Yard Sale fun with Brad

Steady yourselves for a big shock:  Brad Mosiman does NOT enjoy shopping at yard sales. I know...I know...you'll never be able to view him in the same light now that you've seen the dark side of the moon. As you might have guessed...it's put a real burden on the marriage.

I'm not sure if it's a missing chromosome, a backwards twisting DNA strand, or a latent childhood psychological trauma but Brad Mosiman is unable to generate even a smidge of excitement when I come bounding into the house with a large cluster of orange glass grapes that I acquired for the miraculous price of ten cents. "What are you going to do with them," he asked, puzzled. What is WRONG with him? How did I NOT know about this significant deficit when I married the man? Why is yard sale compatibility not part of standard pre-marital counselling? "You are going to use wire cutters to separate them," I told him in complete exasperation, "and then we will use the orange grapes to fill up our glass pumpkin." "Of course we will," he muttered, walking off in search of his wire cutters.

So imagine my surprise when Brad decided to join me Saturday afternoon when a nearby town hosted yard sale days. I was so nervous. Like...first date nervous when you order the small salad rather than the rack of ribs. "What are we looking for," my husband asked. Usually, I'm a browser but on this particular day, I was searching for small novelty toys to fill my classroom's Derelict Prize Box. I had inadvertently stumbled upon a way to generate student enthusiasm when Sydney finally cleaned out all of her and Savannah's old (and sometimes broken) childhood toys. I brought them in, housed in a dented cardboard box and the kids went wild. "Who would like an old, dirty broken toy?" I'd asked and was almost trampled as the crowd surged forward. Hence, the Derelict Prize Box was born. It was reminiscent of the old "Let's Make a Deal" show where some poor contestant would choose Door #2 and end up with a rooster instead of the RV.

The prize box was getting a little low. "Who would like a snack-sized bag of sour-cream and onion potato chips that I accidentally sat on," I enticed my would-be writers. If one-word written answers were any indication, then it was definitely time to go shopping.

Brad paused at a display of small toys laid out like a sacrificial offering. Fifty cents a piece. "That's highway robbery," I whispered. "We want toys jammed together like just-cut cord-wood...labeled with a group price." Nodding, Brad methodically moved on while I eyed up a stein shaped like a Colonial American man. "It's fifty bucks," Brad muttered, materializing suddenly at my elbow and leading me gently (but firmly) away, "Stay focused."

Our first score was a quart-sized storage bag stuffed with Shrek and a stretchy rabbit, among other fabulous scholarly incentives. I got my tiki guy for ten cents and the lady threw in an over-sized plastic mosquito for free! "Is that John Cena," I asked, hurdling a tarp of golf clubs and snow boots to snatch the figure out of Brad's hand. He may have just found the Holy Grail of old, dirty broken toys. Talk about your beginner's luck!

Just to show that he wasn't just all business, Brad also found a stretchy dachshund Christmas ornament. "How much is this," he wondered, clearly willing to pay any price for this treasure. Twenty-five cents later, he placed it in my waiting hands. A dozen red roses couldn't have made me happier.

As yard sale dates went, this one was clearly a winner. "Look at what we saved!" I smiled, "We managed to fill my prize box for under five dollars!" I thanked him, again and again, for joining me. "It was totally worth it," he admitted. Awww...what a romantic. "If I hadn't been there," he continued, "you'd have spent FIFTY-five dollars and bought the stein too."