Let me begin by saying I do not watch “Hoarders”. Reality TV makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a fork. I do everything in my power to avoid the Kardashians and their vapid stares, swamp people with dialects requiring subtitles, and anyone who cries because some jackhole with a British accent tells them they sound like a water buffalo in pain. Ugh. I should have my own reality TV show about how much I loathe reality TV.
That said, I do know the titles of several shows and am not opposed to exploiting them for my own blog.
Brian often accuses me of being a hoarder. (Not true). He complains that every inch of our walls is covered with something. (Major exaggeration). He says we need to move to a bigger house just so we can walk around without getting injured. (Nope)
Just because I have a small cardboard box with cat whiskers I’ve saved from our pets – some of which are no longer with us, God rest their souls – does NOT make me a hoarder.
Okay, so the cat whiskers are a little creepy. I’m sure none of you reading this save anything that might be considered quirky or morbid by other people.
Truth be told, I think Brian would be perfectly comfortable living in the state I found him in when we were first dating – mattress on the floor, semi-bare apartment, bathroom soap dispenser partially filled with water to extend the few sorry suds left clinging to the bottle. Let me just say I didn’t fall for him because of his swanky decor…
Brian’s big-money idea is the “bed room” – a room that is actually wall to wall bed. You enter it, and you’re in bed. I’ve explained that I already hate making the bed, and having to make a full room would really chap my hide. Plus, the logistics, man! (Who makes sheets that size?!?) But he insists that this is a winning concept. And he thinks my complaints about the “bed room” are really based on the limitations for storing my stuff. No under-the-bed storage. No armoire. No dresser. Because only hoarders store things under the bed. Or in an armoire. Or in a dresser. Obviously, I have a problem.
I have a few weaknesses, yes. I like antiques (an acquired taste from my mom’s side of the family), I’m sentimental (which makes it hard to let things go, even if their purpose is limited), and I’m drawn to the macabre (Halloween decorations take up the bulk of our attic storage space, complete with lifesize skeleton, witches cauldron and antique formaldehyde box.) When my Dad was helping me put up Christmas boxes over the holiday, the skeleton startled him. I saw the flash of “my daughter’s a serial killer” cross his face for just a moment.
In spite of these “weaknesses,” I donate a number of things to Goodwill each year, which I have to point out in great detail to Brian. He is especially concerned because my parents house is overflowing with a lot of stuff – antiques they’ve bought and refinished, a creepy doll collection (the eyes follow you, I shit you not), and various treasure my mom finds at the thrift store where she volunteers her time. Creepy dolls aside, I LOVE the stuff. Brian sees it and has mild heart palpitations. He knows that one day we’ll have to go through it and that I’ll be sentimental and want to keep it all.
When I point out that I don’t have as much stuff as my mom, he says that’s like me saying I’ve broken the law, but I’m not as bad as Ted Bundy.
I’m less concerned that Brian thinks I’m a hoarder, and more concerned that the neighbors might be beginning to get suspicious.
We missed the trashmen last week. I know, I know. “Last week was a holiday week, Jamie. You might’ve checked the city of Frisco website to find out if trash collection had shifted and to what day.” Yeah, well, hindsite… Our trash and recycling bins were ignored, and are now sitting beside the house literally OVERFLOWING with garbage. The recycling bin is shoved full of cardboard boxes from infant toys – dear God, the amount of infant toy packaging alone could comfortably furnish a shanty town, and I only have one small child.
We have four FULL garbage bags that cannot be crammed in the teetering bins and are laying in our garage, reeking and leaking used coffee grounds and egg shells. The remaining infant cardboard packaging is piled on top of the garbage bags, inclusive of a large Radio Flyer Wagon box and miscellaneous bath toy boxes. (Evidently, nine month olds go insane for the latest bath toys…)
Hidden behind the garbage bags and the boxes are three full paper sacks of Goodwill donations. I would’ve donated these items at the end of 2012 for the tax break, but I kept envisioning myself drowning is a sea of old spaghetti and coagulated chicken and dumplings to reach them – no tax break is worth that.
I was debating not scooping the litter boxes until we got this trash mess straightened out – I have no where to put the poop! – but the clumping litter had turned into one giant, impenetrable clump and the cats were beginning to eye my side of the bed suspiciously. The bag covertly made it into a neighbor’s bin under cover of darkness. Don’t judge.
Dear God, please let the trashmen come tomorrow.