One Man's Trash is Another Man's ... Underwear?!

Once Upon A Yard Sale.  Friends, neighbors, hoarders - lend me your clutter as I share some tips about how to have a successful yard sale.

My boyfriend and I have lived in this house for nearly three  years.  Our two-car garage was instead a storage space for a tale of two households.  Two singletons merged into a crowded coupledom.  Our quaint bungalow was already bursting at the seams, and the garage was filled with junk, stuff, baggage, a by-product of who "he" and "I" were before we became "us."

I am a pathetic packrat.  Sentimental in my nonsensical nostalgia. Andrew is pragmatic, logical and streamlined.  His efficiency is a direct contrast to my emotional excess.  As such, he pointed out that I had not assessed, itemized, sorted through, or even looked at the stack of boxes that filled our garage since we had moved in together.  "If you haven't touched it - or needed it - in two and a half years, we CAN get rid of it," he pointed out matter-of-factly.

And so began the purge-a-thon that pricked at the inner core of my identity - LET IT GO.  MOVE ON.  YOUR STUFF DOES NOT DEFINE YOU.  YOU DO NOT NEED THIS SHIT.  And, more importantly, what the F was I to do in 2010 with VHS tapes, cassettes, a walkman, a Discman, zip drives, floppy disks, and my Rolodex collection??

Have a yard sale, of course, where I learned you truly CAN get rid of anything and everything!

Tip #1 -  Get organized, stay organized and WAKE.  UP.  EARLY.  In fact, so early, don't even bother going to bed.  My boyfriend got up before daybreak to start setting up.  Quite honestly, to be awake before Starbucks opens is truly an ungodly hour of the morning.  It felt more like night, as I stumbled around like a groggy zombie in my pre-garage sale prep.

We had sorted, organized, bagged, tagged and boxed for days prior.  On the actual day of -- or wee hours before -- we hauled everything to the front yard, popped tables, and laid everything out on display with colorful signs and clearly noted prices.

My inclination was to take armfuls of piles from the back and just stack them in a heap in the front yard.  But we quickly learned an effective technique:  what was a disorganized mess in your garage should be a folded, labeled, organized presentation on the yard sale tables.

Peddle your wares in such a way that they're appealing to the eye and to the customer.  Sure enough, throughout the day, every time I tidied up the tables, reorganized the hanging items or refolded clothing, we made more sales.

Tip #2 - Don't stop at the garage.  Pick through your whole house to find items that are cluttering closets and gathering dust in corners you forgot about.  Get rid of it all.  Make room for what matters.  

At our yard sale, we had a table for spare, leftover or outdated electronics, a table for tchotchkes and knick-knacks, a table for kitchen excess.  I mean, let's face it - do you really need twenty tupperware containers??  We had multiple sets of pots and pans, mis-matched dishes, coffee mugs stacked 5 deep and 3 high -- even tho' we got our daily coffee at my beloved aforementioned Starbucks.

It's unbelievable what you'll find.  We had three - that's right, THREE - other TV sets between us.  These televisions had been retired to the garage graveyard when we splurged on our big flat-screen for the house.  Every household had an LED, plasma, 1080p these days.  Surely no one would want to buy such archaic heavy "fat-bottomed" TVs, right?  Wrong.

We sold all 3 of them that day.  And one even had a broken picture tube.

Tip #3 - Think out of the box and then put it in the "to sell" box.








We thought about tailoring tables at the sale to specific groups of interest.

For example,  Andrew is a big outdoorsman, a hiker and camper.  He sorted through his closet of gear he had collected over the years and was able to eliminate a lot of excess stuff he no longer used.  He displayed his camping items on a tarp which attracted many browsing husbands and other men that came to our sale.
  

I also travel a lot, but quite honestly, frequent hotels more than tents.  As such, I had accumulated an extraordinary and excessive amount of travel toiletries from various hotels in cities and countries all over the world.  These were high-end products that I simply had no use for since, try as I might, I remained a creature of habit to my drugstore staples.

