I See Dead People's Stuff, And It Makes My Depression Disappear

I'm just gonna tell you the truth.  In 2012, I was diagnosed with depression (a hormonal result of a thyroid tumor, which eventually became cancerous), and as you can imagine, the whole experience  was, well, depressing. I stayed in bed all day with my cats, rarely showered, and looked like the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock. 

Me on my better days.

In a supportive gesture, my husband, Christian (aka Mr. Big Moose), literally pushed me out the door, stammering in his best Yoda imitation, "Do something, you must!" So, we drove. And we drove. Until we passed a sign reading "Estate Sale," and Chris insisted we turn back. 

“I don’t want to do this,” I whined, eyeballing the 30ish or so hoarders queuing outside the house's door . “These people look crazy. Like, they might shank me for my sneakers.”

“Stop being so judgmental,” Chris snapped. “I bet they’ve showered more than once this past week.”

He had a point, so I shut up and shuffled into the queue. Then our turn came. I entered the house, expecting only half-used jugs of dollar store laundry detergent and unwashed rugs displaying artistic spatterings of cat pee. I paused for a second at the door, reluctant to enter what I imagined had to have been an old dude's crack den, and Chris firmly shoved me over the threshold.

Cheesus. On. A. Cracker. That was the best decision that man has ever made in his life (other than giving up his Harry Potter wand, because a grown man pointing a child’s toy at dirty dishes and yelling ‘Optimus Prime,’ even though that’s NOT a spell, is just the most ridiculous thing in the world.)

It was a freaking amusement park all up in that place. Star Wars memorabilia dangled from the ceiling. Plastic mannequin heads lined an entire table, each of them donned with some elaborate mid-century hat. The kitchen contained an entire collection of mugs painted with those ugly little corgi dogs. And the garage? Hand to God, it had more than 800 pounds of costume jewelry. Watches, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings snarled into heaps of tangled nests on table after table of glittering junk. Overweight women in tacky stretch pants sprawled on the floor, elbowing each other in an effort to claim the tubs of unsorted jewelry tucked beneath the tables.

Room after room presented erratic yet enticing oddities, and before I knew it, I was on the ground with the rest of the loonies, pawing through this stuff like a puppy on crack. Before long, I could barely see where I was going because of the stack of stuff I was holding in front of me. My loot included pig-shaped plates, a brass unicorn, Confederate War Bonds, a Pound Puppies puzzle, and a penis cozy.

See, right here. This is my "aha" moment. I was in a dead person’s house, hoarding their stuff, and I picked myself up a penis, albeit one made out of wool.

Get used to this picture. You're going to be seeing it often, because this truly is my favorite vintage find. 

Chris looked at my pile of treasure and queried: “Where the hell do you think you’re going with all that?” (He just pretended he didn't see the blue-balled-WWII-era-penis.) 

“To the checkout,” I said. “I’m flush with cash here, babe. Dolla’ dolla’ bill, yo!”

“No,” Chris clarified. “You just have my credit card. And this is not what we use it for.”

Maybe it was because he knew that my depression had been more crippling than either of us could have imagined, or maybe it was because in that moment he remembered that he actually loved my quirks, or maybe it was because he just really appreciated me finally bathing, but for whatever reason, my husband gave me a look of total endearment and affection and said, “Fine. Buy it. But it’s YOUR responsibility to figure out what we’re going to do with all of this, you crazy hoarder."

We got home, and I immediately signed up for Etsy. I haven't looked back since.

Dear readers, I will not lie to you. Some of the stuff I've found is complete crap. Oh, and scary. I've found stuff that's downright frightening. Or dirty. Or just WAY too personal. Behold:

Good Lord, Almighty!

WHY?!?

I don't even want to know...

This one literally made me jump when I turned the corner and saw it. *Shivers*

But I've found some classy stuff, too!

Mid-Century Brass Ibex/Gazelle Bookends

SUPER Collectible Vintage Vera Neumann Napkins

       Incredibly Rare Dorothy Kindell Lady Head Vase

Stellar Gold-Lined Mid-Century Glassware

The thrill of not knowing whether you're going to find a several-hundred-dollar-head-vase or the world's scariest doll's head is part of the medicinal aspects of estate sales. Because, in case you're wondering, my depression has abated, and I'm feeling pretty stellar now. 

And -- for realz -- I swear that it was that moment, when I opened my shop and made my first sale, that things started to look up. This is not a line, folks. It's the truth.