by Jen Mann
“I want to play with them, Mommy!”
“I know, baby, but the lady says no.”
You’re absolutely right! The lady says no. But do you know who else should be saying no, Casper? Your damn mother.
It was around that time that Casper said, “Mommy, I have to go pee-pee!”
The negligent mother looked up at that one. “Oh! Okay, baby.” Then she turned to me. “Where’s your bathroom?”
Where’s my what? Oh hell no. Are you fucking kidding me, lady? I don’t care if your kid wets his pants. You should have handled that shit before you left the house this morning. This is a garage sale. Do I look like I’ve got a public bathroom? Plus, you’re kind of a bitch.
I smiled at her sweetly and replied, “It’s at the McDonald’s right down the street.”
Before she could say anything, I was interrupted. “Excuse me, do you have change for a fifty?” It was a well-dressed mother with a toddler on her hip and her Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses casually yet perfectly pushed up on her head to hold back her magnificent mane of highlighted hair. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she continued, motioning to the idling Lexus at the curb. “I’ve got my baby sleeping in the car. I just wanted these things, but I don’t have anything smaller than a fifty.”
I looked at the items she had selected, all good Gymboree outfits with matching tights and headbands. She had about seventeen dollars’ worth of stuff.
I wanted to say, I’m on to you wily fifty-dollar people and your racket. There are two types of fifty-dollar people. One is the Dolce mom who really looks like all she carries around are fifty-dollar bills. The other is the little old lady who says, “I just got paid and haven’t had a chance to get to the bank for anything smaller.” They both come early in the morning and hope to get stuff for a song because you haven’t had enough sales yet to make change for them. What’s really annoying is that the fifty-dollar people always grab some of my best shit. They say real sweetly, “Can you break a fifty?” while continuing to dig in their wallets as if they just might have seventeen dollars in quarters in there. And then it’s like they have a great idea. “Or … wait … Hold on. Look at that.” They hold up a wad of crumpled ones that look like they’ve either been through the washing machine or spent some time stuffed in a hooker’s ass crack. “I’ve got three dollars. If you don’t have change, that’s fine. I can give you the three for all of this stuff. At least you’re getting rid of it, right?”
Oh, I don’t think so, wily fifty-dollar people. You can shove that dirty three dollars back up some hooker’s ass, because I’m not taking that today! You can’t beat me that easily. I know your tricks! And I have tricks of my own! I just went to the bank last night and got two hundred dollars in one-dollar bills. I can break your fifty, no problem.
I said, “You know what? I can break your fifty. Let’s get that taken care of for you right away so you can get back to your baby. Would you like a bag for all of that? I think I even have a Gymboree one.” I winked at her.
Her scheme has probably worked so many times that she’s been using the same fifty-dollar bill over and over again … until she met me. Nothing felt better than taking her fifty out of circulation. However, one of these days I’m going to be on the losing end, because it’s only a matter of time before someone slips me a counterfeit fifty.
After she left, I noticed we had some new shoppers. Great! Then I took a closer look and noticed the woman in the fifteen-year-old Christmas sweater (in April) and the man with saggy trousers held up by the poorest excuse for a belt I’d ever seen. It was an enormous belt with new holes punched in it so that the tail wound around his back. Clearly everything these two were wearing had been purchased at garage sales for a quarter or less. Tightwads! The wily fifty-dollar people are bad enough, but the worst people to come to my garage sale are the tightwads, the ones who try to talk you down lower than a quarter. Not only are they cheapskates, but they’re simply assholes who want to waste everyone’s time. Come on. What the fuck is worth less than a quarter? Nothing! If it was worth less than a quarter, then it would be in the trash, not at my garage sale. If it was worth less than a quarter, then I spent more on the sticker to mark the price. Also, I won’t take less than a quarter, because I refuse to have nickels and dimes in my change box (I don’t have any room with all my one-dollar bills taking up so much space).
