Last month, when I was having my really shitty week—on my actual birthday, in fact—I had an appointment to see a man about an estate sale. And it did not go so well.
To make a long back story short, in 2006 I moved back into my childhood home that I inherited after the deaths of first my grandparents, and then my mom. It was bursting at the seams with 3 generations of paraphernalia, which I have been slowly and painfully paring down.
(For a longer version of the story—with pictures!—go read about my bathroom.)
Heading into year 4 of this process, a lot of what I’ve been learning about psychology and productivity and general get-it-done-ness, kicked in to say HIRE SOMEONE! (Well all that, and watching Cari Cucksey on HGTV.)
So I emailed some folks about an estate sale. And I procrastinated. And I emailed again, and finally, on my birthday, someone came by to assess our situation.
And the answer?
Because we don’t have *enough* stuff for an estate sale.
Apparently the right time to have had one was 2006.
I know psychologically I wouldn’t have been able to handle that, but OH CRAP.
Because we still have too much stuff for your average yard sale.
Cause yea, we’ve already had 3 of those, and I’m SO over them.
We also have too much stuff for me to singlehandedly list on ebay at the rate of an item a month.
At this point, we’ve consolidated everything into one bedroom (and a half a shed), so it’s not bothering anyone, but that’s kind of the problem. Out of sight, out of mind.
My best solution right now?
I’m bringing it all to the wedding.
I’m getting a cargo van and loading it up with bins of glassware, vintage suitcases, lamps, knick-knacks.
I will play records, and find some Super 8 to project on the screen (because we have every Super 8 thing know to man except the fucking camera).
It’s all coming, and then some of it can stay, and I can get my house back.