“Why is she driving smack in the middle of the road?” I asked myself aloud. Then I asked myself why I was talking to myself; but my tone of voice made me decide I would ignore me, and I refused to answer.
Continuing the conversation in my head, I wondered why the foolish woman in the 1980-something Plymouth Duster was driving so erratically! Then, without warning, she veered through the shallow, grassy ditch at the edge of the road, and came to rest with the nose of her car against the split rail fence in someone’s yard.
I stopped at the side of the road and jumped out of my truck, even more questions spinning in my head. Did she break a tie-rod? Could she be in diabetic shock? Has she expired at the wheel? (And me, thinking so poorly of her just moments earlier).
No, before I closed the door of my pickup, this little old lady with a fisherman’s cap and a faded, tie-dyed tee shirt was out of her car and marching toward the neighboring home. When she heard my truck door close, she wheeled around, glaring, in a way that made me stop in my tracks, before she spun around to continue her march.
I shivered as I realized I had just been on the receiving end of the Yard-saler’s Hex—a sort of Midwestern voodoo jinx that’s designed to make you hesitate for just a moment, just long enough so she can get at the “good stuff” before you can.
It was like that all Labor Day weekend—the unofficial end of summer, and yard sale season.
You have to be watchful for these rummage sale ruffians throughout the year, but on Labor Day weekend a heightened sense of desperation is evident—leaving your home is discouraged, particularly by your auto insurance agent.
If you do venture out, beware! If you find yourself driving behind someone (usually female or elderly—often both) who’s driving too fast; someone who, without notice, slams on their brakes so hard that they do a reverse wheelie as they simultaneously veer into a driveway; if it’s at this moment (as you’re trying to avoid rear ending her) that you notice the collection of troll dolls that are glued to her dash, and maybe an old dog riding shotgun, a dog that has been trained to give you that same evil-eye; you’ll know then (as you recover from the skid and feel the rush of blood that’s made your eyes bug out a little) that you’re behind one of the pro’s… a master at her craft, a genuine, bare knuckles, hard core, fight to the death for a scarcely-used Veg-O-Matic… yard saler.
Though you are now in a rage, it’s best not to confront her immediately about her unsafe driving habits. After all, you can never tell if there is really something to that voodoo thing—and she has a dog.
If you really want revenge, stop up the road at the next yard sale and buy the most expensive thing they’ve got. Don’t hold back, this is war! When she pulls in to that sale (and she will) walk past her with a big smile on your face, hold your purchase up where it’s easy for her to see and announce triumphantly, “One Dollar!”
Continuing the conversation in my head, I wondered why the foolish woman in the 1980-something Plymouth Duster was driving so erratically! Then, without warning, she veered through the shallow, grassy ditch at the edge of the road, and came to rest with the nose of her car against the split rail fence in someone’s yard.
I stopped at the side of the road and jumped out of my truck, even more questions spinning in my head. Did she break a tie-rod? Could she be in diabetic shock? Has she expired at the wheel? (And me, thinking so poorly of her just moments earlier).
No, before I closed the door of my pickup, this little old lady with a fisherman’s cap and a faded, tie-dyed tee shirt was out of her car and marching toward the neighboring home. When she heard my truck door close, she wheeled around, glaring, in a way that made me stop in my tracks, before she spun around to continue her march.
I shivered as I realized I had just been on the receiving end of the Yard-saler’s Hex—a sort of Midwestern voodoo jinx that’s designed to make you hesitate for just a moment, just long enough so she can get at the “good stuff” before you can.
It was like that all Labor Day weekend—the unofficial end of summer, and yard sale season.
You have to be watchful for these rummage sale ruffians throughout the year, but on Labor Day weekend a heightened sense of desperation is evident—leaving your home is discouraged, particularly by your auto insurance agent.
If you do venture out, beware! If you find yourself driving behind someone (usually female or elderly—often both) who’s driving too fast; someone who, without notice, slams on their brakes so hard that they do a reverse wheelie as they simultaneously veer into a driveway; if it’s at this moment (as you’re trying to avoid rear ending her) that you notice the collection of troll dolls that are glued to her dash, and maybe an old dog riding shotgun, a dog that has been trained to give you that same evil-eye; you’ll know then (as you recover from the skid and feel the rush of blood that’s made your eyes bug out a little) that you’re behind one of the pro’s… a master at her craft, a genuine, bare knuckles, hard core, fight to the death for a scarcely-used Veg-O-Matic… yard saler.
Though you are now in a rage, it’s best not to confront her immediately about her unsafe driving habits. After all, you can never tell if there is really something to that voodoo thing—and she has a dog.
If you really want revenge, stop up the road at the next yard sale and buy the most expensive thing they’ve got. Don’t hold back, this is war! When she pulls in to that sale (and she will) walk past her with a big smile on your face, hold your purchase up where it’s easy for her to see and announce triumphantly, “One Dollar!”
2 comments:
Oh My Goddess sent me here.
LOL. Reminds me of Scwhatznegger's movies Stop or my mom will shoot + movie about some christmas present he had to get for his son. Or was it Stallone's? Anyways, it was funny.
Very funny post. Your blog looks like a place where I might feel at home.
I've dropped by on Oh My Goddess' recommendation.
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