I suppose it’s timely to hold a yard sale. Recessionista propaganda has created a market of sellers looking to score some extra dough by offloading their unwanteds and buyers relaxing their expectations for new merch in the name of penny pinching.

On top of that, hipster decor blogs like the Selby have renewed our interest in expert tchotchka consumption and placement.

My motive was far less trendy. After merging two apartments into one two years ago, me and my mister had slowly edited down our new pad. A fairly clutter free upstairs had resulted in a basement storage room stuffed to its seven foot ceiling full of no-longer-worthy clothing, furniture and other random stuff.

So last week we began preparing for our sale. With no garage to speak of and a front yard full of oregano and Black Eyed Susans, a narrow front path, our small porch and a sliver of sidewalk would be our retail turf. 

Editing and pricing went smoother than I expected. Very little time was spent coddling old photographs (rip them out of the frame and sell it for 50 cents) and reminiscing over sentimental purchases (price that first Holts wool herringbone coat at a dollar). Later, our shoppers would tell us how awesome we were for actually pricing things at real yard sale rates. 

My type-A personality kicked in when we started to put the word out. We used the usual social networking suspects to market the sale but as soon as friends started to tweet back how excited they were to attend, I started worrying about the condition of our cast-offs. Maybe I should dry clean the mustiness out of those old sport jackets destined for their second coming as boyfriend blazers? Could we edit out a few of the Christian LPs from a 400 record vinyl collection my boyfriend’s father recently found at a church sale and we were already flipping?

“No” and “no” my easier-going half insisted.

On the day of the sale, we slept in a good 45 minutes past our 7 am alarm and the hardcore early birds were pulling up to start their picking before we could creatively display our junk. There was the label-savvy tween who convinced her designer-oblivious dad to spend a buck each on Burberry and Prada. There was the woman who convinced me to give her $10 off my old mountain bike because she was too short for it. And there was the buff gym guy who will look extra muscle bound squeezed into a wardrobe of our lanky tees and jeans. 

The grandmother from down the street walked by every half hour with her blind pup Mitzy to inquire about this and that before finally pulling out a fiver to take away a used microwave. Another neighbour forked over $25 for a second bicycle We appreciated their dough but I would have comped them those purchases in exchange for finally knowing the names of some other people on our block. 

Our wares slowly shrunk until all that was left was a box of fabric remnants, two pairs of size twelve Fluevogs and our few true treasures: a vintage 50s kitchen set, art glass and a kitschy ceramic teapot shaped like a dachshund. We returned the collectables to the now echoingly empty basement, put a free sign on the other leftovers at the curb and closed up shop a couple hundred dollars richer and a thousand pounds lighter.