to find Bozo phone are on the block.  The former was a Christmas gift from my youngest daughter in recognition of all of the King's hits I spun on the radio.  A damn fine gift until you realize you're really not up for hearing "Jailhouse Rock" thirty times a day.  In fairness, it did look good disconnected.

His nose lights up when it rings.

The Bozo phone is another story.  For years I longed to own a phone featuring a nose that lit up every time it rang.  The problem was this hideous blower didn't ring--it laughed maniacally.  The first time I heard it my sphincter ate my underpants.  It is satan's telephone and too scary by half.  No one should have one of these; so I'll be careful to sell it to a completely charmless S.O.B..

So there you have a sneak preview of some of the exclusive bargains on sale tomorrow in my garage.  Come early as we anticipate massive crowds.  Doors open at 7AM.  Fun goes on for a good two or three minutes.

How can I possibly part with something a neat as this??