Facebook Marketplace: Where Common Sense Goes to Die

So I recently moved halfway across the country. That sounds dramatic, but really it just means I left behind a BBQ grill, a couple of decent couches, two too-many end tables, a graveyard of gardening tools, and basically all the things that made my garage feel like a garage and not an echo chamber.

I figured, no big deal. I’ll just replace the essentials here through Facebook Marketplace. Because buying brand new is great if you hate money and enjoy standing in line behind a guy returning an unopened toaster with a suspicious amount of dog hair on it.

Enter: Marketplace. That digital flea market filled with people who somehow own smartphones but still haven’t learned how to use them.

Let’s talk size, because apparently nobody on there wants to. I’m trying to buy things like rugs, shelves, end tables. Things where dimensions sort of matter. But instead of useful information like “28x15x9 inches” or “about 2 feet wide,” I get “it’s a green table.”
Cool. But in the photo, it looks blue. Like, Smurf blue. And green is not a size, Brenda. Neither is “No holds.” I don’t even know what that means in this context. You’re not selling concert tickets, you’re offloading a wobbly side table with two water rings and a drawer that screams when you open it.

And then we get to the photos. Oh, the photos.
Blurry. Dimly lit. Cropped like it’s 2007 and they’re worried about running out of film. We all have smartphones now. Most of us have ten. We take five pictures of our lunch and at least three of the sky when it looks a little weird. But you’ve got one photo of a “vintage bathroom faucet” and it’s so out of focus it looks like a ghost of plumbing past.

Here’s a tip: If you expect me to drive ten miles across town, possibly into a neighborhood where my GPS just throws its hands up and gives me a shrug emoji, I’d like to see more than one blurry glamour shot of the item in question. Preferably from this decade.

Now, let’s talk payment.
Listen, Boomers. I love you. You raised us, taught us how to fix things with duct tape and the power of mild yelling. But for the love of all that is contactless, please stop making me go to an ATM.
You’ve got a phone. You’ve got a bank account. Let’s make them be friends. Venmo. Cash App. Zelle. Pick one. Because I’m not breaking a twenty every time I want to buy a rusty hoe. (That’s a garden tool. Calm down.)

And Facebook itself is no angel here.
Why, why, when I search for a patio chair, do I get 12 results in Missouri, a few “sponsored” ads for a Temu hammock made out of paper towels, and a bunch of suggested listings that ship from Mars? Every. Single. Time. I have to reset the filters just to see things in a five-mile radius. Like I didn’t just tell you what I want.

Also, can we just retire the “Is this available?” followed by dead silence move? Is that a game? Are we ghost-hunting now? Or how about the people who did sell the thing but left the listing up because… I don’t know, they’re nostalgic? Want to see how many people they can disappoint in a week? You monsters.

Look, Marketplace is never going to be perfect. It’s barely functional. But it could be less terrible. Just a little more measuring, a few more photos, and maybe a willingness to join the 21st-century financial system.

It’s not asking for much.
Just tell me how long your rug is and whether or not it smells like regret.

Let’s make Marketplace not suck so hard again.
Or at the very least, let’s make it suck predictably.