Hoarding

I love to buy new shit. I love to go shopping. I love new shoes, new clothes, new purses, new makeup, new seasonal mats for my doorstep, new crafts..... You get the gist. But along with the joy of purchasing new items comes the assumed task of ridding oneself of some older wares in the house. Certain folks have an easy time managing both responsibilities. Other people cannot balance both jobs and thus a resulting problem ensues: HOARDING.

I used to be a hoarder. I love to shop, as I said, but I used to just see the stuff accumulating and not really know what to do with the old stuff. So the piles just got bigger, my crap got out of control, and suddenly I had mountains of shoes and laundry and cat toys and panties and....Jesus, I can't even go on because it makes me break out in hives. I am better. I did not need a 12-step program. I simply went through moving from my house I lived in for 9 years into a new one. Having to pack all your bullshit into boxes and take it to a new, nicer, bigger place really makes you prioritize. I asked myself, "Do I really need this box of mix tapes from 1987?" Between a giant dumpster to toss crap (yes, we really did rent one..) and about 15 trips to Goodwill, our move was manageable. How did I get so much SHIT???

I happen to be married to a hoarder. I use this term with affection because we are certainly not living in the squalor of those poor people on the TLC show who actually cannot throw out old food containers and need to pee in their sinks because their toilet is covered with garage sale finds. But I will say that my husband loves to buy new stuff but also hates to get rid of anything old. "But I LIKE that shirt! It's a perfectly good pair of pants. Those shoes can be worn when I wash my car. That hard drive can be used for something." To this I say FUCK THAT SHIT. Just because a shirt has two armholes and a neck does not mean it should be seen in public. Sometimes food stains, pit stains, good ol' fashion sense, evolving technology, even damn common sense should outweigh the urge to hold on to old things. Throw it the hell out already.

I did some closet sorting this evening. I will clearly label all the items I have neatly folded and there will be rules. If the rules are not followed I will not be happy. If I am not happy... let's not go there. There is a pile of solid colored t-shirts. There are some t-shirts I will call "fashionable" meaning they would be acceptable to be worn out in public. There are long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirts, athletic clothing, and pajamas. There is a pile of at least 60 polo shirts. (By the way if anyone has the urge to buy him a polo shirt for his birthday or Father's Day, please stop yourself. I beg you.) And then there's the pile I shall refer to as "Not Allowed in Public" shirts. This includes various Star Wars t-shirts, Xbox t-shirts, Borat photos, old sports t-shirts, and shirts that say things like "Warning: Giant Penis". Not sure what inspired the purchase of that shirt because there is literally nowhere I would fucking allow that shit to be seen. It's funny, it's clever, it's something you take a pic of with your phone, send to your wife, then put it right back on the shelf. But I cannot get rid of the Giant Penis t-shirt because they certainly will not sell that at Goodwill. There is no Spencer's Gifts resale shop that I am aware of. And though my dear hubby would probably be unaware of me getting rid of many of his old things because the quantity of new stuff is so vast, an MIA report on the shirt referring to this massive dick would most certainly be issued. I have to run. I am going to put on my "Warning: Giant Bitch if You Think You'll Ever Get Some Wearing THAT" poncho.
P.S. Love you, honey.....

Deucing It Up

Why is taking a crap made to feel like such an awkward social gesture??? I mean, we ALL have to drop the kids at the pool every day, if we're lucky. It is an element of God-given body waste removal that is a necessity to live. It is not pleasant, it does not smell like a bouquet of roses, plain and simple--shit happens. So why is it always such a public taboo?!! And why can't people recognize your imminent need for privacy when aforementioned launch needs to happen?....

