We've got all this stuff in the garage blocking the way to the workbench. It's draped with old blankets and comforters, piled high with boxes, and I'm fed up with the whole mess. We're stuffed like a turkey in the old house, the new house, the storage unit, and now the garage. Actually, I'd rather put it at the curb with a free sign on it, but RMan's level headedness prevails and so we'll do a yard sale.
The last yard sale was like Amish bartering gone bad -- people traded homemade pomegranate vodka and a little pot for heirlooms such as blown glasses and a Star Wars Millennium Falon model kit. Neighbors came out of the woodwork to visit and some even made return visits to catch up on news and critique our flowers. At one point, Pomegranate Girl popped behind the table and sold a teaset for us. It was a riot.
As irreverent as it is to put my mother's 60s vintage Thomasville heirlooms on the driveway, that's exactly where they'll be: primped and polished and ready for whomever careens to a stop in front of the house.
Gotta dig out somehow. Sorry, Mom.
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