Keep the advice coming. We’re having a garage sale this weekend.
I’m advertising, and I’ve enlisted the aid of one of my favorite scrub nurses, a Portuguese woman who made over six hundred dollars at her last garage sale. This is a woman who knows how to sell shit. I don’t know what she’s going to ask for her assistance, but whatever she asks, chances are it isn’t enough.
I’ve already decided not to mess with prices. “Make me an offer” will be my motto. I’d like to think people will offer a fair price on things, but I’ve heard too many stories of people wanting stuff for free.
Bake cookies. That’s what one of my friends always tells me. Feed ’em chocolate chip cookies, thereby guilt-tripping them into buying stuff. She likes garage sales because she thinks it’s fun convincing people they NEED this garbage. I think she’s nuts.
I’ve already made $230, though. Tonight, I sold some of our construction detritus — French doors that we’d had to remove since, guess what, French doors leak like sieves when faced with horizontal rain; a storm door, never used; a window box, removed from the “old kitchen”; the ultra-heavy front door which we replaced; and a few other doors besides. Where did all of those doors come from? They looked vaguely familiar, but fuck if I could name their former location.
But we have oh so much more junk to sell. Tons of Jake’s clothing, much of it heartbreakingly new. (And we bought this stuff why?) Snake cages and other aquaria. Ikea furniture, fart and it falls apart. Children’s books and toys. An old gas dryer. A wet-dry shop vac with one of its casters missing. An old Peugeot mountain bike.
Meanwhile . . . time to do more laundry. Good night!
D.