My Junk is Better than Your Junk

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who garage sale and those who don't. And, of course, the subset of those who do—buyers and sellers.

I've been to a few garage sales in my day, mostly with my mom, who loves them. I know I've bought things at garage sales, but I couldn't tell you what. I've also hosted a handful of sales. 

As I've mentioned, I'm a keeper, but every once in a while things reach critical mass and I feel the urge to purge. Last summer, my sister-in-law and I cleaned out my mother-in-law's home of more than 40 years. Forty years represents a lot of stuff, and for much of that time she lived alone. We have six people here—six times as much stuff. And we've only lived here 13 years. I can't imagine what it will be like 27 years from now. Yikes.

So, I planned a garage sale, mostly to get rid of outgrown toys and games. This proved much harder than I expected, since it turns out that my middle boy is a keeper, too, and even more sentimental than I am. Getting him to part with anything was next to impossible.

Me: "You haven't played with any of this in years."

Boy #2: "I just like to look at it. I like knowing it's here."

I see a horder in the making. On the other hand, he started high school this week and he has never been good at transitions. Perhaps my timing was off.

In any case, I sorted and tagged and set out our used stuff for three days. I ran an ad. I Facebooked and Twittered. I posted on Craig's list. We put out signs. And the weather was good — maybe too good; we had very few customers.

I netted about $200.

Given the amount of time I spent getting ready, plus three days managing the sale, plus the cleanup and donation of leftovers, plus the loss-time due to the inevitable sinus infection (I'm allergic to dust, so digging through basements and closets is not a healthy plan), I figure I made about 3¢ an hour.

But it's not about the money (good thing). I hate that we don't fix things anymore, we just throw them out. I have always marveled at my mom's stories of her WWII childhood, where they reused everything—even tinfoil and rubber bands (I still can't bring myself to toss out a rubber band, but I have no particular affinity for used foil). In this disposable world, there is something really satisfying about watching an old item find a new home, maybe even a better one with someone who will love and use it more than I ever did. A garage sale is recycling in the best sense.

Here are a few things I learned:

• next time, I'm holding my sale on Friday from 9-5 and Saturday from 9-noon. That's it.
• the stuff you think will sell never does; the stuff you think won't, will.
• once it goes into the garage sale, never let it back in the house. Arrange for a charity to pick up the dregs.
• grandmothers are the best customers for toys. They love to treat their grandchildren, but don't always know what they want. Garage sale games and toys make them look like a hero for pennies on the dollar. 
• kids love a bargain, and I loved watching them plow through my bargain box (25¢ each, or 7 for a $1), choosing which treasures they couldn't live without. That's a lot of joy for a buck.
• price to sell. If your junk is worth so much, then why are you getting rid of it?
• garage sales are boring without a steady flow of customers, but I did get to meet our new neighbors, so that's a plus.

I'm sure I'll have another garage sale some day (after Boy #2 moves out of the house and takes his stuff with him, every last lego piece and stuffed animal). In the meantime, check out Batman's garage sale. Guess even superheroes need a little fast cash.

Batman Garage Sale with Adam West from Adam West

Nature Bats Last

"But make no mistake: the weeds will win; nature bats last."

— Robert Michael Pyle

writer, naturalist, lepidopterist

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who love to garden and those who don't. 

Let's be clear: I'm no garden ho'. I wish I loved gardening, I really do. I truly appreciate a beautiful garden, and I love the idea of gardening. But actual gardening — not so much. My perennials perennially perish, my vegetable garden is fruitless, and my annuals barely take root.

My mom had a magnificent garden at her last house in Michigan, complete with herbs, flowering trees, bordering perennials, and even a koi pond (thanks to my husband) teeming with colorful fish and water plants. She assured me that gardening when you have young children is too much to ask of anyone, but that once my children were grown and gone, I, too, would love to garden. That was right before she and my dad moved to Florida — primarily to get away from any form of garden or lawn care.

I've been doing a lot of walking in my neighborhood this spring and summer (trying to convince myself that exercise, like gardening, is good for me — but that's another post). What passes for spring in Chicago came late this year, but by now the gardens have been painted into the landscape. While bulbs and lilacs may have faded, roses are gushing and peonies are panting to break loose from their confining rings.

Even the annuals are filling in nicely — in other people's gardens, thank you very much. My daughter and I planted a flat and a half of begonia's around the base of our "small" tree, and they still look puny and separated, not the lush pink area rug of blossoms I had envisioned.

Last summer, I ventured one cherry tomato plant in a pot. It cost me $2.48 and yielded about nine edible fruits, which would probably have run me about $2.48 at Dominick's, so it was basically a wash. This year, we tried two tomato plants (one has since passed away); herbs, including basil, rosemary and lemon balm (all doing quite nicely in their containers); and, at my daughter's insistence, a bell pepper plant. I have no idea how to grow peppers. Do I need to pinch? Prune? Deadhead? Oh, well, we bought the $1.98 version, so we won't be out that much when it bites the dust.

I kind of like the "container garden" thing. They're easy to plant, require little maintenance and look lovely on the porch steps. It almost appears as if a real gardener lives in our house — until you see my neighbor's garden, two doors north. 

