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.
As I learned a couple of years ago, these sales can offer an unexpected yet very thorough look into the life of someone you’ve never met before—which makes one of my stops all the more terrifying. This old house had me surrounded by ratty old clothing on the right, rotting board games on the left, and there, brazenly lining the staircase like the world’s creepiest banister:
TONS AND TONS OF ADULT MAGAZINES. (Hey, thanks for the SEO boost, yardsale!)
It was like the entire Internet was for sale. Some were covered up; others, as you can see above, were as naked as the women on their covers, ready to throw the puberty switch for any unaccompanied minors who happened to wander by. Playboys, Penthouses, and, at the top—uh, “Boy’s Life,” which I’m hoping is a children’s magazine, and not, you know, a children’s magazine, if you catch my drift.
There were a couple other items from this sale, too, that could easily be featured in my new spring catalog, tentatively titled “Don’t Buy This at Home”:
“Tired of buying people’s used bed pans? So are we! That’s why our hot new item this season is used foot baths. Why pay extra for new, when they don’t even come with old skin flakes?”
“This decorative wall-hanging tells the world, ‘My family poops a lot.'”
But of all the things I saw for sale today, there was only one item I really never expected to find:
Oh, yardsales. Even after all these years, you still find ways to surprise me.
* Well, OK, a cave.
** No, I didn’t buy it. It was unpriced, and I have a long-standing rule against asking for prices unless my mommy is there to do it for me.