Those simple words, lovingly spoken on a Saturday morning with no hint of "Why don't you go out and get coffee," are almost as exciting as waking up at 6:30am, which, in my household, is a delightful treat.
Now to be honest, I don't drink coffee regularly. It's not that I don't want to because I've actually developed quite a lustful affair with the hot stuff. It's more that, in the rush of our noisy little morning adventures, I don't often leave the house early enough to stop somewhere and grab a cup and, while I have a wonderful coffee maker that's simple to set on a delay, the apathy towards cleaning it afterwards far outweighs my desire for a cuppajoe on weekday mornings. Thus, when my wife offers to buy me coffee on a Saturday morning she's got me wrapped around her pinkie before I even realize what's happened. She apparently knows that I'll whore myself out for an overpriced coffee made by an overpierced teenager. And that's why, for the second straight Saturday, I spent the morning chauffeuring the family around local neighborhoods looking for Cubic Zirconia in the rough.
Of course, I'm not the only one she manipulated into the car for the big adventure. Rach worked her magic while tucking Mini-Me into bed the night before:
"If you stay in your bed tonight, buddy, we can go to some garage sales tomorrow morning."
[No, buddy, don't do it...it's a trick! You'll regret this one day...most likely during the years after the excitement fades but before you'll whore yourself out for coffee!]
"Oooh! Really, Mommy!"
[You're on your own now, buddy! Oh, who am I kidding...she'll buy me coffee and I'll be there, too.]
"Yes, really!"
"I want a school bus! I want a red school bus, Mommy!"
"We'll see. Goodnight...see you in the morning, sweetie."
The kid's a sucker...just like his dad.
I haven't always loved garage sales the way my current caffeinated self does. It wasn't too terribly long ago that a different phrase lovingly spoken on a Saturday morning sent fear coursing through my veins.
"Lawzy, lawzy...you should see what I found for you this morning!"
Those words meant Mimi, my grandmother, had either found me 'new' underwear or awesome bell bottoms (it was the mid-80s and neither they nor I were in style). I have to give her props for discovering some occasional gems (Matchbox cars, puzzles, sports equipment, crazy-fun wind-up bath tub toys), but for the most part she gravitated towards hideously ugly clothes. In fact I'm pretty sure there's an Olan Mills photo or two in which I'm wearing one of her finds. Some of my nightmares involve a purple, blue, and white collared, long sleeve velour shirt. That's a memory I'm glad was captured forever.
For my wife, though, the thrill is found in hunting for shoes. She's collected enough shoes in a range of shades, sizes, seasons and styles to last for years. It looks like I may have to build a new closet just to hold them all and that's just from the past two weekends. Before she reads this and never buys me another coffee, though, I should probably clarify that the shoes are not for her, they're for Mini-Me...and they're awesome!
If somebody could hand me my murse (man purse) I'll continue...thanks.
I now know how Mimi felt when she found those fashion treasures. There's nothing like the surging adrenaline that rides the wave of caffeine through my veins while we're standing, whispering in some strangers' driveway and Rach holds up a pair of shoes:
"Look at these!"
"Those look brand new! They're seriously selling 'em for $1?!?"
"I know! Whaddaya think?"
"I love 'em! He's going to look adorable in those!" [dammit, I just said 'adorable' out loud!]
"They're a size 12." [He's currently in a 9...we're taking 'planning for his future' to a new level!]
"Great! We don't have any of those, yet!"
It's sad, but it seems this is what happened to the energy and excitement I used to put towards collecting baseball cards.
Of course I don't want you to think shoes are the only items that gets me up garage saleing on beautiful spring mornings. I absolutely love searching out cool toys, especially now that Mini-Me is getting to action figure age. I have been the proud Andy to many an action figure and the demented Syd to many more. My favorite job in college was working at Toys R Us and my favorite part of every Target trip is the stroll through the toy aisles. It's because of this devotion to toys that most of my childhood psychological scarring stems from a rash decision to sell Star Wars toys at one of our family garage sales just so I could get enough money to buy a New Kids on the Block cassette. It was a sad day when I realized what I'd done...and it's a sad day now that I realize I've shared that tidbit publicly.
I'm hoping Mini-Me can make amends for the horrible toy-related mistakes I made in the past. So far I've been incredibly impressed by his garage sale abilities. In fact, it seems the boy's got super powers.
Two weekends ago before we left the house he said he wanted to find a helicopter...house #2 had a helicopter.
This past weekend he mentioned that red school bus...house #3 had two red school buses.
I've been dropping hints to Rach that we should go out again this weekend because I'm teaching Mini-Me to say 'Gibson Les Paul Standard'.
Wish me luck!
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