Saturday, August 21, 2010
This weekend, the part of Manic Saturday is being played by our annual garage sale. I love me some serious gutting of our humble dwelling, and have been known to practically take the shirts off my loved ones' backs to rid of us the oppression of consumerism, but when it comes to the actual sale, I freeze. Much like Shel Siverstein's Little Peggy Ann McKay, I cannot have a garage sale today. Mind you, this is an annual tradition, going on 12 years, and I am the garage sale boss, no joke. But the anticipation cripples me. I set a record this year by postponing it for seven consecutive weeks. Alas, the light at the end of summer's proverbial tunnel is dimming, and it was time.
This is our last sale, and there was no more clinging to objets de'sentiment, like the sweet but crazy-making odds and ends my father collected in his eccentric life of 51 years. This was all-out. These things have been evicted. Whatever is left tomorrow will be the feast of freecycle, and I will rejoice, at long last, at a garage that can accommodate both vehicles. This has been our simple dream since we've lived here, but my shameless addiction to retail consumption and my children's stubborn, constant growth has been an insurmountable obstacle until now. This is the year, and it feels amazing.
Less clutter inside, clean garage, and money to celebrate it all. Now that's cleaning up!
Reilly cleaned out plenty of pockets with this sweet little racket:
In the interest of honesty, I will confess to rescuing this trinket from a life of unappreciated obscurity, as it truly typifies my dad's whimsy as a collector, and makes me think of him. I opted for this over the more valuable antiques, and if you know me, you'll understand why.