Sure enough, the man asked, “Will you take less than a quarter for this?” He held up a crystal vase that was a wedding present. It had quite a bit of sentimental value to me. Okay, I’m lying. I think one of my co-workers gave it to us. I knew the crystal vase in the tightwad’s hand wasn’t Swarovski, but it was at least Macy’s brand of crystal. Sure, the person who had (kindly) bought it for us probably used a coupon, and yes, it hadn’t been in style for thirty years, but it was worth a quarter, damn it!
It took all of my self-restraint to say “No, sorry” instead of “No, but I hear your mom will.”
Let me just stop right here and be clear that there is a difference between the tightwads and the hagglers. I’m not talking about the hagglers. I don’t mind the hagglers. I get it. It’s a garage sale. That’s half the fun. It’s a rush to walk out of someone’s garage with your new treasure (their old junk) and the knowledge that you spent less than a cup of coffee to get all that swag. The only way you’re going to do that is if you haggle. But you’ve got to play the game and play it cool. You need to look like you barely even like those curtains in your hand. You have to say things like, “I’m not even sure they will work in my house. I think there might be three windows in that room—I can’t remember—and there are only two curtains here. I can try them, though, and just see. You wanted six dollars? Would you take three?” See what I did there? I made your curtains seem inconsequential. You don’t know that I’ve been searching for three months for these exact curtains and I would probably pay ten dollars if you asked. Also, I didn’t get all crazy with the haggle. I didn’t go straight for the dick move of one dollar. I kindly split your asking price in half. Fifty percent is a good inoffensive number. The only time a haggler riles me up is when they imply my beautiful art or knickknacks are “perfect for the lake house.” Sure, I’m getting rid of it, but that shit sat on my living room mantel, and now you’re going to put it next to a moose head or a stuffed fish? My price is always firm if I hear it’s going to the lake house.
The tightwad harrumphed and stormed out—without his crystal vase.
I was still irritated by the old man when a lady asked, “Do you have a dressing room?”
I know I set up a nice shop, but even the dumbest person out there would never confuse my garage with Nordstrom. I wasn’t clear enough earlier when the negligent mother asked me if I had a public restroom for her kid to violate, and now this woman wanted a dressing room? What the hell, people? I was selling eighty-dollar pants for eight bucks. I could understand my shopper’s hesitancy to buy pants at 90 percent off retail, and I could understand her desire to know for certain the pants would fit. However, the buyer was going to have to take a bit of a risk here. She was going to have to use some common sense in this situation. First, she should pick them up and look at the brand. Was it a brand she wears on a regular basis? If it wasn’t, then I could understand her concern. And if eight dollars for gorgeous wool flannel trousers (that I got too fucking fat to wear) was too rich for her blood, then maybe she should just keep moving. If it was a brand she wore on a regular basis, then yes, she could buy with confidence. She could know that these were the pants she normally paid eighty dollars for and that on this day she could get them for eight.
Only this lady didn’t have pants. She had an armful of bras. When I was cleaning out my closet for the sale, I had a bin of bras that I’d set out that I was going to take to a women’s shelter, and then I got too lazy and it was time to start my sale, so I shoved the bin under a table. I didn’t realize that anyone would have the nerve to dig under my tables, but apparently the garage sale world is the
Wild West and nothing is off-limits.
“No. I don’t have a dressing room,” I said to her. “Because … we’re in a garage.”
“How much are these?” she asked. I was dumbfounded. Do people buy used bras?
You know what? I never miss an opportunity for a sale. “One dollar each!” I said.
I heard my mother gasp. She knew it wasn’t cheap to harness my tatas. I was giving those suckers away. “I was going to donate them anyway. It will save me a trip to the shelter if she’ll buy them,” I whispered to her. Yeah, I’m a real philanthropist.
“Hmmm …” The bra lady hesitated. “A dollar each. I don’t know.… There’s nowhere I can try these on?”
“No. Not for bras that I’m selling for a dollar. If you want, you could probably make a spot back there behind my kids’ sleds.” Surprisingly, the bra lady decided not to buy the bras. So the shelter got them anyway. I am a giver!
