I was inspired to dust this one off after reading Frank Michels' yard sale post from yesterday.

Before you jump all over me, let me start off by saying that I'm not talking about all yard-salers.

Single moms and stay-at-home moms on tight budgets, no problem.  (Unfortunately, though, I have nothing to sell you.  No kids' clothes, no baby accessories, no toys.  I wish you luck elsewhere.)

Elderly lady, I'll cut you a sweet deal on that teapot.

Immigrant family, you can have that set of sheets for a dollar.

If you look like you're down on your luck, I'll throw in something else for free. 

But it's those professional, suburban yard-salers, the ones who get up every Saturday at 6:00 a.m. and drive around from sale to sale, clutching their Craigslist print-outs and their newspaper classified sections in their manicured hands, the ones who think it is their mission in life to pay the absolute lowest amount humanly possible, no matter how ridiculous the offer.  Those are the people who can bite me.

(Granted, I don't know everyone's story, but if you're well-dressed and you drive up in a nice car, I'm guessing that you're just out having some fun today.  Our respective definitions of the word "fun" being diametrically opposed.)

Even though it is my choice to do it, getting ready for a yard sale is a lot of work.  There are weekends spent up in the hot attic or weeding through closets and drawers.  The spare bedroom becomes the holding pen for every unwanted gift, every dusty knick knack, and every piece of ill-fitting clothing.  Each item has to be cleaned up and priced.  If you've got hundreds of items, this takes time.

But I think I run a pretty tight yard-sale ship.  I want items to be organized and presentable.  Tables are set up, clothes are hung up on a line.  I make sure to go to the bank and get plenty of change.  I have bags for people who buy multiple items.  I even have a few tchotchkes that are marked "free to good home".  I try to be as friendly and helpful as possible.  And I have everything out on time.  (What is up with you "early birds", anyway?)

Of course, I have my share of junk, which, amazingly, always seems to get snapped up right away.  (I mean, who buys old shoes at a yard sale?  But, somehow, they get sold.)  However, the fact that an item has been in someone else's house does not automatically mean it has depreciated 99.9%.  Is there some unwritten rule that you can't price an item over $20 at a yard sale?  Have I committed an unforgivable faux pas?

For example, there was this table lamp that my husband talked me into buying at Expo Center for about $125.  It was good quality, heavy, with a glass shade.  The thing was, I didn't like it, I never liked it, and we ended up getting a way cooler one for a lot less at Ikea.  Now, this lamp, aside from sitting out on a table in my hallway and occasionally being turned on and off, had no visible signs of wear.  It was, in fact, indistinguishable from a brand-new lamp.  I decided to ask $25 for it, a mere 20% of its original value.  But the lady whose friend was re-doing her house in a Tuscan style, and who she was positive would just love this lamp, had no problem asking me with a straight face if I would take $15.  Bite me.

But I sold it to her.

Or the $50 coffee table book, that had done nothing but sit on my...coffee table.  It was probably opened once.  If you knew someone who was interested in the subject matter, you could wrap it up and give it as a gift, and they would never know the difference.  And you have the cojones to ask me if I'll take half off of the marked price of $7?  Bite me.

But I sold it to her.

Or the framed print, where the custom frame alone cost over $100.  It has no moving parts to wear out.  It has been passively and quietly hanging on a wall.  I even dusted it for you and cleaned the glass.  And you want it for less than $20?  Bite me.

But I sold it to her.

Maybe I'm jealous of their superior bargaining skills.  (I've heard that, in certain parts of the world, you are considered a chump if you don't haggle before you purchase something.)  

Um, no, it's just that I would be mortified by appearing that damn cheap. (But apparently not mortified enough to not have a garage sale in the first place!)  If I see something I want at your garage sale, and the price marked is $5, I'll pay you the $5.  It would give me no great satisfaction to get it for $3.  I am not a competitive shopper.  Getting a bargain is swell, but I don't make it my life's work.

