Our family is having a garage sale this weekend. I’m dreadfully excited. I’m sure you can imagine.
Once my family had a garage sale when I was a kid. Actually, we had it at our house but it wasn’t just our family, it was a few different families. And actually I guess it was technically a yard sale since we didn’t have a garage. All we had was a shed in the backyard where a whole bunch of box elder bugs crawled, flew, and copulated. It was bad, people. So bad that I once wrote a song about box elder bugs to the tune of “America the Beautiful.” Which has absolutely nothing to do with garage sales, but I do think is an interesting little glimpse into my brain.
Anyway, we had this garage sale, and it was in the side yard of our house, not in the shed or in the nonexistent garage, and my friend Anna came over. We were up in my room when we got bored, so we opened my bedroom window and were looking out over the porch roof at all the people coming down the sidewalk to our yard sale.
And then we got silly, which occasionally happens to girls– shocking, huh?– so we started breaking up chunks of hot dogs (did I mention we were eating lunch in my room?) and throwing them out the window. They would roll down the roof of the porch and onto the sidewalk below. I’m imagining none actually hit any of our garage sale customers, because I think if they had my Mom might have destroyed me with one glance.
In fact, I have a feeling she probably never knew about the hot-dog throwing party before. Don’t be mad, Mom. It was like twenty years ago!
The end.
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