Can you say obsessive-compulsive? The guy (and his gardener) are always tinkering (or is it puttering when you are in the garden?) — planting something new here, moving this plant over there. Sure it's beautiful, but who has that kind of time and energy? Self-employed people with no kids, who have enough money to hire a gardener, that's who.

I would garden if you could do it only three times a year: 

1. that first perfect day in March, when you are so happy to be outside after the long winter that you kill yourself doing yard work and can't move for the next week; 
   
2. one planting session sometime after Mother's day, when you are finally sure the last frost has passed, and you feel supremely satisfied about getting everything in the ground that you were tempted into buying at the local garden center;
   
3. a single 1-to-2-hour weeding session in mid-to-late July, after you have sufficiently recovered from the May planting session, but while it still seems worthwhile to spend time on plants that are just going to die in the fall anyway.
   

I know to many of you this kind of thinking verges on sacrilege. I know I'm supposed to care about the inextricable relationship between humans and plants. I know this because I read Michael Pollan's fabulous treatise, The Botany of Desire: A Plant's-Eye View of the World. I know I'm supposed to want to grow and eat my own vegetables, because Barbara Kingsolver made me feel guilty about it in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life.

But here's the thing — I'm allergic to insect bites. I've tried to find passion in the rich, brown soil of the garden, but all I've found is dirt under my fingernails. I've searched for satisfaction in a good day's worth of gardening, but all I have discovered are sore knees and screeching lower back pain.

Isn't it enough that I can appreciate the beauty and bounty that a well-tended garden yields — preferably through my picture window, or in a vase on my coffee table, or overflowing from the rich, brown depths of my wooden salad bowl? 

A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors.

— Charles Baudelaire, French Poet (1821-1867)

What's your gardening story — death or glory? Click here to tell us about it. And if you find your vegetable garden overfloweth, we will gratefully accept any and all surpluses.

See my latest Chicago Moms Blog post on the recent spate of celebrity deaths by clicking here. 

Photos: Tulips in Chicago and Pot Garden in Florida; 2kop.

This Posting is a Nut Free (well, almost)

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who have allergies and those who don't.

To the allergy free, salute. To the more than 20 percent of you who are allergy sufferers, I can only say that I feel your pain.

My big allergy bugaboo is insect bites. Mosquitoes are my nemesis. A single bite from this malevolent creature weighing less than three milligrams brings on a huge, hot-to-the-touch welt that lasts more than a week, often accompanied by water blisters, nausea, dizziness and a general sense of malaise. It's not fun.

But as much as I hate these little buggers, it seems they love me. I have been hunted down in my own bed, through layers of blankets and clothing and repellents. In February. In Chicago. My blood is the Chateau Lafite Rothschild of the mosquito world — ripe, spicy, with a particular softness, firm yet delicate and supple, developing a great elegance with age (or so claim the tasting notes reported by the Family Culicidae).

I know members of the Mosquito Protection Society will start violent protests over this, but it is my fervent wish that every mosquito will drop dead tomorrow (along with their unwanted, unhatched offspring). I promise the frogs will not all croak and the rain forests will not fall without them. Mosquitoes have been around for more than 30 million years and have killed more human beings than any other creature in history (think yellow fever, malaria). Now we've got to worry about the West Nile Virus and, given how attractive I am to these disease-carrying vermin, it is a scientific fact that I am now a gazillion times more likely to die an untimely death. To add insult to injury, this is girl-on-girl violence, as only the female mosquito stings (bitch!).

As annoying as they are, insect bites are not the only allergy that plagues our family. We run the gamut from dust mite to food allergies, with symptoms that include asthma, eczema, chronic sinusitis and anaphylaxis. Last fall, we discovered that our youngest boy, the family gourmand, is allergic to shellfish. (Could this be a sign that our nice Jewish family should start keeping kosher? Nah.) He was incensed over the diagnosis: "What do you mean, no more calamari? A squid does not have a shell." True, but calamari, squid and octopus all fall under the category of shellfish when it comes to allergies.

Shellfish is an easier allergy to manage than, say, peanuts because it is easier to predict where it might show up, but it's still a pain. We have joined the ranks of label readers and EpiPen® owners, forced to carry it with us wherever we go. We have to watch for cross-contamination and "hidden" ingredients at restaurants. For example, my husband and I recently took this child out for a special meal, just the three of us, at Froggy's. He initially ordered salmon with bell pepper sauce (the boy likes to eat), only to be told that the sauce was made with clam juice. You just never know.

The other day, this same child came to me with his eyes puffed up like a vanquished boxer. He hadn't had any shellfish, so now it's back to the allergist to start the whole scratch-testing process over again.

I recognize that having an allergy is not the end of the world. Modern medicine has given us many ways to protect ourselves and manage these allergies. All except one — my severe allergy to exercise. I wonder when they'll develop an effective immunotherapy for that one. Sign me up for the clinical trial. 

So, as long as you're not allergic to a nut like me, why don't you leave a comment by clicking here.

Photo credit: Wooooooooo … by CharlesLam via Flickr.com.

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