Do you know the difference between a piece of junk and an antique?
I’ve been looking for a birdcage lately, which was probably not something you knew about me. It’s not for a bird, but just to hang up. Maybe put a plant inside, but maybe not. I did find a super nice one several weeks ago at an estate sale. It wasn’t really what I was looking for, though. Well, okay, in my wildest dreams, it was exactly what I was looking for, but I didn’t get it, because it was $75 and I could have fit inside it (when I was four).
No, I wanted something a little more understated, but still old.
I found this.
When you spend so much time shopping in driveways, you have to be able to see past a certain amount of, well, ick. Something might be broken, but fixable. Another thing might be ugly, but functional. But mostly, things are just really stinking filthy. Sometimes, they even have upsetting plastic animals inside. I felt obligated to make a Monty Python joke about the bird, even though I was pretty certain no one would know what I was talking about (I was right). Here’s an additional creepy thing about the parrot. I noticed that there used to be two fake plastic birds on the perch, but the other must have been broken off, leaving only its little fake plastic feet, still clinging to the fake plastic stick.
The lady told me to name my price, so it was mine for $2. And I was so excited. I took it home, put on my hazMat suit, and cleaned it up. I burned the fake bird.
See? Now it’s an antique. Or at least vintage. I could spray paint it, I guess, but I like the rusty black metal.
In other ridiculous purchase news, I picked up a pair of sandals that I will likely never wear. They are really uncomfortable, but they are hand made. You just don’t see that many handmade shoes anymore, particularly with nice recycled tire bottoms like these. I ought to donate them to some local theatre troupe, in case they do Ben-Hur any time soon.
Moving on to the next silly thing, I bought a 1971 felt calendar that had been embellished with sequins. See why I love yard sales so much? Where could you even find such a thing nowadays? People are wandering around the streets, lost in despair, because they want nothing more than a 1971 felt calendar with sequins, but they don’t know where to get it. And I tell them that I don’t know, because I don’t want them coming to my house to look at mine.
The estate sale actually had seven more of these calendars from various years, although all from the 70s. I picked this one because it didn’t have any stains and had a nice design. Actually, I really liked the one with the mushrooms on it, but as a general rule, I can’t stand 70s mushroom art. No matter how nice it is, it will always remind me of a stoner’s dorm room.
Here’s a funny little story. When I was paying for the, the cashier asked me if I was born in 1971. Maybe that’s why I don’t get carded anymore; I look 40.
That’s all the interesting stuff that I bought, but I do have another story. Being asked whether I had been born in the Nixon years was not even the most embarrassing thing that happened to me Saturday. Oh, no, it gets better. I was at a sale at some sort of VFW community building, where I saw, but did not buy, this big print keyboard.
I should have bought it and hung it up at work, or maybe given it to that lady who thought I was 39 and holding. Anyway, I was getting into my car after this sale, when my pants ripped, right down the left back pocket. They weren’t tight pants, I hadn’t gone over the butt capacity or anything like that. No, they’re just cheap pants that I bought at a yard sale last year. Though a nice breeze on my derriere would have been welcome that day, I didn’t really want to let everyone know what color panties I was wearing. Luckily, I had bought a long shirt earlier in the day, so I changed into it. Crisis averted. Although, walking around with holes in my clothes might be a useful bargaining chip. “Look, lady, I’ve got a giant hole in my pants, so obviously, I can’t afford to pay more than $2 for this birdcage that has been sitting in your basement for fifteen years.”
Maybe I’ll keep those pants in the car for just such an occasion.