I experienced a terribly uncomfortable moment the other day involving a poo-mergency. Though my preferred place to take care of business like this is at my own home, I happened to be en route to the gym and knew once I swiped my membership card at the door, I needed to high tail it to the john. Upon exiting my car, I encountered my instructor for the class I was taking in 45 minutes also heading in. I tried to slow my pace as to avoid her but she spotted me. Damn. She is very friendly and chatty to the degree of a Capuchin monkey on crystal meth. I knew my shit-tastic adventure would have to be put on hold for a bit. I don't know if she noticed the beads of sweat glistening on my upper lip and the gurgling of my spastic colon but it was not enough to deter her from her banter. We walked side by side towards the lockers, her with a skip in her step from eating her breakfast of flax and crack-flavored corn flakes, and me with clenched butt cheeks and a skitterish shuffle. FINALLY she veered off towards the employee entrance and I to the women's locker room. As I tossed my junk into the locker, lo and behold, there she fucking was AGAIN!!! I was in such awe that I was barely speaking and she took this cue to go into the bathroom to assumably pee. She came out, resumed her conversation with me. Sigh. I wandered as fake-leisurely as I could over to check out stall availability. Jackpot! All clear. I ceased conversation and proceeded to violate the hell out of that poor stall. I needed a Hazmat suit and about 6 Yankee candles. I flushed, was ready to abandon scene, opened my stall door, and who was waiting outside my stall, CRACK PIPE CARDIO TEACHER!!!! Of ALL the stalls she had to go into, why in God's name did she insist on following my pipe-laying gig?? And didn't she just pee like 10 seconds ago? I ran like a bat out of hell and headed upstairs. There was no possible way to avoid what happened, of course she knew it was me who made her gag reflexes kick in. I'm surprised she did not approach me privately and ask if I was sick...

I stood in line with my other fitness buff friends waiting for the studio to open. The instructor normally takes this time to chat with everyone in line, ask them how their week has been going, see if they have any questions about the class. Her Close Encounter of the Turd Kind with me had rendered me a social pariah. No eye contact was made, no acknowledgement I was attending her class, I might as well have been a cardboard Jared sign at Subway--she was not going to go there. Throughout the entire class when she is a Mexican jumping bean (who can lift a shit pot of weight, might I add) she did not ONCE glance my way. Should I have been ashamed of my bathroom needs? Should I have been annoyed that out of 4 other open stalls she chose the one clearly recently annihilated by someone?? Doesn't she ever have to take a crap?? I have since seen this instructor, eye contact has resumed, chattiness back to normal. But I know that forever etched in her mind and most likely her sinuses will be the haunting memory of my Dysentery Shit that fatal morning.

There is a handful of other gym poppers I recognize by their sneakers. I know them every single day by the way their feet are sprawled out sideways, pants fully dropped to the floor in pools around their ankles, that recognizable spinning on the toilet paper roll as it cascades ripples and ribbons of sheets to wad and wipe with. I typically make it as mission now to ONLY pee so I sense the awkward silence as they sit in the stall next to me, waiting for me to flush to cover the ricochet of their after splash. It is not the optimum place to have to do this. We would all much rather be at home, with nobody else there, no phone ringing, no dog whining to go out, just you, the toilet, plenty of TP, and perhaps a good cool cloth to douse your brow as your exertion plays out. Even an assortment of magazines make as pleasant of an experience as humanly possible . No matter how you try to disguise it and make it incognito, you are taking a shit at the gym.

Scooter Squirrel

I would generally consider myself an animal lover. I feel sad when I see animals that have been run over by cars and become roadkill (well really just cats and deer because possums are plain slow and stupid and skunks stink up everything within a 3 mile radius). I think fur coats are not only super fugly (that's fucking+ugly) but unnecessarily cruel to own/wear. Even though my cat of 17 years yell meows at me, has pissed in my house too many times to count, and vomits hairballs, I let him cuddle and shed fur all over my black clothes. I was even a vegetarian for over 10 years. Yeah, I'd say I like animals.

I do not, however, feel an ounce of affection towards the fat bastard squirrel(s) who make my festive fall pumpkin decor their annual snack buffet. The first year we moved into our house the pumpkin massacre was quite brutal. Orange stringy shrapnel was strewn all over my front steps like a post-Halloween apocalypse. I truly thought the culprit was a large animal, perhaps a raccoon or even a fox. Judging by the size of the bite marks, these were clearly the chompers of a big, hungry son of a bitch. Until I saw him. The teeth were big alright. They had to be to keep up with the the caloric intake necessary to maintain the ass girth of this fluffy-tailed mother fucker. He literally looked at me as my jaw dropped and eyes bugged out of my head and then proceeded to go back to snarfing my pumpkin. If I'm not mistaken he may have flashed me a tiny squirrel middle finger. What a dick.

