Host a yard sale, ruin a weekend

The Colane Conundrum

Recently, my grandparents asked if I’d like to piss away an entire Saturday.

Well, they didn’t phrase it like that, exactly. What they said was, “Would you like to help us with our yard sale on Saturday?”

But I knew what they meant, of course.

Stupid me, I agreed. Not only because I wanted to help my grandparents (a-hem, inheritance), but also because I hadn’t participated in a yard sale since, like, 1993.

What I always expect to earn from a yard sale. What I always expect to earn from a yard sale.

What I actually earn. What I actually earn.

Unfortunately, I’d forgotten what a complete, miserable waste of time they are. (Yard sales, I mean. Not my grandparents.)

The idea is simple: You gather all the garbage in your house that you no longer want (and that nobody else in their right mind wants, either), and you strew it on rickety wooden tables in your front yard. Then, you stick itty-bitty…

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