Donna Freakin' Reed: Revistited! OMG. I'm a Hoarder!

Hello, Peaches! It's Monday and well, Mondays blow. They blows so much that I didn't get to get this post out until 13 hours after I started it! (Today really didn't blow all that much. Well, not in the beginning. I had a lovely day with one of my dearest friends and made a lovely dinner that didn't get eaten because it took longer to cook the roast than I anticipated so the Urbilly had to leave for work before it was done and he was soooo wonderfully understanding of my mistake and the fact that my cat puked a bit on the carpeting...lovely evening ladies. Just fucking lovely...) But speaking of things that blow...now, now, get your mind out of the gutter, girls. Lot's of things blow. I was talking about housewifery, of course. The biggest housewifery project in my pathetic little life, in fact.

My hoarder's pile in the basement.

Oh, my. It makes me want to make an appointment with a shrink (I should probably stop watching that fucking show, but I just can't. Not yet, damn it. I can quit when I want to..)

Seriously. My basement hasn't changed a bit since we moved it here. And well, the pile really hasn't changed since I moved it from my ex's basement 5 years ago to the basement at our other house, which hasn't changed really since I moved out of that house across from that Italian restaurant where the sung gawd damn ass fucking karaoke until 4 am back in 2000, and before that the house on the hill (omg, there it was shoved in a spare room because the basement was suuuuuper icky) which hasn't really changed, but maybe gotten bigger since I moved it from that basement in that house I lived in before I ever moved to the city, which began in the closet of the house where I grew up. Seriously.

I have had difficulty letting this crap go for the longest time. I completely understand where these crazy ass people are coming from with their memories attached to crap. It's scary how much I can understand these people's insanity about the tiniest trinkets of garbage and the uncontrollable desire to look through every. single. fucking. box.

Omfg. I am a hoarder.

I just can't become that lady who tied herself to a chair to sleep at night so that she wouldn't drown in the trash.

On July 15th I have a babysitter coming to my house for the first time that I can remember where it didn't involve me having to do something outside of the house, or any other kind of responsibility. I hope to recruit a few able bodies (Jason and Greg I am so looking at you), get a few trash bags, and whilst my child is distracted and occupied by the lovely sweet babysitter...

I WILL CLEAN THAT MO FO THE FUCK OUT!!

Monday, November 22, 2010

Who wants a clean house? OR I don't want to go down to the basement, yo Romeo, there's something down there...

Last weekend the Urbilly and I spent our Sunday getting the last of the last and cleaning out the basement at the old house. Shudder. I have to confess, I am a hoarder. I have boxes upon boxes filling up the basement. And I hardly know what is in them anymore. Now instead of having boxes of unknown garbage to move, I have them filling the new basement causing me even more distress and really pissing off the Urbilly.

But I must admit, the urge to purge is near. I know I don't need this stuff, and I wish I could just throw it all out, but the compulsion to go through it all agonizing bit by agonizing bit overwhelms me and I just can't let it go without just taking a little itty bitty peek into that box there, what is that, oh, my! I've had this since I was little, this doodad here is so important and what that is there? Oh and this and would ya look at that. I'm sure you ladies get my point. It's just so hard to get rid of things for me. The memories attached or the pure laziness of my soul makes it hard as hell. And when the memories are strong, it hurts even more to let things go sometimes, even when you know you have to for the better of yourself and your mind. I went through a lot of that as we moved the crap from house to house, basement to basement. And still there is this pile of shit that weighs on my soul and my marriage. Gah. What makes one hoard? (In my case it really is sheer laziness and lack of a babysitter for an 8 hour period. 8 hours and some redbull and I'll clean that mo fo OUT! For real!) [Scary! I totally wrote the intro without re-reading this. Damn, Donna!]

One of the things that I had to let go was an antique bedroom set that was Maude's (money grandma) that she got from a hotel our family once owned. Neat stuff, really, but not very practical for an 18 year old who liked to party. The furniture just did not survive my 20s all that well, and the cats helped it along it's way as well as a fish tank incident. By the time it got to the Urbilly's basement it was in rough shape.

To convince me to let it go, the Urbilly promised me that with our taxes this coming year we could buy a grown up, brand new, not hand me down, matching bedroom set from a real furniture store It was like Niecy Nash came and possessed his body. He snapped his fingers, called me a hot mess and gifted me the new set if I promised to get rid of the old stuff. Well, that is how I imagined it so that I would be able to agree with him anyway. And he looked great in my head with an orange wrap dress on and a matching flower in his weave. [NOTE: This sadly never did happen as I was in a car accident in January and we had to use the money to replace the Jeep that I smashed. Aw. Big sad face here.]


Agree I did all with the thought in my head that we would put the dressers out in the alley and some family would come along and take them home and they would live out their lives being used to the end. That thought alone made it easier, and the fact that we would get new furniture.


As if that wasn't rough enough for my poor hoarder's soul, the next casualty of the basement move really broke my heart, for a minute at least. Right around the time the Urbilly and I got together I had bought myself a cheapo desk with matching file cabinets from cheapo Walmart.


