Friday, August 27, 2010

Some People Call Me Maurice

There's this house I love.

I drive past it every single day, and wonder what the interior looks like.

It's mid-seventies-tastic, has a HUGE yard, circular drive, and mature trees. It is set back, so only an edge is visible behind the overgrown hedge. My imagination can barely contain itself.

Tonight when I drove past, there was a sign out front that read, "Estate Sale."

So I dropped my children off with their grandma, and drove back with the intention of walking through, but then I chickened out. I was in all my just-finally-showered-at-5:00-p.m. glory: hair pulled back, no makeup, orange shirt, cut-offs and pink flip flops. There was no way I was going to have the guts to walk through a glamorous old house looking like I did. I needed to feel the part (sophisticated adult female - able to appreciate relics from decades long past).

So I went home and stood in my closet wondering what exactly one wears to an estate sale?

I settled on dark jeans, high heels, up 'do with flower, small cardigan and sparkly dangle earrings.

The house was better than my imagination. It even SMELLED like the 70's. It had me at "center medallion front door," but I didn't have the nerve to ask if the front door was for sale. Then I made a show of looking through all the junk while actually looking at the architecture, the layout, and the view from every window. I may have even sneaked into rooms marked "private."

But I totally bought three random things to make up for it: a pencil sharpener from the 60's, some disco funk gold cuff links, and an old ratty picture frame.

All for only $5.

I suppose I could have driven the prices down, but I was feeling a little guilty mixed with a dash of wonder and awe at having been allowed to make one of my dreams come true (seeing the inside of someone else's house without calling a realtor).

Not to mention that I could never haggle. It's just not in me.

Shamelessly snooping? In me.

Asking a question as simple as, "Would you consider $1 instead of $2?" Not in me.

Doesn't make sense.
And neither does this post.

* No one has ever called me Maurice. Just so we're clear. And I promise this is the last of my many references to that song. I just couldn't help myself. Please find it within your heart to forgive me.


The United Statements of Merica said...

an estate sale is often ensued by a house sale..
I too am a house-a-holic. I have to make a conscious effort not to obsess and go crazy over the fact that I can't bring all of my home make-over projects to life. I can't help it.. and I LOVE finding homes that i can dream about. There are two houses i drive by every time I go to utah. And an interior design/furniture store that i always visit.. and can never afford.
I hate the scrounge mom irony.. if i'm running errands, i don't have time to look good.. but if i'm home all day, i can put on some make-up.
I can tell that you and your husband are handy and i found this blog that i think you would like. i am dying to try my hand at some power tools.

Sharlee said...

It TOTALLY makes sense, what are you talking about?! I have homes like that, that I would die to be able to look into. If I had the chance to, I don't think I would ever think to change my clothes into something presentable though.
Is Ty going to wear the cuff links?

Stephanie said...

I've never attended an estate sale. Heck, I've never even considered it. You've changed my mind.

Amber said...

I am the reason TLC wrote that song Scrubs. I never would have thought in a million years to change my clothes. I exist in yoga pants only these days (years). Although I love houses as well, I would never have thought to stop in & see one. But you wouldn't want to go to an estate sale with me because I am a haggler. I do get the best deals on cars because of it. I walk in, tell them what I think they should charge me and walk out it they say no. They always call back!

Michelle said...

Maurice, you should have called. I would have loved to go to an estate sell with you.

Michelle said...

Or sale. . .