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I hate yard sales. I don’t hate going to them I hate having them. Every time I have ever attempted to have a yard sale it has been a complete failure. I would go into it with high hopes. I’d count the money in my head long before the first quarter was made. Unfortunately I never made much more than a quarter. Albeit most of the stuff I was hoping to free myself from was clutter, to someone else I knew it could be a find. There was one time I stayed up the whole night organizing my rummage into neat little piles. I had fancy shoes, sporty shoes, hanging about shoes and even cute little comfy never before worn slippers. They were not cheap shoes. Most were bought on a whim to go with one outfit. I really took my time on deciding their prices. I knew if I was going to make a profit the shoes were my best chance. In my mind my prices were reasonable, maybe even a steal. I didn’t mark any of them for more than five bucks even though I paid much more myself. After hours of tagging my shoes, clothes and anything extra I found lying around the house I went to bed with a smile. I was proud of myself for taking the time to make everything presentable. I jumped out of bed in the morning with enthusiasm. The enthusiasm quickly faded when I looked out the window and saw it pouring out. I tried to remain optimistic. Instead of a yard sale I would have a porch sale. After all, my porch was big enough to fit everything I was selling. The second sign of doom was when my three year old nephew ran up onto the porch. He was frantically searching for something kid friendly. He bumped into my Hagar sculptures and broke the head off. It was the most expensive item I had out. I think a person would be a fool to spend fifteen dollars for a piece with a glued on head. The sun came out and I was beginning to get hopeful. Cars were starting to line up and down the street. This was going to be it. I smiled as the people entered through my gate. I politely waved as they exited empty handed. A few women gathered around the shoes but I knew immediately their small frames were more like a size six than my gigantic size nines. One woman seemed to be interested she tried on a few pair and walked around in a circle testing them out. She held up the box and asked, “How much for these.” They were a pair I purchased but never wore. “Five dollars,” I answered. When I saw the look of disgust sweep across her face I felt it necessary to explain they were never worn and still in the original box. I sold those shoes for… a quarter. Today my parents decided they were going to have their yearly yard sale. I had no plans on being a part of it and went over for a visit. It was chaos, visually and mentally. Between my brother and sisters we have seven children. All seven children were at the yard sale. They were shopping amongst the other patrons. That alone puts added stress to the day, try explaining to seven year olds and younger that the things lying across Noni and Nono’s yard are for others to buy not for them. Between hollers of “What will you take for this,” and shouts of “Mom I really want to buy this,” a sane person can easily lose their mind. Moods changed, bickering began and before I knew it there was a family feud. I was at the edge of insanity and then the most hysterical thing happened. A woman called out to my father and asked “How much for these shoes.” He yelled back “Five dollars,” explaining they had a steel toe. “There’s no steel toe”, she replied. He looked puzzled but continued to tell her he spent forty dollars on them and wanted at least five. She set the shoes down and went across to the other side of the yard. “Mar, I didn’t want to sell those shoes,” he whispered. Someone put his new shoes out amongst the sale items. “Do you want me to go get them?” I asked. “Wait until she leaves so it doesn’t look weird,” he replied. In the mean time I got distracted by my two-year old telling me she had to go potty. When I came back outside onto the porch I saw the lady paying my sister for the shoes my father didn’t want to sell. I looked over at him and watched as he watched her walk away with his brand new, pricey New Balance sneakers. He sold the shoes he didn’t want to sell for five dollars and at my yard sale I sold the shoes I had marked for five dollars for a quarter. Life has a funny way of putting a comical moment in at the right time to make the scene a bit lighter. Out of twenty pairs of nice looking shoes out on the lawn the only ones that sold were his.     

  

I love jewelry. Wait, let me reiterate that statement. I L-O-V-E jewelry. It does not have to be expensive or come from a glass enclosed case but it does have to be interesting. I prefer something unique and eye catching. To me, jewelry is a conversation piece. It is worth wearing if it sparks up a comment, even if the comment isn’t flattering. If a remark is made than it is definite that it caught someone’s attention. You would think a person who loves jewelry as much as I do would be meticulous about its upkeep. Yeah, you would think. Unfortunately this is not me. I start out with the best intentions. I promise myself with each new piece I will take very good care of it. Sort of like a five-year-old begging for a puppy, promising to feed it, walk it and even help with bath time. The puppy comes and the promises get broken almost immediately. It always happens the same way, the first night I remove my jewelry and proudly tuck it away into its safe haven. The jewelry box I begged my husband to buy me so I could take care of my adornments. The second night I’m too tired to walk upstairs to put it all away, but I do anyway because I made a promise. By the third night I take my bracelets off and set them next to my keyboard, assuring myself they will be fine until morning. It’s not until the next morning I curse myself for not putting it away. I hear small pings scattering across the hardwood floor. At first the noise doesn’t register. I dismiss it as usual background noise.  It’s not odd to hear things hit the floor. Someone is always dropping something and mostly on purpose. About a minute after the noise my thoughts are awakened and I realize what the noise was. It was the sound of small beads falling to the floor after being released from the small stretchy band they were strung upon. It was… my new bracelet. “What was that?” I call out. By this time whoever was responsible for the destruction of my newest favorite piece is pretending to not know what I’m talking about. “What was what?” is the response. I search the floor hoping to see a random marble (even though I know this would have made a heavier sound). I circle around the coffee table looking for a trail of beads. Just as I’m about to exhale and tell myself I was wrong I step on a small pointy object. I know before I even look what I will find. There wedged into my bare sole like it belonged there is a bead to my new bracelet. Luckily, it was actually six bracelets meant to be worn together  (Chunky jewelry-my fave) and five were still left. I gather the remaining five and race upstairs to my bedroom to put them in their proper place. I make another promise to myself. I am an optimist and believe one day I will win the fight with my alter ego. I am also a realist and acknowledge I have many earrings, bracelets, necklaces, scarves, head bands and charms amongst the missing. It was because of the broken promises they were lost and haven’t been found.   I am missing one of the trait’s Virgo’s are known for-“organization” and I would like it found.