I moved my pumpkins from my front steps up onto my decorative front porch chairs thinking a couple of feet would deter Fatty McNutsack from gorging himself. Much to my dismay when I glanced out my front door the following day he had not only manage to hoist his fat hairy ass up there but now I had created seating arrangement for him to enjoy his feast. Perhaps he rode a miniature electric stair lift slowly up to claim his treasure. If he was a squirrel at Disneyworld he would definitely be riding a scooter to haul his butt around. Not sure how many Weight Watchers points there are in a medium pumpkin but I think Scooter Squirrel was over his quota.

The following year I decided to ban the use of pumpkins in my fall display. It was hard, I mean what do you see as the quintessential autumnal harvest vegetable but a damn PUMPKIN?? I tried the fake ones. They look ghetto and blow away with a strong wind. I settled with a boring assortment of mums and just resigned myself to the fact that my house was too darn close to the woods to take the risk of purchasing any. I think this mediocre fall holiday representation of my crafting and decorating skills led me to WAY overcompensate and go bat-shit crazy decorating for Christmas. But I will discuss my growing collection of Nutrackers and garland obsession in another post....

This year I felt like Jeff Probst. I was going to outplay, outwit, outlast those sons of bitches. I was going to find a way to decorate with a fall display that was worthy of my Martha Stewart-ness. I was going back to my old school, REAL pumpkin roots. I started small, I built a small pumpkin topiary using the flat, Cinderella pumpkins. I glazed them with Mod Podge and sparkled them with glitter. Stacked on top of a flower pot with a bow on top. I felt pretty bad ass. Then I went to a pumpkin farm with my kids where there were MOUNTAINS of pumpkins in every size, shape, color. It was a pumpkin orgy. Green ones, white ones, oval ones, flat ones, tall ones, even freaky ones with long-ass necks that looked like geese. I thought my head was going to explode. I filled my wheelbarrow with as much as I could carry and $62 later I was headed home. Someone told me the Cinderella or ghost pumpkins are actually squash so the squirrels will not want to eat these as much as the sweet orange pumpkins. Because I am a dumb-ass blonde this sounded pretty logical.

For the past week, my array of 6 additional sassy pumpkins has remained untouched. Until today. I'll be God-damned if there weren't giant bite marks and chunks missing from 4 of my beautiful fall orbs. Obviously my goods were newly discovered. Perhaps I has been written off after last year like a Jehovah's house on Halloween with the lights off and a mean sign on the door that says "NO CANDY HERE". But they were on to me. They knew I was back, baby. And I had gone whole hog with my pumpkins. I bet those squirrels were juicing up their little miniature scooters to hit me up like ShuffledBoard Friday Happy Hour at the old folks' home. But they had made one grievous error. See I know their game. I know it might start with a nibble. And so far that's all they managed to score. Checkmate, mother fuckers.

I hauled my ice-cold pumpkins back into my house and came up with a concoction no rodent, even a hungry fat-ass one, would want to sink his teeth into. I was a mad scientist with my Mod Podge, glitter glue, metallic paint, spray adhesive, sprinkle glitter, and Diamond Dust (which is actually ground up glass). I have turned as crazy as Bill Murray in Caddyshack. My fall display is extra sparkly, extra shiny, probably extra appealing. I sincerely hope these assholes are tempted by my craft magic. Because if they take a few nibbles they will chip those giant buck teeth, perhaps gag and be poisoned by my "craft potion", and hopeful slowly bleed out and die at the hands of this vengeful, temperamental  animal lover. My middle finger is bigger than yours and don't think I'm not watching you. I think a squirrel tail would make a lovely tree topper this holiday season.