I arranged a table of these goodies - soaps, lotions, combs, candles, sewing kits, shower caps, shampoos, conditioners.  Things that I had collected FOR FREE and yet in turn SOLD at a yard sale!  That table cleared the fastest.  People scooped those products up within the first hour or two of the yard sale.  Sure, I only sold them for a few cents here and there, but the point was:  the stuff was gone!  These items were free and had now FREED ME of more clutter.  I had gained more space in my bathroom cabinet.  And that, my friends, was the true value.

Another way to think out of the box to add to "the box" of "TO SELL" items - THE RE-GIFT.  This photo has been blurred to protect the innocent when I, so obviously, am guilty of re-gifting.  As long as friends don't frequent your yard sale, you should be good to go with this tactic.  Otherwise, things could get awkward to say the least.

You know you all have these items laying around the house.  Gifts from good friends with bad taste.  Be it gawdy or gimmicky, some of the best intentions can result in the worst gifts during holidays, birthdays and special occasions.  A yard sale is THE perfect occasion to offload such items.

At first, I was worried about how bad I would feel and then instead began to focus on what excuse I would tell my friends when they wondered why we never used the pastel crystal-stemmed wine glasses they gave us as a housewarming gift years prior??  Let's just say, they never warmed this house.  They sat in the cold garage -- and hopefully now someone far more fun and funky than I was toasting the world through rose-colored glasses!

Tip #4 - The Price is Wrong.  My boyfriend schooled me on many things about this yard sale.  Not the least of which was me arguing about the price I should put on my designer clothes and shoes.

50 Cent ain't just a rapper, it's the magic number at a yard sale.  I was mortified when my man explained that even $1 or $2 seemed too exorbitant a price for my clothing.

I honestly thought I could sell things for $10 or $20 -- and Andrew informed me, be prepared to just put all this back in my closet at the end of the day, or else straight to the trunk of my car to take to the Goodwill for donation.  I was flabbergasted.  As Queen of All Clutter, I clearly was too attached to these items already, and to part with them for mere pennies when I had paid way more was unthinkable to me.

Andrew helped me understand that it was about quantity here, not quality.  The more I sold, the more we would get rid of, which would help us achieve our goal of more space, more room to breathe in every sense of the word.

And so I marked down my precious clothes and heels and purses to increments of .50, $1, $2.  From fashion sense to fifty cents.  And Andrew was right.  They came in droves.  Families, teenagers, boho chic hipster girls.  It may have felt so wrong for me, but "the price was right" for them.

CHIC BOHEMIAN HIPSTER CHICKS 
CRUISING SOME CLASSICS FROM MY CLOSET 

I even pulled ratty towels and old sheets out of the linen closet, labeled them for cheap and was shocked to see men scoop them up for their car wash businesses and local automotive mechanic shops!  People were buying anything - even bleached, stained, pilled and torn towels and sheets!  Even your rags can bring you riches.

And speaking of stains, the biggest shocker of the yard sale was when my boyfriend actually put his UNDERWEAR out for sale!!  I could not stop giggling in disbelief!  Who in their right mind would buy used and stained underwear?!  And yet, HOLY HOARDERS, BATMAN!!  He sold EVERY pair he put out there!  He, of course, attributes this feat to the fact that his underwear was the expensive and high quality Under Armour brand.

I am of the mindset, however, that it just goes to show you:

One man's trash IS another man's treasure ... or at least another man's underwear.

ME AND MY TREASURE AKA YARD SALE LOOT!!!

Disconnect to Connect: The Magic of Big Sur

When my girlfriends asked me to go on an all-female road trip/camping/hiking adventure with them, I was hesitant to say the least.  After all, I had barely survived a desert camping extravaganza with my Granola Grizzly Adams boyfriend and two extremely fit outdoorsy gay men.  The trio of alpha males seemed to be running The Amazing Race while I belonged on an episode of The Biggest Loser.  I was the weak, out of shape, limping gazelle at the back of the herd, the one that gets taken down by the predators and quite literally, left in the dust.  Survival of the fittest, not fattest, I suppose.

