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| Chairman of the hourd |
| Posted: Tuesday, April 24, 2007 |
Are you a hoarder?
A collector and keeper of trinkety objects? Do you go to thrift shops and yard sales in hot pursuit of completely unnecessary items, spending money that could bring fresh and nutritious food into your house? Do you have boxes of stuff that, if they were to disappear right now, would not be missed ever?
I am a hoarder, like my mother before me and her mother before her. My ancestors were cave-dwelling Scots from the Isle of Hourde.
What do I hoard? Oh, all things worthless and unusual.
I keep things that I have found on the street. I harbor incomplete collections of items like decks of cards, odd teacups without saucers and jumbo pencils. I have a big stack of letters that were written to me by high-school friends when I moved from Los Angeles to Seattle in 1979. I have a pillowcase full of scraps of great old fabric because if I ever get that Toyota SE-06 one-step sewing machine and learn some skills I am going to make things. Cool things. You?ll see.
During a storage room clean-out frenzy two years ago I found a box full of stuff that I had hoarded as a young teen. Included in this must-have collection: Two cassette tapes, one mysteriously labeled ?#35?, a couple of small seashells, 26 yen (military issue), a turquoise ring and a a box of pulled molars.
There is also an assortment of necklaces tangled together in a golf ball-sized knot. Within the knot, I can identify one gold hoop earring, my cheerleading megaphone necklace with the silver dangly ?80?, a puka shell choker and one-half of the pair of feather earrings that I wore when I saw Elton John at Dodger Stadium in 1976.
I used to wonder if I had a dormant "freaky cat-woman" gene that might spring to life it wasn't for my husband's need for clear surfaces and open spaces. More and more I read stories about people who are living in complete filth and squalor, surrounded by mountains of garbage as well as pollution from the many animals that they "collect". Often times they are found out only when the smell from the home becomes too much for a neighbor to ignore.
A simple Google search will provide you with countless stories of varying horror. Some stories I would have trouble believing if it wasn't for a first-hand experience with such über-filth:
I had been asked (lured with cash) by a close family friend to clean an apartment in the complex that he manages. I was told this was a move-out, recently occupied by a young woman, and that the apartment was in disgusting shape. It was in fact completely vile, and even I (an iron-gutted ex-hotel housekeeper and lover of crime scene websites) was fully grossed-out.
Apparently there were two housecats allowed to relieve themselves where they wished. The wooden baseboards were blackened from three or more years of constant urine soakings. The feces-laden carpet had been ripped-out yet the stink was unending, having found a home in the cement flooring below.
To clean the refrigerator I had to completely deconstruct it. The drip pan beneath the fridge was home to an inch of disgusting muck that when deposited into the bathtub, plugged the drain.
The bathroom featured a stunning variety of pink, yellow and black molds. There was something splashed on one of the walls in a bedroom. Was it coffee? Blood? Spaghetti-O?s? Maybe something worse? The interior of the oven, only one year old, was totally encrusted in burnt grease drippings.
The heat registers were covered in cat hair and stained with baked feces. The windowsills were blackened with layers of mold and dirt.
I soon realized that my obsessive hoarding, although something to keep in check, is not something to be overly concerned with. Yes, I have a collection of 12 coats that I never wear, but at least they are feces-free.
(Interesting website: www.childrenofhoarders.com)
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