Techno-Savvy Garage Sale Roulette

I have a librarian living in my brain.  Her name is Filene, and her desk is squeezed into my prefrontal cortex near my left eyeball.  Filene's main jobs:  shushing me when something's important, and retrieving information stored in filing cabinets that stretch from her chair all the way back to my brain stem.

It is a cluttered mess up there.

Filene has been miffed ever since the Google guy squeezed in a little desk next to hers and flipped open a laptop, totally ignoring all those cabinets stuffed with yellowing papers.  So when I started an Internet search yesterday for the meaning of the word 'bric-a-brac,' Filene yelled, "It's what you say when you trip over junk in the basement if small children are around!"

I do not think she took time to look that up, but I'll go with it in order to preserve the peace upstairs.

When I signed up to learn about selling things on eBay, I hadn't given any thought to how long that post-retirement hobby could last.  I mean - my basement has plenty of junk, but sheesh!  I may get nervous if I start to outlive my stuff.

I imagine myself stealing from neighbors while they're at work, then hoping nobody notices the baby-crib-shaped package tied to my car as I speed away to the UPS Store.

Filene slammed that thought in a drawer labeled Please Don't Do.

As I left for my class I paused at the door to the basement and told everything huddled at the bottom of the steps:  Goodbye!  Pack your stuff - I am returning tonight with a plan!

I figured the class would be over in a jiffy - sit down, peruse a couple of handouts, watch a little slideshow, then get home before dark and start selling!

Um.  No.

It was three hours of information that emanated from a man whose voice lacked the capacity of modulation.  Filene fell asleep within 10 minutes, and I was effectively hypnotized in less than an hour.  This semi-lucid state helped me catalogue items in my home that I could get rid of that very night.

Refrigerator.

It is so Parisian to visit the grocery store every single day.  In fact, I could go full-French-farmland and buy cows on eBay - the Internet surely has instructions for butchering and milking.  Not necessarily in that order.

Someone sitting behind me asked the teacher about 'bad' experiences on eBay.  WHAT?  Was this guy planted to scare us away so the teacher could have all the good stuff for himself?

The gentleman with the odd question - I'll call him 'Santa' - explained a little thing called 'eBay Addiction.'  He said he had first experimented with the site as a way to find a certain mantle clock.

That's it!  I realized in my vulnerable state that I had never known how much I wanted a mantle clock.

Santa went on to say that he somehow ended up buying six mantle clocks.

Still under hypnosis, six made perfect sense to me - mantle clocks are such sociable creatures.  I shook Filene awake and asked for a reminder to look on eBay for a bigger mantle.

As the teacher droned on, I continued cataloging more valuables whose days were now numbered in our home.  I listed everything by size and potential downside, from Baby Grand Piano (nope - belongs to Abi) to Diamond Ring (nope - don't actually own one).

It was just before we took our last vending-machine-Cheetos break that I had an epiphany.  It was a vision, actually.  Filene had plastered it to the backs of my eyeballs in a desperate attempt to gain my attention.

It was my obituary.

Filene understood the dangers of eBay and she knew my girlfriend Joan would kill me if I sold the thing that had risen to the top of my 'valuable' list.

I ran to the drinking fountain and splashed water on my face.  I came back armed with steely resolve and Cheetos-dust mud on several fingers.

I made a new list - one that included everything I could possibly remember in my basement.  I offered up a not-so-silent prayer to the eBay gods that somebody somewhere is still addicted to Beanie Babies.

Here's hoping there are people clamoring for giant, empty yogurt containers.  Also, those suitcases that were manufactured before the invention of the wheel, and my 'collection' of non-recyclable plastic travel mugs.

Why do I keep that stuff in the first place?  Throwing it in the regular trash just makes me too sad.  Instead, I allow myself to believe archeologists will dig up my basement in the year 3057 and say, "Whoa.  Yay!  Tupperware - the very stuff that fuels our planet.  We're rich!"

The buddy archeologist will chime in, "And look, Boss - a fondue pot.  We can sell this on zBay for sure!"

I drove home under the influence of a junk-be-gone high.  All I had to do in the morning was remember the teacher's instructions or leaf through the 88-page handout.

And then I fell asleep.

I dreamed about all the treasures in the basement.  The stuffed animals that crowded Abi out of her crib, truly one-of-a-kind school projects circa EGA (Elmer's Glue Age), and a meat thermometer I swear to God I didn't know I had.

In the morning I gathered neglected blankets, clothes and dishes - and delivered them to the Salvation Army experts.

Low tech.  Worthwhile.  No stamps.

I thought about getting an eBay account just to look around, but I don't trust myself, cyberly speaking.  I once drank a bottle of Hop Stoopid and went online to order four nonreturnable pairs of Levi's - that didn't fit.  At least they're hiding in my closet, as opposed to announcing poor judgment skills from a place of honor on my mantle.

Filene is scrounging around for examples of 'patience.'  She knows I'd only check eBay for the stuff I took to the Salvation Army, and neither of us wants that Tupperware back.

We know it would bring lots of friends.

(You only have until next Friday to develop your sense of rhythm.  Then we're going to learn how to HIP HOP - or die trying!)