I know a lot of you enjoy garage sales and estate sales.

Hell, some of you LIVE for this stuff (yeah David, I'm talking about you).

Me? Not so much. I subscribe to the Boomer Brief Theory of Garage & Estate Sales: CRAP IS CRAP.

It doesn't matter if it comes from a garage sale or an estate sale (tomato/tomato) I've never believed that one person's trash is another person's treasure.

Charlotte kind of feels the same way. I mean, she'd rather spend her time shopping at Banana Republic and White House/Black Market than say...OUR NEIGHBOR'S GARAGE.

So, that's why I was surprised when she spotted a sign for an ESTATE SALE in our old neighborhood and decided we should definitely go.

Since I'm still in the running for HUSBAND of the YEAR, I gave in and we checked it out. So apparently did everyone else within a 20-mile radius. The street was jammed with cheap bastards citizens looking for bargains. It was almost like a fall festival, except it had a lot more junk and no funnel cakes.

The estate four bedroom house was a total mess. The realtor who had the listing was running the sale and he had junk piled up to the ceiling. Old clothes were thrown on the floor. Dusty dishes sat in the sink and covered the counter tops. Appliances were ready-to-be-ripped-out of cabinetry. Electronic devices that hadn't worked in years were crusted with layers of dust and MARKED DOWN stickers.

Let's just say the avocado-green carpet hadn't seen this much traffic since Jimmy Carter was shelling peanuts on the Resolute desk.

While Charlotte looked at chipped china and cracked crystal I amused myself. Sure I could've picked up that hot, new LP by Keely Smith & Louis Prima or Jackie Gleason's immortal Music for Lovers Only, but I passed.

Since this was a COLLEYVILLE estate sale dahling, it did feature a couple of things you don't normally see on your Saturday morning dumpster dive: a Jaguar coupe and brand new motor scooter. Both were rockin' some serious markdown action, but again I passed.

Even with the Colleyville collectibles the whole thing was just too depressing. Thrown in with the dusty LPs and bad wall art, were signs somebody once called this place home.

I didn't need a pulse oxygen meter, but I could've picked one up cheap. Ditto, yearbooks filled with autographs from people either dead or long forgotten. Yeah, it was getting CREEPY.

After a while it became obvious we weren't going to find that long lost Jackson Pollock or missing Van Gogh, so we Van Goghed it out of there.

I don't know what my Estate Sale will look like, but like these folks, I probably won't be around to haggle with you.

Here's a tip if someday you find yourself going through my crap. I don't have any priceless works of art, but Charlotte will make you a hell of deal on my Cranfills Gap Horny Toad Bar and Grill T-shirt.

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