I almost wish that there were a half-cent coin, so that I could do an experiment and mark some items for one cent.  I have no doubt that someone would ask me if I would sell them for half price.  At this point, I wouldn't be surprised to be asked if I would pay to have something taken off my hands.

Right now, dear reader, you may be asking yourself, "Why does she do this?"  It's a reasonable question.  And am I  not just as ridiculous as the people I'm deriding?  Another reasonable question.  I could just give it all to charity, or sell it on ebay, right?

I have done both of those things.  Some items just seem too "insignificant" to put on ebay.  (A used pot-holder?  Hardly worth it.)  Or shipping them would be more trouble than it's worth.  And I put out bags of clothes and/or small household items for the Salvation Army or the ARC a couple of times a year.  Or I give things to friends.

Every few years, though, there seems to be such an unwieldy collection of "stuff", some of it pretty high quality, and I am tempted once again to see if I can make a few extra bucks.  "This time will be different," I think to myself.  But, I really think I have had my final sale. 

The proverbial last straw was the "fan lady" at my last yard sale.

When we bought new modern furniture for the living room, the old ceiling fan started to look a bit incongruous.  We replaced it with one that matches the new decor (and it even has a remote!).  The old one had nothing wrong with it, though, so we decided to keep it until the yard sale.  (The stained, cat-scratched sofa and chair that we had no place to store, we put on the lawn with a "Free" sign on them, and were barely back in the house before someone came knocking.)  The original box for the fan was long gone, but all the pieces fit well enough into another box from the attic.  I thought that $10 was a reasonably fair price, since I could guarantee that it was complete and worked well.

It was getting to be late morning, the time when most hardcore yard-salers are packing it in for the day, heading home to, I assume, compare notes with their fellow bargain hunters and laugh about how they got the best of those idiots sitting among their pathetic piles of crap all day.

The fan lady, a petite brunette driving a humongous new SUV, pulled up and eyed the ceiling fan.  I was really hoping she'd bite, because this was a big, bulky item that I just wanted out of my life.  She kept circling the box like this was possibly the biggest decision she was ever going to make, then pulled out her cell phone.  I guessed from her end of the conversation that she was talking to her husband about whether or not this fan would be appropriate for a house that they were "renovating" and going to rent out or flip.  (This was before the housing bubble had completely collapsed.)  Apparently, it was just too much for her because she said she had to think about it, and she drove off.

Minutes and hours ticked by. 

Early afternoon at a yard sale is the time you start looking around sadly at all the unsold stuff that you'll have to either take back up to the attic, or pack up and take to Goodwill.  It is a time of quiet desperation.  The fan blades sticking out of the box seemed to taunt me.

Out of nowhere, the behemoth reappeared, and the tiny woman jumped out.  "Will you take $5 for it?", she asked.

I was torn.  On the one hand, I felt like shouting, "I would rather destroy it with a sledgehammer right here than let you steal it from me, you cheap-ass bitch."  On the other hand, I just wanted it gone. I sheepishly nodded and took the limp $5 bill, ashamed of my weakness.

As I watched her struggle with the big wobbly box, a battle raged within me.  It was all I could do to keep from saying, "You know, if you had paid the $10, I would have helped you with that."  But, I kept my mouth shut, and she was finally able to stuff it into her tank and drive off, leaving me to ponder, surrounded by the unwanted detritus of my life, what had become of me.

I guess I have her to thank, though, for making me realize that I am just not cut out for this sort of thing anymore.  The little bit of pocket money that I make simply isn't worth the existential crisis I experience.  Every godawful made in China Christmas decoration or too-small pair of jeans that I let go for less than the original asking price has a little bit of my self-respect clinging to it.

Unless I lose my job and my house, and am forced to sell all of my belongings and go live under a bridge, I am officially going out of the yard-sale business.

So yes, dear fan lady, you too can bite me.