Hoarding is Caring

I finally had to empty out the few chockfull college bins I never got to during the summer…and my car... so I could pack them up again today. The living room is a disaster zone. If I could get an aerial view, it’d look like a very intricate topography map with multiple layers and uneven edges of shirts, pants, plastic bags, books I wanted to keep from last year, etc.

My room has always been a disaster zone because, as already demonstrated above, I hoard. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the term “hoarder” as much as I have these past few days. Jason keeps saying I’m ‘such a hoarder.’ Things like receipts, too short and too tight shirts from the Disney Store in London, half-used bottles of Bath and Body hand creams from middle school, a handmade “I am Batman” foam visor, piggy socks whose snouts have fallen off, my portable cd player.

Some might look at me and say I’m lazy, or careless, for hoarding as much as I do. But, I hate to just toss things out because these things have individual meaning for me. In a recent Psychology Today article called “Magical Thinking,” Matthew Hutson wrote “What makes something sacred is not its material makeup but its unique history.” I believe that. I am living, hoarding proof of that. Hutson talks about things having unique essences we ascribe. Yeah it's just "stuff," but it's stuff I value because of its personal, historical merit--because of the people, memories, and comfort associated with it.

Throwing out receipts from 3 weeks ago means throwing out the security they bring…even if I know I won’t return anything. Throwing out my Mickey and Minnie England shirt means tossing aside the goofy, kiddy magic I found in London that day. Dumping my pre-teen cucumber melon bottles means dumping memories of carefree, jobless summers with girlfriends. There’s something uniquely special about each piece of stuff, so I hoard because I care.

I suppose I’ll have to get rid of a lot of hoarded goods someday to make room for, well, the rest of my life. But until that day, I want to keep rediscovering and reliving those invisible meanings I’ve made. Hoarding is Caring, I say…and would no doubt make a great bumper sticker slogan.

3 Disjointed Mini Musings

1.) Yesterday I passed a truck lugging a dolly of construction equipment. On the backside of the truck it read “Construction Vehicle. Keep Alert for Sudden Stops and Turns.” I thought, hey, why don’t I get one of these stickers? What makes a construction driver more prone to hasty breaking and turning? I assume the vehicle’s not the thing under construction, so what’s the deal? It sounds like a liability scheme to me. Situation: construction driver breaks suddenly and irrationally in the middle of an intersection. I total my car and heatedly confront the cause of this whole mess. Flinching not, he or she just points to that sticker. I say we all get those stickers, customized to fit the defense we would use. “Premenstrual Vehicle” or “Worked 14 hours today Vehicle” or “Parent with cranky offspring fighting in back seat Vehicle” or “This truck’s about the same size as a Construction Vehicle Vehicle.”

2.) On the cover of the latest Cosmogirl issue, one of the main headers read “959 Style Tips to Reinvent Yourself.” I thought, what kind of fashion pointers did Cosmo get its hands on to be able to offer me such a bold return? Personal rediscovery and reinvention? But if that was truly what Cosmo could offer, then I probably wouldn’t have read this “tip”: -Study our picks, and by year’s end, you’ll be voted Most Likely to Set a Trend- or this one–Study the looks on the runways, find similar pieces you can afford, then the whole world will be your stage.-

So, I’m not sure if nearly 1000 style tips are as much about individual reinvention as they are marketing and adaptation techniques. There’s more to our whole selves than style or what Cosmo editors tell us style is. The whole world might become my stage someday, but won’t it be a disappointment when everyone in the audience is wearing the same thing as me because they too studied this issue? If we truly yearn to reinvent who we are, it’s going to take a lot more soul-searching than what we might learn from CG’s “School of Style” blurbs.

3.) One of the store managers pulled me aside yesterday with a container of brightly frosted sugar cookies in hand. She pulled them to add into one of the many fruit/gift baskets we make up. She had a stern look on her face. “If you make more sugar, can you NOT make them like this?” Her face scrunched up, repulsed by their, in my opinion, truly vibrant and luscious nature. “I mean, these are mostly going to adults” she said, still seemingly appalled. I nodded my head, but inside I wanted to scream “Who died and made you Frosting Queen?” Okay, I actually didn’t think that at the time, but it well conveys my thoughts on the matter. Just because you can’t appreciate or enjoy deep orange and lavender frosting, doesn’t mean other grownups don’t want or need multicolored iced cookies every now and then!

I thought, why are bright, contrasting colors only associated with young kids at birthday parties? What are the more “adult” colors I should frost with? Don’t you think those oranges and lemons are too bright for this 'adult' fruit basket? Maybe I’m being harsh, maybe I was offended because I was pleased with the color I concocted with four different food dyes. But maybe I just don’t want us all to think growing up means suppressing the quirks, the vibrancy, the color we so naturally delighted in when we were kids. Maybe brightly frosted cookies are the variety we adults need to see more, send to each other, and snack on these days.

