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…

She Was Eaten to DEATH

*ahem* Let’s get doewn to business; we have a lot of madeerial to cover. (…I’m so sorry. Those are some of my worst puns yet. My Aunt Ler would be so ashamed.)

Today’s adventure started off with a “blue light”—which is, as described earlier, a term my mom coined for yardsales that sneak up on you, like that axe murderer that’s creeping up behind you right now. Although as it turned out, I did see this one listed on Craigslist the night before. The post just had one critical flaw:

They didn’t include an address. Which—as you might imagine—is a bit of a problem when you’re trying to visit someone’s house. My GPS is an older model; it doesn’t understand how to get me from Spring Street to “near Route 67, past where the old supermarket used to be.”

So how did I know it was the same sale? They mentioned in the post that they had a bunch of gravestones for sale, and, well…

They sure did!

My favorite, by far: “Here lies BETH. She was eaten to DEATH.” (Although “SALLY BASS got overcome by GAS” comes in at a close second.)

A whopping $50 for the whole lot though; they must’ve read my post about ridiculous Connecticut Prices, and took it as a challenge. “Oh, he thinks $4 for a scratched up CD is bad? Just wait until I charge half a hundo for these cardboard things I painted!”

Although that said, for only $5 I could’ve taken home this fantastic lobster rug:

…but it’s a good thing I didn’t get my claws into that; I ended up buying another awesome rug at a different sale, and I think if I brought them both home my wife might’ve boiled me alive. (Like a lobster.)

Later in the day, I came across…