Bizarre Bazaar: A Day in the Life of Mr. Haggle

a post mortem of our huge garage sale this past Saturday

Saturday, 6:56 a.m.

I wake up to breaking daylight.  I rub my eyes and remember we slept in the garage.  Even though we’d placed a quilt on top of the concrete, I ache as if I’d slept upon a rock garden.  Why the garage?  Oh yes, to make sure our stuff was safe.  You see, we had so much junk ERRRRRRR quality used merchandise to sell at the next day’s garage sale, we had to put it out in the driveway a day early.  By sleeping in the car park, we would hear any overnight intruders and then, um, maybe brandish our 9-irons at them.  Or perhaps we would growl like bears.  I don’t know.  But we were there as a deterrent.  Thank Neptune we didn’t have to prove our mettle, because, as a security team, my 13 & 6 year old boys and I have all the intimidation factor of Spongebob Squarepants, Patrick Star, and Squidward Tentacles.

6:58 a.m.

I get up.  My body creaks like an ancient lawn chair – making me think I actually belong in a garage.  The boys are still sleeping on the makeshift bed.  I go into the house, retrieve the car keys, and back the cars out into the street.

I feel many eyes watching me.

Retail Holocaust: Garage Sale Blues

“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.

10 Happy Factoids About Who Else? Me.

Don’t spit out your energy drink, but I’m turning over a new leaf.  At least for the next 20 minutes.

Yeah, even me – I’m sick of being sick of everything – complaining. Sort of like when Tony Montana realized he’d snorted just a tiny bit too much cocaine and started giving spot-tracheotomies with his AK-47, it occurred to me that I was about two more sarcastic, sad-sack comments away from being called a crybaby . . or at least self-imploding in negativity lava.

Again, this remorse will probably pass soon, so I thought I should take action quickly by trying a little experiment.  How about 10 positive nuggets of lifey, cuddly joy you didn’t know about me?  Why the hell not?  And who cares if Fred Rogers is rolling over in his grave?

Everything I Always Wanted, Even When It Was Too Much

a memorial for my beloved grandmother, Phyllis Timpanaro (1918-2010)

Remembering my grandmother is simply the story of a spoiled grandson.  I got everything I wanted from this amazing woman, even when it was too much . . .

. . . like the summer after 7th grade.  In July of 1982, I showed up in Lyndhurst, NJ for a fun two-week visit; but it ended up being sort of a Reverse Fat Camp.  I put on about 15 pounds and added probably 2-3 inches to my waistline.  How did this happen, you ask?  Easy:  about 5 meals per day, sprinkled in with Mazur’s Jelly Donuts, bowling alley snacks, and daily visits to Bruno’s Pizza just down the street.  Oh, and I was a growing boy.

Sure, I waddled into the 8th grade that year to a few snickers and guffaws.  But it was a small price to pay.  I was loved and well-fed, and that was that.

Even from when I was a small boy, I have the fondest memories of grandma’s house.  I loved how she cut my PB & J into perfect triangles.  I loved eating at the shiny small table in the kitchen, or at the giant octagon table with the rolling-wheeled chairs.  Always cooking, always serving, always fattening us up; this is what we expect out of our grandmothers, and Phyllis delivered it like no one else.

It is impossible for me to recall grandma’s life without recalling also the physical layout of the house she kept.  I could navigate every square foot of 375 Sanford Ave. blindfolded.  It was almost like a person I knew; it lived and it breathed.  It was neat and orderly, yet always the hub of some fun activity.  It smelled like oregano, soppressata, amazing bread, and the best damn gravy (that’s Italian tomato sauce for you non-paisanos) you could possibly imagine. Its rooms and memories will always be in my mind; especially – for some reason – the basement.

Blogitoxicology: An Honest Look at Negativity

“Everyone has a little secret he keeps;
I light the fires while the city sleeps”

- MC 900 ft. Jesus, “The City Sleeps”

I read an article Monday on Kyle Lacy’s blog that had me all charged up, thinking maybe I could change the world with my next blog post.  You know.  Really set the world on fire.  This would be a good thing.

Then I received my own personal bitch-slap by Dr. Alejandro Junger, who, in his groundbreaking book Clean, writes about the toxicity of complaint.  It seems that EVERYONE is complaining.  The cumulative effect is a scourge of quantum toxins, which is drowning our bodies and spirits like the Indonesian tsunami.  This would be a bad thing.

What does this have to do with little old me?  In the recently overhauled About section of my website, I describe myself as a Friction Writer – basically a complainer who sparks healthy discourse.  So . . . .