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As thankful as I am for that, I don't intend to stage a repeat performance and I'm taking all necessary measures: no price tags, no sex, no post-rummage sale celebratory beer and barbeque, followed by sex. I'm not letting anyone else put their crap in with my crap, just in case the fertility fairies stowed away into my house with the crap my friends were selling. I won't be watching Confessions of a Dangerous Mind with B. and stopping halfway through to have sex. Just to be extra-safe, I'm not going to watch anything in the following weeks that features Chuck Barris. That means no Newlywed Game, no Dating Game, and if anyone comes to my sale humming Barris' 1962 hit, Palisades Park, they can surely expect a strong and swift knee to the groin from me, the woman who will not be getting knocked up on rummage sale weekend again.

The last rummage sale was more like a one-house flea market. B. and I had our own collective crap, since we both came into this marriage with our own stuff, and have since gathered our own stuff, making for a grand total of three housesholds worth of stuff for two people. And then we had the crap of his brother. I haven't talked much about M. If you can't say something nice ... M. has lived in various parts of Europe since Oct., 1999, shortly after B. and I bought our house and got married. M. figured that, since we had just purchased a house with a huge basement, we wouldn't mind storing his shit indefinitely.

And when I say shit, I mean shit. Trash. Garbage. Moved into my new home in plastic shopping bags. Shit that included a jar of mayo a year past its expiration date, which was quite young and fresh compared to the bread yeast three years past its expiration date.

"You should be grateful I'm giving you all of my stuff," he said when I suggested that perhaps it would have been easier if he'd, you know, cleaned at some point in the decade prior to his European move.

We had - I am not exaggerating - an entire room in our basement filled with M.'s junk. Books, CDs that only deaf people might appreciate, every note he'd ever taken in every class from kindergarten until he completed his PhD. Not to mention another household worth of stuff. For four years, this crap lurked in my basement. Every now and then B.'s parents would visit, lugging some of it back to Michigan one carload at a time, but it barely felt like it made a dent in the mountain. It wasn't until the '03 rummage sale that M. finally gave us the OK to part with some of his crap.

We also invited several of our friends to include their crap. And did they ever have a lot of crap.

Our driveway bumps up to the walk-out basement door. By the time it was all said and done we had the driveway completely full, along with three rooms of the basement. Three rooms. For two long days, every human being in the St. Louis metro area pilfered through the lower level of my house and asked when we were moving.

This time, I'm not letting anyone in. The sale is one day and it's limited to the driveway. Since we got rid of the worst of the junk two years ago, this time it's mainly going to be clothes, baby stuff, two years worth of books and some of the CDs I've moved to my hard drive. Pretty basic stuff. I'm getting a head start, too. This afternoon I went through the books and CDs and listed them all on Amazon. Quite a bit of the stuff I'm selling is pretty new and in good shape, so it seems a shame to part with it for a quarter when I can make a few bucks.

I listed around 40 items, and within the first four hours I had made nearly $50 for my effort. Not bad for 11 items that were just collecting dust.

Problem is, I have a hard time letting go of my rummage sale mentality. Because with rummage sales, it's not just about getting rid of the crap and making a few bucks. The real fun is in the people-watching and visiting. Because we all know I love to talk to strangers, even the crazy old bat who came to the last sale and spent an hour telling me the details of her cat's death.

Tonight, while packaging my Amazon sales, I kept fighting the urge to communicate with the buyers. Like the one from Boliver, Missouri. That's near where my kin come from! I wonder if they know anyone down in Humansville? Maybe they know my dad's nephew who used to coach basketball at the high school. Or the woman from Menominee, MI, which is an hour away from B.'s hometown. He had to ask what the buyer's last name was. You know, just in case it's someone he knows.

Nevermind the urge to write little notes, telling the buyer how much I enjoyed the particular book or CD, or how the recipe on page 54 sucks balls. Or how "Where Are My Panties" from that Outkast CD seems to be my personal theme song, and maybe now that you own the CD, maybe it'll be your personal theme song, too. We'll be panty twins forever!

Rummage sales just make me feel all friendly and sociable. Sharing my bounty with my fellow humans. Recycling. Joining hands with my neighbors and building a community. Discovering the ties that bind and building bonds with them. Losing my panties and getting busy in a house that no longer has my brother-in-law's model airplanes in it.

Hm. I guess I should vow right now to not be so friendly this time around.