Regardless of it's cheapo construction of pressed sawdust and glue covered in laminate, the desk and I, well, we had been through a lot together. The desk had been my biggest supporter through out college, even during all nighters, the desk was always there holding me up. I owe this desk a lot, it is where I wrote my best work, created historical theories, and got lost in the moment of study. The desk was my sanctuary. I must admit though, sanctuary should not be built from pressboard, glue and laminate. It often doesn't last all that long, such as my poor poor desk.



I may not have mentioned that the basement, this basement that I was cleaning out and finally saying almost good bye and good riddance was the basement I lived in with the Urbilly before his mother moved out, before we moved upstairs, before all the real craziness began, so there were things down there, things like my desk and my bookshelves with books, like a small couch, like clothes being stored, and shoes, and other things. Boxes and stuff and things. Things, things, and things. Well,while all of these things were down in the basement, the air conditioning unit began to malfunction and leak, which somehow we missed until it was too late. And during that time a mold began to take over and eat some things(thankfully not all things), things like leather shoes, and things like wooden tables, like things that were nearest to the leak.

So after the pain and separation anxiety from throwing my clawfoot dressers to the alley, countless molded items, and the death of my desk I had just about had it with this damn basement. Screw you basement and the destruction you caused to my things! Screw you and your ability to hold so much crap just below the surface of the earth causing me to have to walk many steps to remove said items. Screw you basement for the mold you caused on my favorite pair of high top boots and screw you for making me be a freaking ignore you stuff hoarder! Ahhhhh!

Well. There. It is not the basement's fault. I know. In fact by making me get rid of those molded items it rather helped me. In a way, I'm glad it ruined my desk. Because, well, when I am a graduate student I will need a graduates student's desk. Not a cheap Walmart imitation.

Purging is good. It is good for the soul in so many ways. So now, I need to purge what I didn't fully purge. I need to stop being lazy an go through it all. But first we really need to get a few more things out of that basement and into the alley. Speaking of alley and hilarity. I didn't mention hilarity? Well, it was kind of funny, not really.

In our fair city, scrapping metal is a great passed time of the unemployed and employed alike. People take their pick up trucks put some high side rails on them and drive through the alleys looking of any kind of metal they can take to the scrap yard and sell to get some cash. Pick up truck beds filled to the top and over the cab with lawn chairs, bicycles, refrigerators, hot water heaters, gates, and man hole covers is a common site on the side of town from where we moved and I presume through out the city.

The Urbilly being the redneck he is, had a pile of metal scraps and other material that he put in the alley to give the first scrapper he saw. When a guy came along he pointed it out, and the man feeling he hit the jack pot, danced his way from his truck to the pile of scrap and gleefully filled the back of his truck. Really. The guy was super happy. After he filled his truck, off he went. We continued hauling things from the basement and working our way out of the hell house, when, while we discussing our next move at the other side of the basement we heard someone yell, "Hello? Are you in the basement? Police Department!"

I honestly damn near peed, and very well might have, but I didn't have time to pay attention. The freaking cops were here!! I hadn't heard something like that since I was a teenager. WTF? What are the cops doing here? A million things ran through my mind and I landed on the neighbors called the cops because the thing we are burglars and have broken in to the house. In the process of the these thoughts we both began to go towards the stairs, pulling on each other and practically falling over one another we made it to the steps.

"Yes?" I hollered up the steps, "we, we, we're coming."

By this point the Urbilly and I were swatting at each other and silently cursing under our breath. As we reached the steps we could see one plain clothes officer with his badge around his neck crooking in to see inside. When he saw us, he smiled and said "We caught this guy with a bunch of stuff in his truck, a hot water heater, a few bikes and some scrap, we saw your trailer and were wondering if you had anything missing." "Oh," we both said, "oh, no. Oh my, what a relief. Maybe my pants were a bit wet, but I didn't care. I know we weren't doing anything wrong, but woo wee, that adrenaline was enough to send me in to a tizz. I'm done with this place for the day. D O N E, done!

Mold, and broken desks, and alleys, and scrappers, and cops, and rats a frats a grummble robble robble grrowl grrr, and what? What is that, fucking rain! Aw. The dressers...


Well, one nice thing about rain is that it washes things fairly clean, and I guess that is how I felt as we drove away that night, fairly clean. The worst was over. Minus a few minor things we are pretty much finished with that cursed house and can soon call the bank. One less thing, and something we can finally put behind us and move on to the next step in filing for a fresh start...paper work, piles and piles of paperwork.

And me throwing those god damned things out of this basement so I don't have to hate it like the last basement.




Trying not to get buried beneath a stack of National Geographic Magazines,

Donna Freakin' Reed

PS: For an interesting Hoarder's tale, check out the Collyer Brothers' story here and here. These guys could be considered the first documented case of hoarding.



[Seriously. Damn. It looks just like that fucking picture! STILL! I am SO glad I'm anonymous. SO glad.]




xoxo