It’s been weeks since I’ve gotten to indulge in one of my favorite Saturday morning activities: hitting the yard sale circuit. Apparently, the bargains had just been waiting for me to come by, because I scored a bunch of things I needed and wanted, all for a song. I found two great plants—a ficus for my office and a dragon’s blood succulent ($1 each) a wood floor mat ($2), a sleek set of square white dinner plates, saucers, and bowls ($3 for the set), a memoir (.50), organic potting soil that normally costs the equivalent of putting your teenager through college ($1), an Anthropologie skirt that normally costs the equivalent of putting two teenagers through college ($4), a bunch of Cook’s Illustrated magazines ($1), and a wooden cube for books ($1) that I’ve already filled. Score.
I was accosted by one woman holding a yard sale who insisted on telling me about her tragic life, while I kept thinking, Can I just buy this book? Another guy gave me a print of an old Boston Aquarium ad I thought my marine science-y friend might like; he insisted that I take it for free as an ex-girlfriend had given it to him. For some odd reason, he also had an Andre Agassi poster that I, too, once owned in the 90s; that I didn’t take. After a record six hours of yard sale shopping, I headed home glad I don’t own a truck because the damage might have been much worse.