Yard Sale Weirdos

After ten years of working in the casino industry, I've met many interesting people. If one was so inclined, he or she could create a successful blog simply writing about all the pot-smoking, drug-dealing, underwear-flashing, peeing-in-public, drunkards that you meet; you could also talk about the customers. This past week has taught me that it's not only in the window-less, clock-less, dark corners of the gaming floor that these "interesting" people lurk. They have crawled across the beer-soaked carpet, through the casino's revolving door, and into their cars. They're driving around searching for the next big hit and they're looking in your yard. That's right, they're making the yard sale rounds and they know where you live.

Giant neon yellow signs attract crazies, like bug zappers attract flies. The only difference is that you can't shock weirdos with a sign.

I'm ready to close the doors on this baby factory. Three kids are enough; more than enough some days. My wife isn't completely sold on the idea yet.  I've told her many times that I don't care if she has another baby as long as the guy pays child support. Since coming to this decision, it only made sense to get rid of all our baby stuff: tubs, rockers, toys, and other pointless baby items to name a few.

The problem is motivation. We have an entire room in our basement dedicated to crap we'll either never use again or haven't used in three years. I hate yard sales as much as the next guy. They were cool when I was little, but now it's all work and little reward. While it'd be easier to pack it all up and give it to Goodwill, there's no motivation in it. The possibility that somebody might actually give me some money for all this junk is motivating.

Once we finally set a date for the sale, it was go time.  A week's worth of evenings spent sorting clothes and arranging knickknacks on tables was all it took to get ready.  Follow that up with three six-hour days spent outside waiting for potential customers and you have yourself primed to make a quick $100.  I figure it works out to somewhere around $3.57 an hour.

But, it's not about the money.  It's mainly about knowing that none of that stuff is coming back into my house.  But more importantly, it's about the people you meet and the stories you'll be able to tell later.  I'm not much of a talker, but the strangers that browse through my trash don't seem to know that.

Let's Talk

As a hardcore introvert, it amazes me that unknown faces can just walk up to other unknown faces and start speaking.  By speaking, I mean telling their life story.  There was one old dude that I actually didn't mind listening to.  He had the same sense of humor as my Dad and Grandpa, except his jokes were actually funny.  I learned all about the idiots he worked with, one of which turned on the machine that took his arm.   He told me about his family problems, none of which I can repeat here.  Let's just say it was "kinda racist".  He had me going when he told me about his wife's drinking problem.  Turns out she drank gas.  Turns out he was talking about his truck.  Turns out I resorted to my usual nodding and smiling response.  Works every time.

Then there's the creep that showed up during my lunch run.   I rounded up the kids in the van and sped off to town to pick up lunch for everybody.  You would think this to be an easy task, but when your mother-in-law wants Subway, your kids want Chicken Nuggets, and your Chalupa craving is acting up, you're going to be busy for awhile.  I expected to hear there was a lot of business while I was gone.  Nope.  Just one guy.  And here's what he wanted to talk about:

Weird Dude:  "I was at another yard sale and asked if they had any porno movies for sale.  They said 'No' so I asked if they wanted to make one.  They got mad."

My Wife's Response:

WTF?

Then he bought Dude, Where's My Car? and left.

Let's Haggle

Then you get the hagglers.  I hate haggling.  I would rather listen to the life stories of total strangers than argue over the price of my crap.  I'm no good at it.  It's not that I give in to easy, it's that I'm stubborn.  If I put one dollar on something, that means I want one dollar for it, not fifty cents.  I would rather give something away for free than give it to your cheap ass for fifty cents.  Logically, I know it's stupid to not make at least something, but it's not about the money.

It's about principles.  That little neon-green $1 sticker made it quite clear what I was expecting for my old, used up deck of cards.  I don't care if I replaced the 8 of diamonds with a card from another deck.  If you can't pony up your Washington, don't try to stick me with a Kennedy.

It began the first day.  With the first shopper.  I wanted ten dollars for this:

I even cleaned all the poop, puke, and petrified nuggets off

An Evenflo Five Point Harness Covertible car seat.  This thing costs around $60 brand new.  Of course, it's been used and that should warrant a slight price reduction.  I figured fifty dollars off was fair enough.  Not my customer though.  She figured $53 dollars off would be more reasonable.

Stingy Chick:  "Would you take seven dollars for this?"

I'm thinking, sure, I'll take seven dollars and then for another three, I'll let you take it home.

Me:  "No, it's ten."

I told you I wasn't good at haggling.

Don't try to low-ball me at 7:30 in the morning on the first day of a three-day yard sale.  I haven't even put all of my crap out in the yard and you're already hassling me over price.  Come back at 1:30 Saturday afternoon and we'll talk.  She gave me the ten dollars and I packed it up for her.

Then there are the people that love to tell you everything is marked too high for a yard sale.  These are the pros.  They have one of those fanny-pack coin-sorters and are ready to make it rain nickels and dimes all over your 25-cent table.  One woman argued with me over the price on every thing she brought to my table.  I finally told her there was no charge for anything.   She looked at me in shock and said she would gladly pay for it.  I just wanted her to take it and leave.  She insisted on paying me two dollars.

And then it happened...the ultimate haggle.  I had marked one of my wife's knickknacks with a $1 sticker.  Then I heard this come out of someone's mouth: "Would you take five pesos for this?"

WTF?  Did I just get haggled in Espanol?  Si, Senor.

5 pesos you say?  In other words, you want me to take 38 cents for this thing and then take another hit on the currency conversion charge leaving me with somewhere around 25 cents.  Did I fall for it?  You bet your ass.  That's a peso with a story to tell.

The five peso piece. It's like having thirteen nickels in one convenient nickel size.

So why do I tell you all this?  It has nothing to do with raising kids or heavy metal does it?  No.  But I tell you this for two reasons.  One, it's been a solid week since I last posted anything and I need to vent.  And two, I hope that you will learn to never have a sale of your own.  If you do, just remember it's more about the stories you'll be able to tell later than about the paltry money you'll make.