Claire is hellbent on having a garage sale.
She sorts through our things: DVDs, clothes, and toys, asking, "What about this mom? Do you want to keep this?"
I've hemmed and hawed and told her maybe in spring we can have a garage sale. The trouble is, I hate garage sales. I avert my eyes when I drive past them. I can't imagine spreading our cast-offs across tables, with price tags, and advertising for people to come paw through it all. The whole endeavor makes me squirm.
I haven't said that, because who am I to be too good for a garage sale?
Maybe it'd be an effective way to sell my manuscript... hawk copies for a few bucks each.