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The author's daughter marked for sale on a table of junk. This is what happens when you put idiots in charge of a garage sale.

“Would you like to run a garage sale for me?”

How do you think that I’m going to respond to that question?  Does anyone leap at the chance to get up early in the morning on a Saturday and put out tables of old crap for strangers to pick over?  Does anyone enjoy haggling over the value of a set of used mason jars?  Does anyone want the world to know how many tacky Christmas ornaments they’ve amassed over the years?

My father knew my feelings on this when he asked me to cover for him and my stepmother this past weekend.  They had booked a motorcycle road trip to NY that ran headlong into the very important Brookville Estates Neighborhood Garage Sale and Pot Luck Jamboree, and to not set up a card table or two would be akin to slapping the local matriarchs in the mouth, so we children and children-in-law had to gird our loins for an entire morning of hoarders, collectors, and weirdoes.

(In my father’s defense, he did make up for this by fully stocking the fridge with beer and the freezer with steak.  That goes a long way when you get hauled in for an assignment like this.)

Erin and I packed up our daughter on Friday afternoon.  We quickly learned that Abby, as small as she is, is capable of filling an entire car with her paraphernalia.  It was a miracle that two adults could get in there as well.  Between diapers, the bassinet (which sounds like the name applied to very small hounds, now that I think about it), blankets, clothes, towels, and washing equipment, Abby proved that she is something of a baby diva.  I have no doubt that this will get worse as she gets older.

It’s a strange thing to go back home when you are no longer just a kid.  This was Abby’s first trip to Grandpa and Gigi’s house, the place where I spent much of my childhood building, throwing, or blowing up stuff.

My brother and I were marveling over this when we came across some pictures of people that, without going into detail, we no longer liked very much.  After a few beers, those pictures somehow got tacked up onto the railing of the deck, where they remained for about an hour’s worth of pellet gun target shooting and cathartic exercise.

You just can’t do stuff like that in the suburbs.

Tomorrow:  Grouchy early birds, friendly centenarian hoarders, and a very, very dead rabbit.