Our neighborhood sale was this past weekend; clear signs and clear times were posted in many places.  We do this every year, and every year without fail I meet:

The Vultures:  The women who are waiting outside 30 minutes before the sale begins.  If I have to move tables to the driveway or lay out additional clothes, I have to try to do it without opening the garage door, or these Vultures come racing in to try to get to stuff before I’m ready.  Even being told we’re not set up, the sale is not for an hour (or a day – yes, I was trying to prepare the day before, with the garage door only HALFWAY open, and had Vultures peering in to see my wares), the Vultures will not be deterred from their task of finding the bargain first.

The Ones with the Kids:  Don’t get me wrong, my kids aren’t always angels, but it seems to me there’s always a half a dozen parents that bring their 5 to 10 year old kids that feel they have the right to rifle through everything willy-nilly.  Or worse, there never fails to be eight children that ignore the fact that I have the garage clearly blocked off, and will squeeze around tables or climb under them to peruse my tools and photography props and equipment.  I’ve even had them circumvent yellow police-type tape.  Parents, reign in your kids or leave them at home.  My power tools and children’s toys stored neatly on shelves in the garage are not for your children’s pleasure.

The Late Ones:  The ones that show up 30 minutes after the sale is done while we’re trying to put everything back in the garage.  They have no concept of time, nor do they care that we are exhausted, have put the money away, and things are now being stored back in boxes that they have no business looking through.  I won’t discount a price for you, Late One – I will double it.

The Treasure Hunters:  I can see them coming from a long way away.  They almost march, with a purpose.  Do you have Jewelry?  How about Guns?  Antiques?  Okay, buh bye.  Sir, if I had these, I sure as tootin’ wouldn’t be selling them at the neighborhood garage sale.

The Old Bitties:  The ladies that come with their nickles and dimes and try to get me to sell them a $10.00 item for 50 cents.  You may sucker some with your cute blue hair, but not me.  That suit is worth more than two quarters.

The Pack:  The group of 12 people that come at once.  They all poured out of the same vehicle, bringing grandma, Aunt Hilda, and  Cousin Five-Fingers.  You pounce on my tables and everyone talks at once.  You’re shouting out offers, and I think it’s a ploy to distract me so that – yes – things are removed without that quarter being paid (you need it more than me if you have to steal something priced at twenty-five cents) and make me accept offers I never would if you were an Old Bittie.

The Normal Ones:  Ah, you are few and far between, I assure you.  I like you.  You come over, carefully look through piles of baby clothes, gently lift glass candles, ask about a price break that isn’t ridiculous, and pay me in dollars instead of twenties that I have to try to break.  You may even come back later to get something else you saw.  I love you, and wish there were more of you.