Today I am going to the Rummage Sale. Frank signed me up when I wasn't looking. I had been so good at avoiding Mrs. Beasley-Beasley. That's not her real name of course- it's just what she looks like. Warn, older, comfortable at first, peering over her half spectacles with her infectious smile, but if you hug her too tightly, you find the hard core center where the mechanics of the doll are hidden. While she will say all of the things you expect her to like the doll does when you pull the string, you know she has her own agenda. And last Sunday, she was planning her collection of "volunteers," circulating around the coffee room for social hour, touching an arm here, whispering into an ear there, and I squirmed away every time I saw her coming.

Frank, the poor man, is not experienced with her type. Therefore when the arachnae arrived, all he could do was stammer out the agreement that I would go. I will not leave him so defenseless next time. I underestimated her.

I know what she will have me do. I will sort things. I shall spend my entire morning sorting things. Everything that comes in must be removed from its bag and sorted onto the proper table. Ladies' things and men's things and household items and toys, and the prices will be put on the tables or the bins. In the afternoon, I will begin bagging things. Because if you arrive late to our rummage sale, you only get what is in a bag, and not to actually see the items- but it is so cheap, most people no longer care. Because they'll just bring the full bag back again next year for more sorting.

I don't even know why we bother airing them. Let's just sell full trashbags for a nickel. It's less effort and raises the same amount of funds.

But what I hate is being among so many women. The more men in one location, the more of a good time can be had. They share the experience. Slap each other on the back, insult each other as compliments, buy each other beer, and totally relax. Women cannot do that. They are simply incapable. They must talk about their families and their troubles and their diseases, and try to show which is more miserable, or more normal. And if you lack what they lack, they just cluck their tongues and tell you that you are young yet and you still have time. They cannot comprehend failure. I simply cannot bear their false sympathies.

And Frank will never understand this. He is a man. He will be happy directing traffic in the parking lot huddling around coffee for warmth with a male compatriot. They will make plans to meet for football or darts; they may even keep them. But he won't be in the basement with the knowing looks.

I wonder if I brought a bag of our kitchen garbage with me and brought it out for the bargain bag bits-- if someone bought it and complained, would I never be asked again? It is almost worth the effort. Yes, I think I will. I hope Mrs. Beasley-Beasley buys it, like she usually buys all of the leftover bags.
  ¶ 6:08 AM