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Yard sales not in wedding vows


Sep 24, 2009 04:30 AM
Vinay Menon

"We are having a yard sale."

This is what my wife said this month. It was not a question. It was a factual statement and the details were binding: Yard sale. Saturday. Sunrise. Be there.

After a man is married for a while, he accepts this tectonic shift in domestic communications. In the newlywed stage, the queries are endless: "Who should we invite to the party? "Was that good for you?"

Then one day, without warning, questions are replaced with declarations: "We are going to the zoo." "We must get rid of clutter."

This brings us to another truism: When a married man prepares for his first yard sale, he soon realizes the word "clutter" is as subjective as "discuss."

Items his wife no longer uses – old clothes, teenage mementos – are most definitely not clutter. These objects, although boxed and forgotten since the wedding, are automatically imbued with "sentimental value."

As such, they are granted resale clemency.

By contrast, the husband's pre-marriage possessions – old sports equipment, obsolete gadgets – fall under the rubric of "junk." Or clutter.

As such, these items are hastily strewn across the lawn and offered to passersby for prices that make the Dollar Store seem like Holt Renfrew.

Guys, what I'm trying to say is this: Some declarations are worth fighting. Do not have a yard sale.

It's Saturday, just after 9 a.m. I am standing on my porch, looking like a man on death row.

My wife outlines the mission: This is not about money. It is about getting rid of the clutter we (read: she) can no longer abide.

"This is going to be so much fun!" she exclaims, affixing a yellow sticky note to my Sony Discman that, quite shockingly, reads, "$3."

"Are you sure you don't want to sell one of my kidneys?" I ask, planting a tender kiss on my Epson printer.

Before long, a crowd of accidental bargain hunters and hardcore hagglers converges under our pear tree.

One woman sifts through the scattered offerings like a forensic investigator at a crime scene.

"This real leather?" she asks, eyeing a knapsack I once used in Munich. "Why you sell this watch?" she asks, holding it to her ear.

"To be honest," I say, "I'm not sure."

Another woman fondles the Discman and bonds with my wife. As they unfurl and inspect a crimson Pottery Barn tablecloth, I am encouraged to go inside to search for Discman-related accessories that may have escaped the initial purge.

A young couple, new to Canada, buy a Peg Perego double stroller for $3. Alas, it does not fit into their trunk. So after I show a college student how to replace an inkjet cartridge and then sell a Led Zeppelin box set to a bearded fellow who bears an unsettling resemblance to Gandalf, I climb into my minivan to make a pram delivery that takes considerably longer than I expect. (Note: "We live down the street" appears to have a different colloquial meaning in other parts of the world.)

And so it went.

Hour after hour, I pocketed chump change as pleasant strangers relieved me of my possessions. Including prep time, the yard sale earned me about $0.000034 per hour.

As for the clutter, well, the problem is worse.

Guys, once you remove everything from the shed, closets and crawl spaces, it is impossible to put it all back, even if some of it (read: your stuff) is sold.

"What a mess," my wife said the next day. "Clear your schedule. We need to clean up."

She was not asking.

Vinay Menon can be reached at [e-mail]