Still, there was something about going with a group of women that seemed appealing.  And sure enough, we women were like a pride, with a pride of our own.  Whenever one of us stopped to take a photo, take a drink of water, or even tie a shoe, we stayed together on our hikes.  There was no pressure, no competition, no one-upmanship (emphasis on MAN).  It was a communal, comforting, collaborative camping experience - I suppose that's what happens when you mix four females, Mother Nature and the Magic of Big Sur.

CAMPSITE
The birthday girl Emily picked the most perfect campsite on the Big Sur River in Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park.  I watched with awe as my three friends made camp.  Here were girls who had been camping since childhood, who owned all sorts of gear and equipment, who were nature lovers and seemed in their element out in the elements.  All three were athletes - either having trained or were in the process of training for multiple 10Ks and marathons.  Mind you, the only 10K I've ever run was the amount on my credit cards.  And as for my experience with pitching tents ... well, that's a whole 'nother blog.

Mere steps away from our tent was the babbling brook, the most idyllic of sylvan settings -- groves of trees that seemed to have seats built-in by nature at the crook of their roots, soft deep green moss, crunchy leaves and even a woodland creature frolicking to and fro.  I half-expected Bambi to crawl out from beneath the thicket!

 As a girl who grew up in NY, where wildlife was pigeons and subway rats, these picturesque new surroundings truly transported me.  It was a place where I could see myself forgetting my cares and troubles - for example, where was I going to plug my cell phone in to recharge in that tent?!  (Fear not - we had an inverter in Emily's SUV to charge my Crackberry!  Sad but true, even literally out in the middle of nowhere, I am chained to my phone calls, texts and work emails like a leash, a prison sentence...)

And so began my struggle on this trip, to learn to let go and be inaccessible.  To not jump at the cattle prod that was my buzzing phone, to not answer immediately because what mattered was being present, in the moment, enjoying the beauty of Big Sur.  What mattered most was not on that screen, but what I immersed myself in - a perfect weekend getaway in the woods and trees and cliffs with sweeping vistas, breathtaking beaches and fresh air.  I had to connect with all that.  And disconnect from technology.

Appropos enough, Big Sur is one of those "dead zones" ironically.  A rare zone in which - GASP! - there is very little to no cell phone reception.  It was here in this "dead zone" where my girlfriends - the very ones I text and Facebook and BBM with incessantly - insisted I learn to appreciate life again.  Thruout the weekend, this happened in two very eye-opening ways.

RIVER CROSSING
At Andrew Molera State Park, the recent rains had caused the river to flow more than usual out to the ocean.  What is usually a crossable trickle of a creek became a slippery rock-filled obstacle course that would come up to the average person's knee.  Since I am anything but as tall as the average person, this to-the-waist frigid adventure seemed like an unappealing WASTE of time.  While my nimble, athletic friends bounded across like skipping stones, I adamantly pouted with attitude on the other side, FULL of excuses and FULL of bullshit:  "Can't we go around?? There's got to be another way??  Let's go the long way to the beach.  I'll just meet you there.  I can't do it.  What if I get too cold halfway across?  How cold is it?  It's too cold for me, what if my feet freeze?  Are the rocks sharp?  Do they hurt?  Will they cut me?  What if I fall and twist my ankle?  I don't want to limp thru the rest of our hikes.  I don't want to be wet the rest of the day.  I can't carry my hiking boots, what if I drop them?  What if I drop my socks?  What if I drop my backpack?  What if I drop my camera? Even worse - and unthinkable! - what if I drop my Blackberry?!"

