>Junk in My Trunk

>I love the idea of a yard sale. And I know I’m not alone. After all, I see the features in decorating magazines and on cable TV about spunky women who go “junking,” find craptastic castoffs and turn them into stylish treasures that Rachel Ashwell would envy.

So when I saw the signs up for a neighborhood yard sale in an upscale subdivision, I was all over it. I envisioned myself bargaining for a vintage typewriter, a wicker dressmaker’s model, a Chinese screen. Because I love the idea of a yard sale.

But man oh man, I hate the reality.

“If you’ve got kids, this is the place for you!” a 10-year-old girl told me as I walked up her driveway. “We’ve got loads of toys!”

“Great!” I smiled, wondering if the kid had watched a few too many used car lot commercials. “I’ve got a two-year-old.”

Skipping over the plastic bins filled with mangy stuffed animals and ratty-haired Barbie dolls, I picked up a portable plastic dollhouse for closer inspection.

“It’s Playmobil,” the girl’s father told me, taking it from me and carefully opening it on a folding table. “All the pieces are there.” Yep, the pieces were there, and they were too small for a two-year-old. “I don’t think it’s gonna work for me,” I said awkwardly. The dad continued arranging the tiny pieces of furniture. “Um. Thanks anyway,” I said, turning and walking back toward my car.

“I don’t understand,” I heard the dad say sadly to his daughter as I walked away. “This dollhouse is practically new.”

But Dollhouse Dude was nothing compared to the stares I had to endure from youngish RWA mommies as they watched me piece through their children’s outgrown clothes and cast-off children’s books. Their laser beam gazes really took the fun out of junking for me. I could almost hear them thinking, ‘Is she gonna actually shell out two bucks for Chelsea’s Gymboree playsuit or is she just gonna stand there and look for stains? Who does she think she is, anyway? And what is that on her shirt? ‘Bad poetry, oh noetry?’ What the hell is her problem?’

Hesitantly, I’d look up and smile, only to be met with a stonily defiant scowl. And forget bargaining. It was all I could do to hand over the asking price, which they grudgingly accepted between two manicured fingers. Funny, this kind of thing was never mentioned on HGTV.

Despite all this, I managed to find a few deals. Besides a few toddler books and a dressing table stool, I scored a small set of wooden shelves that were perfect for solving the out-of-control toy situation in Baby’s room. The shelves were handmade and painted white, with teddy bears carved out of the sides. At only $5, they were a steal. I practically ran to the mommy nervously standing guard in the center of her driveway.

“I’ll take the shelves!” I said.

“Those shelves?” she said dubiously, pointing at them.

“Yeah. The five-dollar shelves,” I said.

“Um. Okay,” she said, quickly stuffing my five into her Cinderella change purse and turning away. As I carted the shelves off to my car, I wondered what was wrong with them. They felt sturdy. They looked good. Were they the missing piece of evidence in a murder case? Had they been made by a secretly-hated father-in-law and put up for sale the one weekend that hubby was away on a golf trip?

I brought them home and gave them a thorough disinfecting, just in case.

Of course, I’ll still go to garage sales. How else can I find toddler jeans for two dollars? But next time, I’m bringing my 15-year-old. That way, I can retaliate.

“Did you see this CD collection?” I’ll say to her as the tennis-outfitted woman with assisted blonde hair watches us piece through her discarded music. “Great stuff- if you’re into Yawn-ni!”

Come to think of it, the TV junkers always have a sidekick. Now I know why.