Friday, May 18, 2012

Estate Sales

I go to an estate sale once every two or three years, just to remind me why I am not an estate sale person.  On its face it seems to be an ideal situation.  A TWU professor lived in this house for 60 years; seems that it would be a treasure trove of interesting and useful items at a good price. 
Most of North Denton apparently agrees and there I find the first problem, parking.  In this case, the elevation is critical.  The further I travel down the street looking for a space, the tougher the climb will be back up the hill to the house.  I circle around and go one block to the south to remain on the same elevation and actually be a little closer.  (Tactical Parking should be my first e-book)  The other thing to prepare for, mentally, is the yahoo that parks illegally near the house and leaves the flashers on.  This could very easily put me in a dark psychological place.  I cannot allow that to happen because I will need a good attitude for the trials ahead.
As I approach the house the excitement grows.  I observe all the smiling faces of people walking to their cars, treasure in hand.  I see power tools, a folding workbench, and that gas can (which was the real reason to show up), all wonderful finds.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, this was the second problem.  When you get to a 9:00am sale at 9:15, all the really good deals are already gone.  However, I don’t know that yet and my confidence is high, I repeat, confidence is high.
Now to get into the house; I understand that the sellers don’t want me to steal late uncle Bob and aunt Jenny’s stuff but the tiny opening by the backyard fence, which is the only hole in their defenses, is clogged with people paying for their purchases.  No one in this line is concerned about me getting in and I am not willing to push my way through.  Eventually, I am able to follow a large woman who apparently dressed for this predicament.  She wore a bright purple spandex sausage casing work out suit that allowed her to slide between people with very little friction.  I followed her and was inside searching through items in no time.
Once inside another issue is navigation.  There is just not much room in most houses for passing traffic.  My disposition and size being what it is, I count it a miracle that I got out to pen these words of warning to others. There is never anything in the bedrooms that are worth traveling to, for it is a dangerous trip indeed.  I was stuck in a bedroom for almost 30 minutes, as waves of people pushed me further from the door.  How can this happen you say…bedrooms are always full of purple spandex women and tiny 80 yr old ladies.  Both of these types of sale goers have the psyches of feeding sharks.  An elderly woman can dart in and out of crevasses and cover the whole house before I get clear of the kitchen.
All of the good garage stuff and yard equipment were gone.  Finally I have my two items, a book of poems (copyright 1923) and a cool little wooden cigar box.  I make my way out to the backyard checkout area to discover that the line goes all the way to the back fence.  As I stand there, sweaty and annoyed, my cigar box is suddenly not that cool and the binding on the book seems a little frayed.  I set down both items and wait for a blocker to exit.  I spot a woman with a large plastic purse that swings widely as she walks.  She is complaining loudly about the price of the dining room table as she leaves.  Everyone in line moves out of our way as we leave.
As I walked back to my car I declared to myself that I only wasted an hour, I would never do it again, and all would be right with the world as soon as I got to Starbucks.  It was.
I’m Beef and these are my tips

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