Parri was recently chosen as a BlogHer VOTY 2104 award winner and will be speaking at the BlogHer conference this year. I wish more than anything I could be there to hear her, because I just know she's going to have everyone in stitches (and probably peeing their pants).
Please welcome this hilariously funny lady to Meno Mama's site today with lots of comment love!
The Man Who Knows His Way to My Heart
By Parri Sontag (Her Royal Thighness)
Last weekend my husband came into the bedroom at 8:30 a.m. to nudge me awake. He looked at me with his bedroom brown eyes in a way that told me he was feeling frisky. Reaching for me with that secret smile on his face, he knew exactly how to get me going on a Sunday morning.
“Parri,” he whispered. “There’s an estate sale on Craigslist.”
“An estate sale?” I sprung to life. “Where?” Suddenly I was as alert as if I’d had three venti espressos.
“Palmetto and Gomez.”
“Come on. Someone’s getting our deals!”
I hopped in the shower, scrubbed up and was out in two minutes flat. With no time to waste, I stuck my hair in a headband, grabbed a diet Dr. Pepper and raced out the door, ready for the thrill of the find.
We hadn’t been bargain hunting in a long time. When we lived in Michigan, we had a 2300-square-foot home with a full finished basement and a two-car garage. In Tampa we’ve downsized to a 1400-square-foot bungalow, with no basement, no garage and very little storage space.
My husband always complains that our shoebox-sized closets are booby-trapped – that he needs a hard hat to open the doors. The last thing on earth he wants is for me to bring more junk into the house. But this sale was his suggestion. So who was I to argue?
(I’d like to personally thank the A&E network, because on the day before, there was nothing on TV by Storage Wars, where people bid on abandoned storage units to see what valuables they find inside. The stars were aligned, and my husband caught the bug to hunt for treasure. Had it been a marathon of Hoarders, Sunday would have been a day when he made me pare down my totebag collection, while lecturing me that I’m one step away from saving my toenails in a coffee can.)
Anyway, once upon a time, Jim and I used to hit garage sales all the time, hunting for items that we’d turn around and list on ebay for a good-sized profit. There was the Davy Jones: My Life as a Monkee paperback that we bought for 10 cents and sold for fifty bucks and the Elvis Presley button that we bought for 50 cents and sold for $75. That was almost 20 years ago – back in the ebay heyday, before the site went public and became popular.
Today people check ebay before pricing things at their garage sales, so it’s gotten exceedingly hard to turn a profit. There’s so much competition, items don’t always bring the high prices they used to back in the days when there were lucrative bidding wars on a single Beatles bobblehead or BeeGees lunchbox.
Still, in the wake of closing our business last summer, any extra cash is a good thing, so we headed to the estate sale, with high hopes. We waited an hour for the door to open, figuring the family was running late, but a neighbor finally told us the sale had been the day before. Just my luck, after a seven-year moratorium on buying other people’s junk, my husband was finally in the mood for a bargain, and there was a misprint in the ad. Dejected and hope shattered, I got back in the car.
Knowing how disappointed I was, Jim swung by The Salvation Army on the way home. And as luck would have it, they were having a blowout sale. All furniture and electronics were 50 percent off, and the doors had just opened. I raced around and found an antique armoir for a song. There was a sold tag on it. Darn! Someone beat me to it.
In a frenzy, I went from armoirs to vanities to bookcases. Sold. Sold. Sold. My God, these people were fast. All that was left were some ugly pink velveteen couches from the eighties. I resigned myself to leaving empty-handed, when an employee told me there were a few more pieces outside in the lot. We headed out back, and I swear I heard an angel's choir sing as my eyes gazed on an Adirondack-style rocking chair just looking for a little TLC. It was bargain priced at $20 and screaming my name.
“I’ve always wanted a rocking chair,” I exclaimed, running to sit in it, before any other sale vultures tried to stake a claim.
“We don’t have a place for it,” my husband said.
“We’ll make a place. This chair is so comfortable. It’s like those $200 ones on the porch at Cracker Barrel. Oh my God, it fits my lower lumbar perfectly. I have to have this chair.”
“We already have a porch swing. We’re going to look like those houses with too much going on. Next thing I know, you’ll want a lawn flamingo … and gnomes.”
My husband quickly realized he was fighting a losing battle. I was already envisioning myself reading and rocking, while swilling back some lemonade in a scene right out of a Country Time commercial. And before I knew it, he discovered his butt fit perfectly in the chair, too, and we were squeezing that baby into the front seat and driving it home.
Jim spent the day sanding our new chair and repainting it a high gloss white to match our house trim. It looks brand spankin’ new!
So while I never did make it to an estate sale, I still walked away a winner …
Proving once again that my husband always knows how to rock my world!
Parri Sontag is a middle-aged, weight-challenged semi-professional dieter with a passion for musical theater and a disposition for spontaneously bursting into song. An award-winning journalist and marketing/communications professional, Parri’s hilarious new blog, Her Royal Thighness: Torn Between a Little Waist and a Little Debbie(www.RoyalThighness.com) consistently delivers side-splitting laughs as she weaves poignant messages into relatable and universal real-life experiences. Recently named a BlogHer Voice of the Year in the humor category, Parri is a recovering dodgeball target and Farmville addict, who has been mugged of her Halloween candy, ridiculed for hoarding totebags and accused of picking a fight with Santa.