“You’ve got to be effing kidding me,” I said, looking up to my wife.

I only used the non-profane version of the word because there were several toddlers within five feet.  Had it been six feet or more, I would have let go with the full ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’ because that’s how I felt.

“Just two more,” my wife promised.

It’s just six days until the bi-annual community garage sale.  Since everyone’s looking for an economic edge, we decided to participate this go ’round.  What’s more, the bulge in our attic is visible from the ground floor and the drywall on the ceiling can’t possibly hold for much longer.   So we figured maybe we should poke our heads in there to see what’s worth selling.

Colleen found what will be our (ahem) cash cow item, and it just hit her GO button.  Like a two-man assembly line passing along 100 lb. sacks of sand to stop a flood, the spouse starts passing me down giant bins of used clothing from the past 6 years.  Having borne 4 children (3 boys, 1 girl) during this stint, you might think she would have kept a few piles of clothes we no longer needed.  You know.  In case we inhaled paint thinner for a week straight and wanted to have MORE children.

You would be wrong (about the few piles).

I think after it was all said and done, there were 12 full bins of clothing.  Mind you, not just boys’ & girls’ clothing (shorts, shoes, bibs, onesies, socks, hats, skirts, dresses, sets, bathing suits, dungarees, whatever), but ALSO about $3800 worth of maternity clothing.  I am not kidding.  I think there are more than 1500 pieces.

“How could you have worn all this??  You have 16 pairs of maternity jeans!!”

Somehow, her response of “Hey, I was pregnant for four years” did not tug at my heart strings one bit.  The math just didn’t add up.  It was like that idiot on the new Applebee’s TV commercial: “So, hey, with all of these meal-deal combinations, we could eat here every day for 3 years and NEVER eat the same thing!” A dipshit commercial . . . . but yeah, it was like that . . . but with maternity outfits.

But to say this is an embarrassment of clothing riches is misleading.  Yes, most of the clothes look brand new – were worn perhaps twice – and would make for fine apparel for your typical garage-sale shopper.  But the preparation of this clothing has become a nightmare.  As I stacked and hung hundreds of articles upon hangers, I cussed and swore I’d never work a retail job.  And maybe never hold another garage sale.

“How much are we charging for this stuff?” I would mutter.

“I dunno.  A dollar?  Two?” the wife says.

I begin to feel like an 11 year-old working at a Turkish prison camp bottling perfume.  Not only must I hang these items for display, I have to figure out how to build a “clothespipe” in my driveway that will hold 1500 articles.  I already have a trip planned this week to Lowe’s to purchase a band saw, duct tape, and about 3000 feet of PVC pipe.

All for a Saturday garage sale.  All on a Saturday where I might play golf.  Or watch March Madness.  Or peel blisters.

I must say, though, there are victories happening in the process.  I get to effectively throw away “wife items” I’ve been threatening to throw away for years, including her bread maker (never used), her fondue/skewer set (which has only ever been used by our toddlers to play “Gouge Your Sibling’s Eyeball”), and lots of other household knick-knacks for which we have billionicates (that’s a whole lot of duplicates) like Christmas oven mitts and chic decorative bowls.

One of the funny things about garage sales I’m anticipating is the haggle factor.  The pricing strategy we’ve come up with is “Double For Trouble” – basically meaning that we’re expecting people to offer us half of what the little sticker says.  So when we cave in, we’ll at least get something.

Also, many of the shoppers that show up will be hispanohablantes from neighboring communities; that’s just the way it is.  While I speak fluent Spanish, I had to ask a ‘super fluent’ buddy of mine, “Hey, Shady – how do you say, “No haggling” in Spanish?”  He texted back, “Well, probably “No regatear” but it would be funnier if you said, “No Colombiando.”  I was not aware that Colombians had a penchant for the haggle, but I think I’ll go with “No regatear” in the interest of not offending anyone (including our nanny and my good friend Luis – both Colombianos!)

My biggest fear is that I’ll be left with more than 75% of this shit in my driveway.  This one eventuality will make me feel like it’s all been a get-rich-quick scheme gone awry.  I’ll tuck my wad of one dollar bills (for change) back into my pocket and march over to Good Will where I shoulda gone in the first place.  Then I’ll go to confession at St. Mary’s Church of Healthy Guilt.

Wait.  No. That’s too humiliating.  I think instead this will call for an INFERNO.  It’s what I’ve

Forget 'BURNING MAN' . . . come to BURNING TOY.

fantasized about all along, so I’ll fill up the gas cans in advance.  Who needs $900?  I’ve already got 6 hours invested in staging all this crap, replacing $2.00 toys with $3.00 worth of batteries . . . you know, insanity like that.

From adjacent neighborhoods, people will see billowing smoke coming from our street, and waft the pleasurable scent of scalding plastic, wonky food processors, and charred Elmo dolls.  At least we’ll be warm and toasty.

And instead of having to put anything back in storage, I’ll just hire the kid next door to sweep up the ashes.

So, what have I learned?  Well, I suppose you should get the POST-MORTEM after this weekend’s garage sale; I’ll report how it went.  One final ominous point:  ”Garage Sale” is just one letter “b” away from “Garbage Sale” so we’ll see how it goes.

Wish us luck . . .