This is the tale of a pack-rat who couldn’t find anything to bring to a yard sale.
And that pack-rat would be me.
On Saturday, my Relay for Life team, The Slipper Sisters, is hosting a fundraising yard sale in conjunction with a bake sale that the Little But Strong team are holding. When we first started talking about this fundraiser over a month ago, I was all on-board. Go through the house, find stuff that I don’t use, put it in a box and try to sell it, with all the proceeds going to my Relay for Life team. Easy-peasy fundraiser in support of the Canadian Cancer Society, getting to hang out all day with some great ladies, and maybe clearing out some of the junk that I have accumulating in every corner of the house?
It was a no-brainer.
Right up until this week, when I started casting my eye upon all the junk in my house, and realizing I have pretty much nothing that I’m willing to part with.
Except for four mugs. FOUR MUGS.
My mom has been calling me a pack-rat since I was a kid. I used to hate each summer when Mom would decide we were having a garage sale. She’d force us to go through our belongings and pick out stuff to sell. Give away MY stuff?? That I LOVE even though I never use it? Hell to the NO, Mother!!
I’ve always a hard time letting things go. I like holding on to souvenirs and other things that I’m going to use “someday”. She claims that I STILL have stuff stored at her place, even though I moved out almost five years ago. (For the record… I think she’s lying. She’s now trying to pawn her crap off on me.)
She also doesn’t understand why I can’t box up all of my books, DVDs and CDs and just sell them.
Um. No. Just…no. Those things are precious to me.
I’ve always denied that pack-rat label that my mother likes to stick on me. I like cleanliness and order as much as the next guy. I watch “Hoarders” and I cringe. Just because I have a penchant for buying books and DVDs and CDs and hanging on to every newspaper article where Wade Redden’s name appears doesn’t mean I’m a pack-rat. Right?
But the fact remains that I have my “treasures” hidden in every little nook and cranny around the house. Not to mention one whole spare room that is stocked with my useless crap. And, after a quick perusal last night, none of which I’m prepared to part with, apparently.
When lamenting this dilemma to a friend recently, I was told to sweep through my closet, which is in desperate need of an upheaval, and bring all of my now-too-big clothes to sell. Not a bad idea, except that there’s still that big ol’ fat girl inside me who thinks, “What if I need them again someday?” And also, nobody ever seems to be looking for fat girl clothes, they probably wouldn’t sell anyways.
The only other thing I can think of that I have too many of are Glad and Ziploc and Rubbermaid lunch containers. But I’m pretty sure used, slightly tomato-stained old containers aren’t going to be a hot seller.
Oh, and my old dining room table and chair set, which is residing partly in my garage, partly in my basement. But it’s too big and heavy to move.
So I guess this brings us to the moral of this story. Because every good tale needs a moral. And that moral is: Never invite a pack-rat to take part in a yard sale. Because they won’t bring anything.
Except for maybe four old mugs.
And on second thought, I’m not sure I’m ready to let them go either…
See you Saturday, ladies. ;)