Around midday is when the old married couples come out. They walk through like they have all the time in the world. They hold hands and survey our wares like they’re archaeologists looking through Tut’s treasure. They pick up everything and inspect it, tsk-tsk over the imaginary flaws they find, then put it back on the table. Sometimes I offer helpfully, “That’s real crystal. It was a wedding gift from my boss. Just like Swarovski, and only a quarter.” After shaking their heads at my meager assortment of crap, they give a little wave and walk back to their sedan and move on to the next sale.
Midday also brings out the nuts. There’s a guy who wants to know if we have any real gold or silver that he could melt down into “ingots,” because soon our financial system will crash and all trading will be done in ingots. I was sorry that I didn’t have any precious metals to sell him, because I would have loved to hear what his idea of a fair price would be for a twenty-four-karat gold necklace. I know what mine is, and it isn’t a quarter.
After the alchemist comes the real crazy one. “You got any guns?” a guy called from the end of my driveway, not even bothering to come any closer in case my answer was no. I realize that I live in Kansas, where hunting is a popular pastime, but come on! This is the suburbs! I have never been to a garage sale where Colt .45s are displayed in a shoe box next to another box full of discarded tools. No one just has a shotgun casually leaning up against the wall with a sticker that says MAKE OFFER, yet at every garage sale I host there is always one guy (never the same guy, mind you) who casually asks for guns. I sputtered, “You mean for sale or to protect myself out here?”
He replied, “For sale, of course. This is a garage sale, yeah?”
Yeah, it’s a garage sale all right, not a gun show! Is it even legal to sell guns out of my garage? Are my neighbors doing that? Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.
At the end of the day we noticed that we’d been robbed. We weren’t surprised. Something always gets stolen. It’s just the way it goes. It’s strange, because I don’t mind when it’s an adult. The adults always steal necessities. Look, if there is someone out there who is in such a desperate situation that they can’t pay me two bucks for my kids’ used tennis shoes and feel like they need to steal them, then there isn’t much I can say except “God bless and good luck.” In fact, if the person who swiped the toddler tennies had told me their story, I would have bagged up every outfit I had in their kids’ sizes and all of the children’s books and given it to them for free.
The criminals that drive me batshit crazy are the kids. As we were closing up for the day we had a toddler whose mother put a Dora the Explorer backpack on her to wear around while she shopped. In the end, the mother didn’t buy anything and they started to leave. I saw my backpack walking down the driveway and I was torn. Was I really going to chase down a toddler for two bucks or was I going to let it go? I almost let it go. But then when they were all the way down at the end of the driveway the mother noticed the backpack. She glanced back to see if I’d noticed or if they could just keep walking, real casual-like. We made eye contact, though, and she had to admit her kid swiped my goods. “Oops! Marguerite really likes Dora,” she called.
“Looks like it,” I called back.
“Do you mind?” she called, gesturing at the adorable Marguerite and her big sad eyes.
“Of course I don’t mind you buying my stuff,” I called. “That’s what a garage sale is for. That one’s two dollars.”
They walked up the driveway so that I could get a better look at just how cute Marguerite looked in the backpack. “I’m sorry, Marguerite,” the woman said. “But the lady won’t let you have the backpack.”
Of course I will. For two dollars.
They stood there watching me. Marguerite was about to cry, and the woman was giving me a look that said, Really, lady? You’re going to make my kid cry for a lousy two bucks?
I gave her a look that said, No. You’re going to make her cry for two bucks.
She wouldn’t take the backpack off her kid, and they just stood there staring me down. I was starting to feel uncomfortable and I could tell my will was about to break. I was going to give that kid the damn backpack! But then I resolved to stand strong. This woman was an asshole, and I didn’t have any patience left. I was tired of listening to the passive parents who paraded through my garage and apologized to their kids because I asked them to be responsible. Fuck her. If she wasn’t going to teach her kid, then I would. I said, “Sorry, Marguerite, you can’t have the backpack for free. It’s two dollars.”
