Sit down, Benson.

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while…I’ve got a crazy amazing chance for all of my little nerd dreams to come true. I’ve already said too much. It involves writing. And quite possibly meeting the ultimate person for me to meet, ever. Okay, NOW I’ve said too much. (Plus, I have some writing deadlines for actual plays, short stories, legitimacy. But you can see where my priorities lie.)

This past weekend was a very adult one. I don’t mean that in a weird way- (An evening of “adult entertainment” for me usually means six back to back episodes of Law & Order, a glass of pinot noir and maybe a quick game of Scrabble.) We truly reached that bastion of maturity; a yard sale. Where I’m from it’s called a Tag Sale but apparently that’s a made up term, much like “rotary.” (That’s a little East coast humor for you.)

On Friday night we decided to see what we had, what with stuff we had shoved into storage after the wedding gifts started arriving, plus stuff we had moved (and kept) in their duffels for a solid five years apiece. The dining room (usually a pretty sizable space) was soon filled wall to wall and as high as the table with…things. It was mildly disturbing to see how much stuff we had acquired and stored that we didn’t care about and honestly didn’t know we still had. (Let’s just say that if we were moving tomorrow the stuff we piled would fill a cargo van. As a couple who hopes to buy a home in the forseeable future, that’s a very real and very costly threat. Also frightening- when did we become a couple who owned a van-full of sweatpants that don’t fit? But as we pointed out to snickering yardsalers, you should see the stuff we kept!) We posted here and there on Craigslist and around town, fully expecting our Saturday a.m to be quiet and a little boring. At 9am sharp (um, that’s when we decided to start setting up tables, regardless of what our ad said) we had a wave of people we called The Professionals zip by. They grabbed the items they wanted (a designer coat, a cafe table & stools, etc.), didn’t haggle and left us with $150 by 10:30am. Wow, we said, if this keeps up we’ll be millionaires by noon!

Well, it petered out to the occasional shopper who tried to make deals on the most ridiculous things; “This shirt has a small hole.” “Well, it’s currently ten cents. Should I be paying YOU to take it away?” Also fun were the people who called certain items trash and then rushed back twenty minutes later to offer me three bucks for it. I found myself becoming defensive over items that I myself had deemed unworthy of closet space. But we met some neighbors (we’ve only lived on this block for 2+ years) and had some nice bagels and iced lattes on the stoop. Like townies, I imagine.

Later that day we got ready to go to a couple of parties and the Guinness Oyster Fest on Roscoe. I love oysters. However, I’ve found that I hate the Guinness Oyster Fest. A seven dollar “donation” to get in the festival? Only one booth actually selling oysters? A one-hour wait for that line? I hate you. (To be fair, we stood in that line waaay to long and that was on us. But after half an hour one almost feels obliged to see it through. I just made that up. There was no excuse for standing in that line for so long.) P.J. almost jumped over the counter and throttled a man who forgot to inform the line that they were out of oysters for the next “little bit.” For the fourth time since we had gotten into line. That itself was almost worth the price of admission. A riled P.J.? Ooh, place your bets. (I think it’s the even-tempered ones you have to watch. If THEY reach a boiling point? Street brawl.)

On the way to the festival we had found a thick metal multi-skirt hanger on the sidewalk; this was awesome because I had said not one hour earlier that I desperately needed a multi-skirt hanger. I should have set my sights higher. We placed it somewhere safe (on a stoop) and decided to come back for it later. Well, marching angrily home after being hosed by our oysters (eww) we tried to retrieve it. It was gone. “My free hanger!” I wailed. “This festival SUCKS.” P.J. seethed. We walked another half block and there it was…hanging on the side of a house. Like a hanger! So the early evening wasn’t a total bust.

We had a great time at one friend’s party but couldn’t rally for the second. For we spent an hour yelling at oystermongers. We are lame.

Spent Sunday doing much of the same as Saturday (except for that pesky Leaving the House) and netted another 35 bucks. NOT A GOOD DAY’S WAGE. But, I did get to realize my weekend’s dream of reading the paper (on the concrete stoop) and drinking coffee (from a mug that someone tried to buy. Get off my mug!) And P.J. was there so it felt downright Norman Rockwelly, complete with the pile of broken hangers next to me. (I can’t believe no one wanted those!) And we made $235. Whoo!

We saw Tropic Thunder on Monday night…if you’ve seen it, email me. I’d love to roll my eyes at parts and high five over others. I’m not willing to ruin the cinematic masterpiece for others, but BOY do I have stuff to say about it.

So now it’s…oh my God, it’s Wednesday? And I’ve already worked 24 hours for this week so far. (11 hours each for Monday and Tuesday, plus the two hours today=…it’s Wednesday?!) Let’s just say that the amazing stream of prose I had hoped to complete by WEDNESDAY has not yet been penned. (I tried to compensate for time last night by getting really caffeinated and, you know, working through it. It backfired and I ended up face-planting on the dinner table. Yes, we eat dinner at a table. Sometimes.)

And now I’m blogging. So. On that note, I may try to actually get some other writing done. Reward me by becoming a follower of this blog, waaay down at the bottom of the page. It will do my heart good. And my poor, over-caffeinated head.