(Maybe) Take a Chance

For the past week and a half, I’ve been trying to win Medieval Faire tickets from Star 104. I thought my odds were pretty good: I programmed Star into speed dial, listened keenly for the “touchtones” that sound at a superhuman speed between similarly-toned songs, and figured I was one of just a few Erieites eager to partake in a Renaissance-themed festival an hour’s drive away.

I thought wrong. Even though I sat in my car for almost an hour…not driving, used my cell and the work phone simultaneously (Visual: me in a purple apron, cell phone on my left ear, portable on my right, facing the stereo at work, completely in the zone. Audio: Busy Signal), and prepared my phone for dialing near the end of every song just in case, I didn’t win.

You’d think I’d be fed up with this radio giveaway rubbish, and I fully am, but surprisingly, I’m equally compelled to call in whenever I hear those touchtones. I don’t even care what the prize is anymore. Maybe it’s the thrill and ambiguity and objectivity of this chance game. I guess it’s like slot machines or scratch-out lotto tickets. I’m powerless when it comes to knowing how to be the 14th caller. But, so is everyone else.

It’s interesting to think about actively trying to pursue good luck, about putting forth the time, effort, and money towards what I know I won’t be able to control. There are no skills involved, no requisites. There’s no right technique, just chance. Because of that, you’d think I’d put equal amounts of hope and hopelessness into every call. But for some reason, I anticipate the win. Maybe that’s why PA spent $3.089 billion on lotto games last year, why the new casino in Erie is flourishing, why we pay to play those stupid carnival games, why I can never get through after hearing the touchtones.

I don't want to put too much hope in chance, get too caught up in the possibility of winning, get too distracted, even consumed by it because it's out of not just mine but everyone's hands. Even if my failed Medieval touchtones seem trivial, I don't think the lesson in them is. Yeah, I always have as good of a shot as anyone. But when I let that shot become more than just a shot, I let it affect how I spend my time and money--things that are in my hands, things I can control.

I shouldn't constantly buy lotto tickets just because I haven't won yet. I shouldn't make it a habit to linger by the stereo at work, wasting time, near the end of each pop song. Instead, I should enjoy the thrill of chance--contests, bonuses, scratch-off winnings, a 4-pack pass to the Medieval Faire + admisison to Jack Calico's Feast--but also recognize when I don't have the time or money to do so. I shouldn't not try every now and again; I shouldn't not embrace chance when I can, but I shouldn't let it hamper the life I already live without it either.

10:27

Is it unusual to always (twice a day at most, of course) see your birthday date flash on the clock? For the past week now, I have looked at the clock at exactly 10:27 at least once if not both times a day. At first, it was kind of neat. Now, I’m not even fazed and actually sort of peeved when it happens. It’d be different if it was some mysterious number with which I had no apparent association. Like, 4:29. Or 11:01. Then it might be fun. I would start playing the lotto. I would see what letters corresponded with each number in the alphabet… Like, D:BI. Or K:A. Maybe rearrange them. BID! Then I’d get to figure out what I was supposed to bid on. I would ask my parents if 4/29 had any significance in our family, get to uncover some intriguing piece of history. But, no. I see 10:27 daily, and instantly think My Birthday, My Birthday, oh look, My Birthday again.

When the first thing I can think to write about involves digits on a clock and how often I see them, it’s easy to say there’s not much new going on. Luckily, the head baker’s back at work, and I can rest a little. It’s good to have her back. It got kind of lonely, a tad eerie even, by myself there. *cue Celine Dion singing "All By Myself."* The ice machine would go off at least three times late at night while I was working. It sounded like someone was wheeling a squeaky cart around. I jerked my head every time and peered out from my baker’s door to where people sort the fresh produce all day.

Mostly, I listened to two cds Bobbi left: Supertramp and The BeeGees. Every now and again, I flipped to FM and boogied to pop music. I hid behind the proofer a few mornings in a row (when other workers were there picking through raspberries) trying to win the free massages Star 104 kept giving away. My back was so sore at this point, and a spa massage sounded so glorious. Despite my high-speed redialing, I didn’t win.

The only thing really new in my life is my recent spat with dad. He wanted me to ride with him in “Roar on the Shore.” They predicted 3-5000 cyclists would be riding in this parade. I can’t stand the noise that emanates from one motorcycle. I am not a biker fanatic. I don’t know any of dad’s biker “pack” he was leading from the nearby Country Fair. I arrange flowers, make cards, and like Disney Princess things. So, for probably the first time in my life, I was honest with him about why I didn’t want to go. It just wasn’t my thing, I tried to say as kindly as I could. But, as expected, he got upset and ended the phone conversation on a sour note.

It would have been a lot easier if I lied about why I wasn’t going, but I didn’t. I think sometimes I just have to do things that might not please everyone around me, but they are things that won’t have me feeling guilty or insincere in the long run. Honesty can be murky, but it’s essential when I think about authentic living, about my relationship with the world around me that deserves my sincerity, no matter how trying or disappointing it is at times.

