I’m not a big fan of stuff. And if I had my way, the only stuff I would have in the house would be a handful of useful items. Like my cheese grater and Chi flat-iron.
But unfortunately (ahem, I mean fortunately), I live with a sentimental man-child and an obsessive Tasmanian devil that require stuff to survive. And by stuff I mean anything procured in high school, brandishing the St Louis Blues logo, or depicting Dora the Explorer.
Although, to be fair, I do have an incredibly irrational addiction to glassware.
But in an effort to declutter the house, I came up with the AMAZING idea to have a yard sale. Because I don’t have enough unfinished projects in my life.
So I’ve been hoarding items that *could* possibly be worth a quarter for the last
twenty six months. Then last weekend, I pulled everything out from its various hiding places to bask in the glory of my potential wealth. And groaned.
At this point, the only appeal to having a yard sale is to have someone else take this crap out. of. my. house. Because if I’m not willing to take the time to go buy my husband socks, I’m certainly not going to make 15 trips to Goodwill.
As insurance that this crap will not live in my family room forever, I duped my neighbors into doing a multi-family sale, so there’s no backing out now. Because you know that I need to be held accountable by someone to accomplish anything. Although, that’s hit or miss sometimes, too.
However, the giant Hulk poster that she has to put out for signage is definitely an incentive. I mean, who wouldn’t stop at a yard sale that The Hulk tells you about?
So wish me luck as I attempt to pawn my collection of random happy meal toys and fabric scraps off on some poor unsuspecting individual.