“Do you have change for a fifty?”
After my stint as co-president of the local moms’ group, I took a hiatus. My kids were in school full time now and I didn’t need the playgroups anymore. I was busy shuttling everyone to soccer and checking homework at night. But while I might not have needed the playgroups anymore, I still needed a good Moms’ Night Out every now and again. I was on the group’s email distribution list and received the calendar every month. I’d have good intentions of showing up for a mani-pedi night or a guest speaker from the Society of Lady Gardeners, but I could never get my act together.
Until the night they went to the gun range.
I knew they were some badass mothers, but I didn’t know they were that badass! We do pride ourselves on trying new things like cooking lessons or picking Fifty Shades of Grey for our book club selection, but for us it was a whole new experience. One of our members is in the Army Reserve and she had the idea that we should go shoot some guns for Moms’ Night Out.
When I got the email reminding me to RSVP for the event, I thought, Wow, that’s crazy that they’re going to the range. A wine tasting is a wild night for our group, so I couldn’t imagine us at the gun range. I never thought I’d go. I hate guns. I’m afraid of guns. I don’t like to be around guns. Also, I have a sneaking suspicion that if I shoot a gun I will want to buy one.
“Isn’t that funny that they’re going to the gun range?” I asked the Hubs.
“You should totally go!” he said. Hold on. The Hubs never encourages me to go to Moms’ Night Out.
“You want me to go because you think I’ll like it and then I’ll let you buy a gun,” I said.
“Pretty much,” he agreed.
“You know what? I’m going to go! If nothing else, maybe I’ll accidentally shoot myself in the foot and have something to write about on my blog for tomorrow.”
The night of the event arrived and I started to get ready to go out. As you know by now, I don’t normally care how I dress—usually it’s cargo pants and tees—but the range got me thinking. What does one wear to ladies’ night at the gun range? Would camouflage cargos be a better choice? Maybe tweed? (I told you I watch a lot of Downton Abbey and they love to shoot in their tweed.) Maybe I should wear something lighter so my black gun would stand out against my ensemble. Unremarkably, I settled on the usual. Why start getting fancy now?
I met the other ladies at the gun range and we stood in the showroom giggling nervously. I had never been surrounded by so many guns in my life.
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It freaked me out no end to know that everyone in the room (except for the six of us) was packing heat. I said something about this, and my friend Joni replied, “Yeah, but it’s not like they’ve got real bullets, right?”
I laughed at her stupid question because I knew the answer. What I didn’t mention was that I knew the answer to her stupid question because I had asked the Hubs the same exact stupid question just before I walked out the door.
“Wait, those are real bullets we’re going to be shooting?” I’d wondered.
“Of course, Jen. What else would they be?” he told me.
“I don’t know. I thought they were blanks or something.”
“How can you hit a target with a blank? Don’t be so dumb. Those are real bullets.”
“Well then, what the hell keeps us from accidentally shooting one another?”
“Nothing. So please be careful and follow the rules.”
After perusing the range’s store and noticing the quality of the NRA Second Amendment RangePacks, we met our instructor, Andy. Andy had a holstered gun and a large knife on his belt just in case his gun jammed and he needed to finish the job. Plus he was a big guy who looked like he could kill you with his bare hands if all else failed. Basically, if Red Dawn ever happens, I want Andy on my team. “Wolverines!”
Andy took one look at our group of middle-aged minivan-driving moms and sighed deeply. “Have any of you fired a weapon?” he asked hopefully.
“I have,” said our reservist. “But I’m not very good.”
“I’m pretty good with a Nerf gun,” I said.
Andy looked disgusted.
“Okay, ladies,” he said with another sigh. “Let’s find a conference room and give you a lesson or two before we even step out on the range.”
We sat down for about twenty minutes while Andy explained the different mechanisms on the 9 mm guns we’d be using.
