The Puberty Switch

Was that written in blood?

Like a grizzly bear emerging from her cave after a long winter’s hibernation, yardsale season is now upon us—and like a grizzly bear, you’d better not get too close, one because you will probably die, and two, because you don’t know where that’s been.*

Today’s trip exemplified that like no other, as my little quadrangle of Connecticut played host to estate sale after estate sale after crusty old “hey, is this floor up to code?” estate sale. …Which is kind of an ominous sign, given, you know, why people hold estate sales.

It Starts.

The 2013 yardsale season is here!

Guest Post: Antique Shopping

(This guest post was submitted by my GameCola co-collaborator and perhaps the world’s most famous Nancy Drew enthusiast, Michael Gray.)

Since Halloween is coming up, I thought it’d be a nice time to talk about yardsaling’s scary cousin: antique shopping.

You can see the family resemblance between antique shopping and yard sales. Both hobbies include sorting through piles of useless old junk that nobody wants anymore. But while yard sales are run by mostly normal people, antique malls are run by complete lunatics. In fact, if you’re ever at a yard sale where the sellers seem crazy, odds are that they’re just trying to impress the antique mall scouts.

You see, antique stores are just like the government. Everyone in charge is over fifty years old, and they have no idea how much things cost. For example, $50 for a Titanic VHS tape is a reasonable price at an antique store. On the other hand, something like an Xbox 360 game will go for two dollars, because the antiquers have no idea what to do with any products made in this century.

I recently visited an antique mall in Normal, Illinois. Conveniently located in a dead shopping center, this store contains proof that their town is poorly named.

This suit would either be a great Halloween costume, or the worst birthday present ever.

About $20 for the creepy salt and pepper shakers. I think the design for them was reused in Gnomeo and Juliet.

The Not Safe For Work Post.

Sometimes it’s best not to try to figure out the story behind how a particular item ended up at a yardsale. For example, you might not want to know why, exactly, someone’s selling their collection of used bedpans. (Best case scenario: The homeowner likes peeing in buckets. Worst-case scenario? Grandpa’s gone to a better place.) You also might not want to know how so many “World’s Best Dad” mugs ended up on the 25-cent table. (Best case: He actually just is the World’s Best Dad and has an abundance of them; worst case: there is a sinister reason why he doesn’t deserve them anymore, and would you mind calling child services?)

I really really didn’t want to know why this young couple was selling a wedding dress (and matching shoes) for only $10:

So when they caught me looking at it with what appeared to be interest (but in reality was  me trying to surreptitiously take a photo without becoming known around town as “the guy who takes pictures of used women’s clothing”), I quickly bolted to the next closest thing and started stroking my chin thoughtfully—as though admiring a great work of art and contemplating Deep Thoughts, like “ah, the master brushstrokes are clearly indicative of the artist’s blah blah blah,” or “man, I really wish those people would stop looking at me.”

…which is unfortunate, considering what I was standing in front of at the time:

At that point I pretty much had to resign myself to moving.

(By the way…between this and the painting I saw a couple of weeks ago…is there some kind of tiny-headed epidemic that I should be worried about? Are the melon heads of Connecticut real? Is this why the election has mostly been about birth certificates and tax returns, rather than anything even remotely important—because people’s brains are literally shrinking?)

The rest of today’s finds were less embarrassing. …For me, anyway; I don’t think I’d ever want to admit to owning, for example…

Welcome to Earth, Moonmen!

It was BACK TO THE SALES this week, after about a month of visiting family, attending weddings, documenting state-wide beard and goat competitions, and also sleeping sometimes, because seriously you have to get up at like 7 in the goddamn morning to find any “good stuff,” and sometimes that “good stuff” just ain’t worth it.

I picked the wroooong weekend to come back.

Bunnies and Beards at the [Insert Name Here] Farm Fair

A bit of a digression for this week’s post, if you’ll indulge me. I haven’t been to any quality yardsales in weeks. I think this must be what it felt like to be in East Berlin before the wall came down. Oh, sure, I’ve visited a few; but the most exciting thing I found was a stuffed monkey with the hilarious t-shirt  ”Ape 3:21″ (a play on the popular 1990s wrestling slogan “Austin 3:16,” cleverly parodied via the use of three random numbers that have no meaning whatsoever). That said, I think it’s safe to assume that the type of person who enjoys silly jokes and pictures about yardsales would also enjoy silly jokes and pictures of community farm fairs; if I’m wrong, well…

Take it up with the goat.

Narnia Fever Dream

A number of weeks ago, I teased that I visited this one estate sale that deserved its own post—not only because it encompassed two separate buildings and had as many goods for sale as a typical Wal-Mart (and, let’s be honest, about the same quality)—but because including it as an aside in a post about golden toothbrushes and laxative-themed thermometers just wouldn’t do it justice.

Don’t remember what I’m talking about?

Now you do.

This estate sale was a thing of wonder. Epic poems could be written about the journey one had to take to get from one end of it to the other—winding through alleyways of cardboard boxes, up and down creaking, crusty staircases with little pieces crumbling off with each step—I swear I even got lost at one point and had to ask for directions. It was by far the biggest sale I’ve ever been to in Connecticut, encompassing both a two-story home and a three-story barn.

I, naturally, gravitated toward the barn first, because, well..