…I’m sorry; I just wanted to start this post the same way I started my day: with a big steaming pile of nose goblins. And they weren’t even my own. When I stepped out of my car at the first sale of the day, I was greeted by this guy just…blowing it all over his driveway. Like he was putting salt down to melt ice. I was afraid small children might slip in the alarmingly large puddle forming near his shoes, but he didn’t seem to think it was weird. Maybe I should be thankful it was just snot.
After that explosive start (at least for him), I might’ve just taken it as an omen and headed right back home, perhaps muttering some clever jokes about how “well, that’s southern Connecticut for you!” (and secretly counting the days until we move to Ohio, which I’m told is a fantasy land of everlasting sunshine ), but not this day. Thank goodness, not this day.
I’ve written way too many words now without showing you a funny picture, so here’s one to start you off with:
…what, I’m five; leave me alone.
Actually speaking of butt markers, I did bring home this special…it can only be referred to as a work of art, which I like to think (hope) is a tea caddy (or, as Google puts it, a “tea bag disposal plate“), but my wife suggests that it might be an ashtray. I want to preface this by saying that this is only the second weirdest thing I bought today. Second weirdest. Keep that in mind.
I’m sorry, I could feel that joke dying even as I typed it, but my fingers just wouldn’t stop. It’s like they were purrsessed.
Sorry. Last one. Purromise.
Right now in mid-April, we’re still sort of in the pre-season for yardsales. On a good day (say in July or August), I might be able to hit a dozen sales in one go, but today I had a whopping, err…two on my list. So just like last week, I decided to supplement with a few thrift stores.
First up was this place.
…yeah. For some reason (perhaps because it looks like the crime scene from an episode of literally any crime show) I’d been ignoring this so-called “tag sale” for the four or five years we’ve lived here, but bloggers can’t be choosers. My favorite part about this place was that it made me feel like I was exploring the secret tunnels of some ancient city; the only things I was missing were the pushy tour guide who won’t let you touch ANYTHING, and also a pair of comfortable shoes.
Its outer appearance belied an interior that was shockingly normal, although I’ll admit this made me giggle:
After that little archaeological expedition was a Goodwill store—which I’m pretty sure was somehow the dirtier of the two.
I have sort of a hate-hate relationship with Goodwill. While their stores are usually much larger than the average thrift store (and therefore have a lot more stuff), they also cram them with just an unimaginable amount of garbage. If thrift stores in general are where you sell things that weren’t good enough for yardsales, Goodwill is where you sell things that weren’t good enough for other thrift stores. If there weren’t a bunch of walls around it, you’d basically call it a trash dump; that’s what I’m saying.
This place had a lot of the staples. Classy t-shirts:
(If my mom asks, tell her it stands for “Billy Joel” or something.)
And also somewhat alarming t-shirts:
And of course, they had the typical high art:
So you can understand why my expectations were a little low. And then my eyes got blown to the f***ing moon.
I was scanning the knick-knack shelves—just scanning, not thinking I’d actually find anything. (I never find anything on the knick-knack shelves. I don’t think anyone ever has. Some of the things rusted to these shelves looked like they might’ve been there since Goodwill was merely Meh.)
And then I stopped. And I stared. My mouth fell open—actually fell open, like you see in cartoons. (I think I even heard a slide-whistle, although it might’ve just been someone’s ringtone.)
Remember before when I said the tea caddy (cattie) was only the second weirdest thing I saw today? Yeah, this was the first:
The thing must be a foot tall; a f***ing monster MADE OUT OF GARDEN POTS. With flowers growing out of its brains. Carrying around a little wooden stake like it’s got a ninja-blade hidden up its sleeve (which is ALSO MADE OF POTS).
Like…how does this happen?! Who decides they’re gonna build a Pot Golem for arts and crafts?! (And can I be their best friend?) It actually reminds me of something we might’ve seen at the farm fair a few years back—maybe entered into a contest for “Creepiest F***ing Garden Sculpture”. I bet that’s exactly where it came from, actually:
Father: “Well son, the festival’s over; what do you want to do with it?”
Son: “Gosh Pop, I dunno; I guess we could set it up in the garde–”
Pot Monster: BLAAAAAAAAAARG *eats both of them*
Of course I brought it home with me. (Please. I’ve learned my lesson from the pear of sheep.) My wife suggested that I could tuck it away in storage (“until we have a good place for it,” she says, slyly); I countered that maybe I could build a shrine to it. Just a small one. Just something to keep it happy. You know—just in case.
I think the cashier probably had my favorite reaction to it, though: “Wow, that’s…unique.” You could just tell she wished she’d bought it first.