Well, I already saw 10:27 twice today, so I guess I can head off safely. Maybe the trick is going to bed before 10:27, and rising after. I’ll have to try that tomorrow.

Mid-Summer Grumbles

Two years ago, I graduated from high school. A few bob haircuts, more than a few essays, and 7 lbs later, I’m still enjoying the comforts of my plum-carpeted room with pink pull-down blinds and stuffed animals everywhere. All it is is clutter, but it’s so familiar and right. At the same time, I’ve moved on from it because I don’t miss the muddle when I’m at school. I create my own again. I don’t miss sitting at this desk—I’ve actually grown more accustomed to corners of clinical computer labs at college. I have been living out of this room for over fourteen years (mom and I moved from dad’s when I was 6), and it feels weird to miss a place I’ve only been part of for 2 years now.

I think I miss the novelty of splitting a room, walking in my “home” with shoes kept on, strolling only a few feet in red fuzzy slippers to visit close friends. I always thought I loved having my space, and I do, but there’s something so unique and irreplaceable about living in a community with people my age.

And it’s funny how impermanent this is. Every year, I realize moving in is only a temporary adjustment. Maybe I miss it because I’m not used to temporary, if that makes sense; I’m used to the plum carpet, pink shades, and Disney paraphernalia scattered all around. I think change for me, the anticipation of change, can actually be more comforting at times.

It’s scary I only have two years to go, but it’s exciting that these next two years will be packed with change. I’ll be living in a city, RA-ing, delving into studies I love, and who knows what else.

Right now, my days just go so fast, working two jobs, getting little sleep. Is it bad to dread routines? The jobs themselves are wonderful, but the idea of my days’ uniformity agitates me. I want to write more, read more, enjoy the outdoors more, unscheduled. This week I’m working full time and a half, so all of these musings might be a direct product of baggy eyes, a sore spine, and practically zero minutes spent with people outside of work. But, I suppose this is something new for me, a change no doubt, so maybe I need to embrace it just as I’ll embrace the new semester ahead of me. And, maybe I need to get ready for work now…

On and After Broadway

The brainfood I consumed before writing this post: a Wendy’s frosty with cookie dough, a gooey handful of “extreme cinnamon roll,” and 3 baby carrots. Just felt like something readers should know before scrolling onward.

Well, it’s been weeks. I’ve been busy with work, work, work, and a whirlwind trip to New York City. Out of the four times I’ve ventured there, it was my favorite trip to the big apple. I felt a lot more at ease with the bustling human flocks, underground transportation, and intimidating stores from which I would never actually buy anything.

When Megan was babysitting for a few hours on Saturday, I coolly strolled into Coach. One of the employees complimented my discounted $9.90 pair of earrings from Macy’s. I thanked her and walked over to a table with beautiful, under-the-sea-inspired necklaces that fell a few inches above the belly button. I told one of the ladies I was going to see the Little Mermaid on Broadway tonight, so this look would be so fitting. With confidence, I asked her the price and nodded casually when she told me $178. Inside though, I was laughing hysterically, tearing up over Coach’s crime, and making an array of bewildered facial expressions. Even though she may have caught on when I immediately put it back, I didn’t feel I had any less of a right asking about it, and that was nice.

Yet, probably the most refreshing thing about the whole Coach experience happened when I went back to work in Erie. I was describing my Coach escapade to the other baker when she stopped me mid-sentence with her confused, unmoved look. She shrugged her shoulders and asked me what Coach was. I said, “Oh, it’s…” I paused. I couldn’t define it. I had trouble pinning down its significance I was so easily and thoughtlessly assigning. “…just a popular brand name,” I finished.

That’s all it was, just a store under a name that people decided was/is trendy and more credible than others. She made me reconsider my attitude towards that whole experience. Why did I feel the need to feel accepted, confident, and cool in that particular store? Would I have felt as triumphant making my way into the Gap or Duane Reade drugstore across the street? It wasn’t a victory to feel entitled there; it was a loss to all the hype built around a 5-letter label.


I’ve been home now for about a week, getting back into my summer routine. After 4 weekends at the bakery, I’ve almost mastered my saran-wrapping technique. The machine is ornery at times, but we’re definitely learning how to work together better.

Also, my first published article Pretty Woman is up online at Christians for Biblical Equality. The organization’s free online journal accepted a piece I wrote for my pluralism class this spring. So feel free to take a gander!

I think tomorrow night is the second to last episode of The Bachelorette. Who will Deanna choose? Jesse, Jason, or Jeremy? I'm pulling for Jason, and so is mom (my mom, not Deanna's...she hasn't met any of them yet).

One day...

...I will blog again.
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow.
There, it's in writing. (writing that I of course could always edit/erase tomorrow if need be..)