kid gloves

It is a fact that I tend toward melancholy.  This is not to be confused with having a sentimental streak.  THAT I do not.  At our recent yard sale—which nearly killed me and several of the shoppers—I all but threw merchandize (including vintage linen and quilts, 60-year old, pristine kid gloves, silver plate whiskey sour muddlers and a set of library steps) at the milling crowd.  “Take it,” I screamed, “Just get it out of here!”  When a particularly creepy man asked us if there was more to see inside the house I almost told him “Yes, just go in there and strip the joint!”