I'll never forget what happened then.  It was so sad, it was funny.  And then it was so out of character for me, it was triumphant.  After my tirade of "I can'ts," I saw the look on Emily's face - she had already crossed over to the other side and back again half way to guide me across.  And she just kind of stood there in the freezing water, feet bare and frozen, with her pants rolled up to her knees, she sighed and looked at me.  Her look was encouraging, empathetic but also quite frankly expressed that she just felt sorry for me.  "Come on, Tess," she coaxed soothingly as if to a small child.  "Just do it."

And there it was.  The Nike slogan.  Fuck me.  Something snapped.  And I snapped out of it.  I realized how ridiculous I was behaving, gathered all my "valuables" up in my arms and trudged into the water, determined to make it across.  Yes, it was cold, and unsteady and uncomfortable.  And the little rivulet felt like the goddamned Mississippi, but I was not going to stop halfway and wallow in the water.  I might have twisted an ankle, but my feet were indeed so frozen, I wouldn't have felt it anyway.  Each step towards the other side brought another cheer from my girlfriends, each sure footing I found after every shaky step caused my grin to grow wider and wider.

When I reached the other side, everyone congratulated me on my exhilirating experience.  It was literally and figuratively refreshing.  In the amount of time I had spent worrying about not being able to do it,   I. JUST. DID.

HORSEBACK TRAIL RIDE - "A THREE HOUR TOUR"

Obstacle #2 weighed 2000 lbs.  An enormous equine, to be more specific - "a three hour tour" of a trail ride.  Surely, the girls were joking.  Despite my triumphant river crossing, I still had trouble disconnecting.  Yes, I had endured hours of hiking -- but my motivation to reach each summit was primarily fueled by my determination to get cell phone service in order to call my agent.  Nothing appealed to me about riding a beast of burden for several hours.  I would much rather have preferred to nurse my sore muscles -- and several beers-- in the shade.

I explained this to my friends and the horse whisperers to no avail.  Once again, my What-Ifs fell on deaf ears.  What if I need to go the bathroom?  Three hours is a long time!  What if I have a panic attack and can't get off?  Who will help me down if you are all up ahead on your own horses?  Will my horse get lost?  Will he throw me off?  How do I steer it?  What if I'm allergic to the damn thing??


And of course, cell phones were NOT allowed on the ride.  Only cameras were allowed tied around each rider's neck.

Otherwise, both hands were to be free to hold the reins and clearly NOT text message or talk to agents.  My anxiety level only rose leaving my phone in the car, the disconnection was disconcerting.  But then I heard the ride would include meandering through meadows, traipsing through redwood groves, crossing more rivers and riding on a beautiful beach.  Begrudgingly, I decided to mount up.  My friends told the guides, "she hates horses, she's never ridden, she's nervous and afraid..."  The guides looked at each other and in unison said, "Give her Buster."



It required a staircase for me to clumsily climb atop what looked like a Clydesdale.  I'm sure he was actually just an average horse, but he seemed even more gigantic up close.  I soon learned, however, that Buster was the horse they gave to the old, the young, the frail, and the fucking neurotic.  His slow, steady, calm serenity soothed any riders with issues.  Buster seemed elderly and very well may have been deaf.  But the old man knew that trail in his sleep and could have walked it backwards with his eyes closed -- with or without me on top of him.  In fact, I began to realize only a few minutes into the ride that he seemed oblivious I was even on him.  He kept his distance at the way back of the pack - allowing at times two to three horse-lengths before the next swishing tail.  He moseyed, meandered, sauntered and sashayed as if he himself were enjoying the view.  He dropped so far back at times I felt like we had the whole trail to ourselves.  I didn't have to steer him or prompt him.  I didn't even have to hold on.  He was like a giant couch that kickstarted my comfort and my confidence.  In a sense, I was more than hands-free, I felt truly free.

This horse, that I was determined to hate only hours before, became my kindred spirit on a trek through nature.  I began to speak to Buster - after all, three hours IS a long time to spend with someone - even a giant, deaf horse.  I began to marvel at all the unbelievably beautiful things that to him, were merely part of his daily walk.

 

Since we were so far behind, no one turned around to take a photo of us.




