We did it again

I read something recently in one of the umpteen geo-political newsletters I have subscribed to in the past six months about how everything is so messed up that it’s just plain exhausting. The writer decided he was going to become a digital hermit and never go outside again. Rather extreme, but one line caught my attention: “Democracy is a total yard sale.” I’d never looked at it that way before. Our country’s very foundation is on the chopping block, up for grabs to the highest lowly bidder, despite an economy in tatters, endless attacks on the rule of law and so much chaos.

Perhaps “total yard sale” is a perfect analogy on the current state of our union. And what better way to deal with all of this crap than by having a yard sale of our own and eliminating some crap we can actually control? Power to the people! Even John Adams would be smiling.

With apologies to Britney Spears … Oops! We did it again. The dreaded annual Sylvan Glen subdivision garage sale.

I’m writing this blog from a sanitarium. (Kidding.) I haven’t been this exhausted since riding through the dunes of Provincetown, Massachusetts, in my 30s when my partner at the time (you know who you are, Vega), got off her rented bike after 12 minutes and left it for dead on the trail path.

“I’m done,” she said, tossing her helmet into swaying beach grass for dramatic effect.

Sadly, it was tough to argue with her. I needed oxygen and a Medivac.

Like that bike ride, I wonder what the heck we were thinking when we decided to participate in our sub’s sale last weekend. But I even bought matching T-shirts to make it more fun: “Put our junk in your trunk.” My mom, the Garage Sale Queen, would be tickled pink.

We also hung red and white balloons on the popup tent that miraculously did not blow away to Bloomfield Hills despite Saturday’s 25 mph wind gusts. Yippee. But Friday’s heat and blazing sun popped most of the balloons. Boo.

We are so done. Stick a fork in us. Please. Never again. Ever.

We sold all the stuff two humans can accumulate in 20-plus years of living together as well as in separate dwellings. It was a veritable smorgasbord of items from our basement that hadn’t seen the light of day since we had a president I liked.

Linens, pots and pans, sports memorabilia. Baseball hats and a ball cap holder thingy to store them. An old entry door. A mattress board from 1935. Christmas lights and bulbs and wreaths. Luggage. Golf balls and clubs. (One 9-iron even had a price tag on it from a previous garage sale. Shoot me.)

Rebecca’s a saver. I am not. That’s all I’ll say about the matter. And similar to the Provincetown biking incident, this time we both agreed it was time to live and let go.

Honestly, it wasn’t all junk. Some was good junk. I mean, we made enough cash for about a day-and-a-half stay on Anna Maria Island next winter.

I even put a “For Sale” sign on the motorhome to see if we’d get any bites on the Beast. We had a few interested parties, mostly curious customers who just wanted to see the toilet.

These were the notable questions of the day: “Does your husband let you drive it?” and “Who dumps the shitter when it’s full?”

Answers: Sometimes. The husband. Ba-dump dump!

The most heartbreaking stuff to part with was our dear Madison’s treasured belongings from her 15 years on this planet. We saved things that meant most to us, like her monogrammed Ruth Bader Ginsburg bandana. You know that pooch leaned left, especially on her walks.

What was left: Dog sweaters, tees, collars, leashes, and bandanas for every season. Bowls, stairs and Halloween costumes (a pumpkin, cheeseburger and Santa’s elf with original tags still on). The little stinker froze like a statue whenever we put costumes on her. Her thought bubble shamed us: “You be a burger, biatches!”

To honor our little angel, we offered customers “Maddie Meals”: a grilled hot dog, Better Made chips and a pop. Over two days, we collected $100 to donate to the Leader Dogs for the Blind in Rochester Hills, Michigan, in her memory. Great cause.

Maddie would have approved, realizing a hundred bucks wasn’t quite enough to stuff a pesky patio squirrel at the local taxidermist.

One surprising thing that sold was Rebecca’s treadmill from 1978. (OK, 2001.) Still had the Sears credit card receipt. Also “like new,” save for some discoloration from hanging wet clothes on the rails. It’s out of our house, at last. But not without a tale worthy of an episode of “Shipping Wars.”

A nice woman and her young son, Gabriel, came by Saturday during the final hours of the yard sale. He spotted the treadmill and asked how much it was. “Free,” I said.

His big brown eyes lit up like the strands of holiday lights that had just sold. With teeth clenched, his mother called her husband. They decided to pick it up Sunday morning after church.

We honestly didn’t expect to hear from them, but lo and behold, the Blink security alert went off at 10 a.m. Sunday (yes, we were still comatose), and there were Gabriel’s big brown eyes peering through the Ring camera.

Their late-model crossover vehicle was backed into the driveway with Dad waiting for the big reveal. The garage door opened, and there it was: a 24-year-old piece of plastic and metal the size of a Mazda Miata. A slight man who weighed about 140 pounds soaking wet, the father leaned it back and wheeled out that monstrosity with the ease of Two Men and a Truck.

As the family of three struggled to put the thing in their vehicle, we headed back into the house. “Keep walking,” I whispered to Rebecca. “Thanks, folks. Bless you.”

A few minutes later, there was a weak knock at the front door. Again with the Ring. It was the woman asking if we had a dustpan and a broom. We said not to worry about the cobwebs and dust in the garage.

“Not that. Dustpan and broom. Please,” she repeated.

Apparently, the treadmill was safely in their car, but when Dad closed the hatch, he didn’t account for the equipment’s length – and the thing busted out their entire rear window! Thick pieces of black glass covered our driveway.

This wasn’t good. Poor Gabriel stood silent as his mother swept. Dad was pacing and speaking in tongues. It reminded me of that flat tire scene in “A Christmas Story,” except Gabriel was Ralphie Parker with curls and his poor father was, well, The Old Man.

The only thing I could decipher was something about “TWO … HUNDRED … DOLLARS!”

As they drove away, I couldn’t help but think of what my own father would have said after such an incident: “See? Nothing is free, babe. Don’t tell your mother.”

By the way, we still have two matching “Fore/Love” framed golf and tennis pictures that would make a nice addition to your rec room or (wo)man cave. Half price today only! Includes delivery with a smile. (See main photo above.)

I’ve already called the Vietnam Veterans of America to pick up what’s left in the garage later this week. Here’s hoping someone in need can use it.

I’ll even throw in our T-shirts for good measure. Because we are never doing this again. Really.

(YouTube video: And if we ever have another “Oops! We did it again” yard sale, we’re gonna let all of you hit me (slang for “call me”) baby one more time. Meanwhile, give a listen to 16-year-old Britney Spears sing her 1998 debut single, “Baby One More Time.” Try not to dance.)