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How to go viral on Facebook Marketplace and a Murder at Loehmann's

“Eight sage green velvet curtain panels in excellent condition for $60!”

No response.

“Brand-new (non-returnable) umbrella base best suited under a table than with a stand-alone umbrella for $30!”

Two people wanted to buy it then ghosted me. One even made an appointment time and didn’t show.

Free reusable moving boxes, packing paper and moving blankets!

I went viral. I couldn’t keep up with the demand. I gave out our address to those who DM’d me, told them to pull up the driveway and everything would be on the covered side porch.

At first, I was thrilled to be gifting these boxes, especially because our gardener wanted to charge me $275 to take them away.

But then I pictured a murder.

Sweaty people in the throws of packing, downsizing, trying to keep cool in this heat wave, fighting over free boxes.

U-Haul boxes are pricey but worth it. They make Amazon boxes look like 1-ply toilet paper. We had purchased all the ingredients for our cross-country move last year. Half of our stuff lived in a POD (don’t get me started on our POD experience-- zero stars for that company) and the other half was unpacked and used in our rental. We saved the empty boxes in the garage, knowing, hoping we would buy a place when our lease expired, and we’d reuse the boxes for our final (please Lord) move.

When our daughter and son-in-law moved, we lent them the boxes on the condition they would be returned after they unpacked. We would need them again. Like I said, boxes are precious, an heirloom for any army family. The saved moving blankets, packing paper and boxes invaded half our garage. The tape dispenser collection lives in its own Container Store plastic receptacle.

But would there be a murder?

I remembered the old days at Loehmann’s. If you’ve never been, you missed out on an intense fashion-purchasing experience. It was the forerunner of TJ Maxx but grittier, women only, messy wracks, fancier labels and willing husband’s clutching their wives’ purses, desperately searching for a chair in which to “plotz” while their wifey shopped. “The Back Room” was a treasure trove of designer clothes for 70% off. The precious Chanel label was cut out but savvy women knew the latest blazer because it was recently in Vogue magazine. My mom occasionally took me and my two sisters shopping there as part of our VCTC (Valley Couture Training Camp).

The dressing room was an open space that could fit a small wedding reception, with a wraparound bench, floor to ceiling mirrors and a linoleum floor always needed vacuuming. Your own try-on space was designated by a mounted hook. No privacy meant women eyed each other in awe, relief but mostly conniving envy. “Why didn’t I find that Sonia Rykiel sweater first?”

In high school when I went with a friend, I not only had my eye on the curtained entrance to the dressing room because of my 17-year-old-modesty-affliction, but I pictured these women becoming physical. Snagging that Missoni sweater from each other but snagging the thread too, both women appalled by the ruined sweater, callously dropping it on the floor and slithering over to the next rack, pretending nothing happened. That Missoni sweater would later be marked down further.

In the dressing room one would steal a Halston gown from another woman’s hook while she was struggling to tie the Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress.

Later, a body of a woman would be found in the parking lot, murdered, her shopping bags mutilated. The only thing left would be her mood ring given to her by her 10-year-old daughter. The police would have to remove her oversized sunglasses so her plastic surgeon husband could ID her. (Okay, now I’m thinking this could be a book or at least a short story. But I digress.)

Back to moving-- desperate people in between homes, their car’s a/c keeping them cool, needing to save money on corrugated cardboard that would be used once like a wedding dress. I said to hubby Jeffrey, “What if people fight over the boxes? What if there’s a murder on our wrap-around porch?” I was concerned.

Our daughter and son in law are Facebook Marketplace experts. They told me to let all inquirers know, “First come, first serve.” I immediately posted, copied and pasted, pasted, pasted…

The strangers started to appear. Some were annoyed that the boxes weren’t cut down, they couldn’t fit all of them in their hatchbacks, even though my description said, “…ASSEMBLED boxes!” One gal brought a box cutter—smart—not only because she could fit more in her sedan, but she had a weapon.

Soon, I was texting people that there was mostly packing paper left. One woman was thrilled and drove 40 miles to collect the large garbage bags filled with packing paper.

They all asked for tape.

This would be our last move (barring a holocaust) yet I could not give away our tape dispenser collection. They’re a remnant of the 13 moves we’ve experienced in 30 years (with Jeffrey in the game industry I was like an army wife in terms of re-location). Adhesive dispensers are a tangible item that can’t be recycled. They’re taped to memories of the states we lived in, crazy neighbors who wouldn’t speak to us because we cut down a tree that wasn’t indigenous to the area and dangerous to our kids, nice neighbors who brought us baked goods when we arrived, a rental that was rat infested but hey, it had a pool that the kids loved, the fancy apartment we stayed in during a cold San Francisco summer and the wealthy owner’s oversized Andy Warhol painting of Mao that loomed over us in the family room. Good times.

And then there’s the what if? What if our kids need to move again in the next few years? We may not have boxes or blankets, but we can say, “Here is something that will help you during this difficult time… a tape dispenser.” Who knew such an item could be a comfort?

The precious tape dispenser.

I was relieved no one was hurt in the dispersing of free boxes. Most of the folks were kind. One was a clothing organizer; she helps people slim down their wardrobes. She offered her services to me. Maybe she’ll convince me to get rid of some of my sweatpants.

We need dining room chairs so I peek now and then at Facebook Marketplace. When I see another person posting “Free Boxes,” I know they are about to be swarmed like the Beatles. I click on their picture of boxes, maybe they were ours being recycled yet again. I look for my messy, frantic handwriting, “Here lies enough blankets to saddle a herd of wild horses.”

Our last unopened boxes are wardrobe boxes—the most expensive of all boxes in the box kingdom. They’re the California Closets to an old, Ikea dresser. When we empty those, I should advertise my Substack along with my post of “Free Wardrobe Boxes!”

Thanks for reading! Let’s chat!

1. Have you had to deal with moving boxes in the last 5 years?

2. Ever been to a Loehmann’s?

3. Would you read a short mystery/comedy, Murder At Loehmann’s or Murder on My Wrap-Around Porch?