So I took photo after photo, not only of our surroundings, but even of the silhouette of Buster and me.  You couldn't tell where he ended and I began.


I was like a silly little creature, clinging to the back of this beast, hugging him, thanking him, letting his slow, deliberate steps lull me to sleep.  Before long, the hours felt like minutes and we had passed through some of the most awe-inspiring scenery I had ever seen in my life.

I was sad when the trail ride came to an end and proud of another accomplishment that day.  I was able to achieve detachment from my Blackberry and create an attachment ... to a horse.



For three hours, I didn't worry about an incoming email, or feel the pressure to immediately return a text.






I was able to smell the scents of the forest, to let my eyes feast upon all the vibrant visuals and to appreciate every  minute of every hour of that "three-hour tour."

MAGICAL MIDNIGHT HOT SPRINGS -- DISCONNECT TO CONNECT

Our last night in Big Sur was one of the most magical and memorable of my life.  We ended our trip with an after-midnight visit to the Esalen Hot Springs.  Esalen is more than a sanctuary nestled amidst pine trees high on an oceanside Big Sur bluff, it is in all senses of the word - a retreat.  Esalen focuses on various studies, conferences and seminars - ranging from philiosophy to meditation, yoga to ecology, all rooted in spirituality and empowering the human potential.  It is a haven for artists, musicians, writers, yogis, gurus, educators, students.  But I also quickly realized how beneficial a place it could be for someone like me -- weary of "the real world" as opposed to the natural world, tethered to technology, bound to my obligations, restrictions and limitations, unable to be still, be at peace, to just be.  It was fitting we four gals ended our camping trip this way -- at a place where people truly learn to disconnect, in order to connect.

Emily learned that Esalen allowed only a small number of general public/off-site visitors between the wee hours of 1 AM-3 AM.  So after a day full of activities, we went to sleep early and set alarms in our tent for midnight to awaken for our Esalen adventure.  Stumbling sleepily out of our sleeping bags from the tent to the truck and making our way down a dark and windy PCH felt surreal.  It really felt like we as a group were in an other-worldly dream of our own.  We checked in to the Institute by flashlight and headlamp and in hushed tones were told to respect the quiet of the place and its sleeping inhabitants.

We left all cell phones, cameras and even our voices behind as we were led down to the most secluded, serene spa full of baths, pools and hot springs.  The four of us looked at each other and just understood that this would be a special moment.  Without a word, we willingly entered a vow of silence even if for a little while, and set off on our own to explore every curative corner of the natural spa - inhaling the steam and sulphur, relaxing in the rugged rocky tubs that were perched on edges of cliffs overlooking the ocean.

We disconnected from each other to reconnect within ourselves.  In that stillness, in that silence, in that darkness -- by the light of the glowing full moon, reflecting in the infinity pool of the Pacific, in that beauty, I felt enlightened.  I sat soaking...and soaked it all in...it was reparative, restorative, regenerative.   And that is the magic of Big Sur.

It is fitting that my camera was left behind, because no photograph could have captured those moments.  In fact, words fail to describe them as well.  In researching Esalen while writing this blog, I came across one fellow spa-goer's description of her time at the hot springs:  "This is my true nature," she said.  "I release all my negative thoughts.  Bliss."

I also found it fitting that the same letters that spell "ESALEN" can be found in the word "SELF-AWARENESS."  That's the connection I so desperately sought and didn't even know I needed.

Here's the one photo we took, a self-portrait of the four of us, when we were back at our car parked just outside the entrance to Esalen.  We had definitely shared a magical week together - roughing it in nature, whether hiking or on horseback, in a tent or around a campfire, or even in the silent solitude of a moonlit magical spa.  We all agreed when Emily summed it up -- "sometimes, you have to disconnect to connect."

Here's to the Connect Four!  Much love to Caroline, Emily and Meghan - to whom I will be forever grateful for teaching me how to camp and to whom I shall always be blissfully connected thanks to the Magic of Big Sur.