Cooking is overrated anyway

I have a lot of spices for someone who doesn't cook. A great deal of cabinet space has been devoted to spices that I never use. I have no idea what I have because I so rarely use them. As a result I accidentally buy duplicate spices on the rare occasion that I think I need something. To be honest I have no idea why I have three bottles of curry and four of ground mustard. I can't recall ever making anything fancy enough to require that.

I used to pretend that I cooked. Back when I thought that I should.

I'm a more confident person now so I freely admit that the most I can do is assemble. Occasionally I will heat some weird combination of things and assemble them into something delicious. Delicious to me, that is. Nothing I would ever put in front of another human being.

Nothing I've created has ever required saffron or tarragon or coriander or all spice (whatever the flip that is) but I had it all.

I say "had" because I just discovered today (after years and years) that these things expire! It never occurred to me that spices go bad. Imagine my surprise and annoyance. I mean, I carted a lot of them across the country because I felt bad about throwing them away that and who wants to build a whole new useless spice collection? Not I. So I moved them. Several times. I dusted them. I allowed them more space than they deserved; only to find out they aren't just window dressing but rotten window dressing.
Not cool.

I can't express the huge amount of relief I felt when I threw them all away. I no longer have to open that cabinet and face all that judgment. That incessent "you should really know how to use us" sneer from the spice mob eight jars deep. I just hope whoever goes through the recycle bin doesn't connect me with the spice massacre. I'll never confess. That would be humiliating.

Nah, I'm pretty confident I look like I can cook.

In a land far far away but really very close and not far at all

I just had one of those moments where you catch a glimpse of yourself in an alternate universe or played the "what could have been" game.

I just watched that show, Hoarders, and I'm pretty sure somewhere in another dimension, behind the seventh veil or in dejavuville, I am on that show. People are watching me in horror and my family is giving sad and frustrated testimonials. Actually, probably only my mom would do it. Everyone else would decline to be on camera.

I must admit I feel a little itchy after watching the show. I'm pretty sure I can't watch it again because my COMPLETE understanding of the hoarders attachment to their things and their anthropomorphizing of their stuff made Newshead nervous. I could relate to the rationalization for keeping each item: "Oh that's a gift. That's a journal. That goes over here with the other 250 blank journals. Those are crosswords that I'm going to do."

Seriously, all the plans and good intentions for each item was eerily familiar. I was not the least bit surprised by their ability to recognize every little thing that was held before them, that in all that stuff (piles and piles of it) they never once said "I don't know what that is or where it came from." There is a story and a thought about everything, so of course it is hard to get rid of anything. I totally get it.

I usually am an advocate of the "who cares what people think" school of thought. This is one time where I think it helps. But I guess in fairness you have to not be crazy to know that it is kind of crazy.

I'm constantly looking around my apartment and picturing the person who has to go through my stuff if Newshead & I suddenly die. Why I would care, I don't know, but I do.
My goal is to keep the WTF moments to a minimum.

Right now I've organized all the unorganizable stuff into a "craft" section. I know they are a million little jars of madness but to the unknowing eye, I'm a crafter. That's nicer for my sister and/or brother to have to clean up. You are welcome.

Here's the thing. Hoarders wouldn't have to give up their stuff if it were better displayed. Stores have tons of shit and people love going there. Dare I say that once again it comes down to style?

And mental illness.
But also style.

A million little pieces...of paper

Today I was trapped in my bedroom while the maintenance man fixed the outlet that recently had flames coming out of it. As I sat there, I realized that all I could think about was "what does he think of my apartment?" I had gotten up two hours early just to make sure that I could finish cleaning it for him. Lacking the actual two weeks it would take me to really get rid of all my chaos, I strategically shoved it where I was pretty sure he wasn't going to look. However, who knows if there is some weird electrical panel (that I am completely unaware of) hidden behind the one door where all my craziness will fall out.

When I was younger I was rather messy. Make that extraordinarily messy. I think this is because I have an innate propensity to become a hoarder. I always had a real problem getting rid of anything. Mostly because I felt sorry for it. I truly felt that all my possessions had feelings and they would be really hurt if I discarded them. Not just stuffed animals and cute things either- everything. It was a burden really.

Organizing all my shit was a nightmare. Not just because there was so much of it, but because I would get so distracted with each item that it would take me 12 hours just to organize my sticker collection. Additionally, as soon as I "cleaned" my room, I couldn't remember where anything was which was colossally annoying to me because I could picture its original position perfectly.

I loved all my stuff. I really did. I liked having it and going through it. It really made me happy and I didn't understand the need to put it all away neatly. It was there ready for me and it seemed reasonable to just leave it wherever I wanted. Besides I had better things to do. As if writing really important love letters to Ricky Schroeder could wait. Please.

As I got older I realized that people judge you by that kind of thing. They associate you with being dirty or lazy or even a little crazy. Since I didn't want to be someone who never had anyone over to my house or (heaven forbid) a boy stopped by unexpectedly, I made it a point to curb it. I'm aware that it isn't an impressive party trick to reach into your very own heaping landfill and pull out the one thing someone asked for.

Living with someone helps me hold the hoarder mirror up to myself. It is a cold hard reality check when someone helps you move and they ask why they just carried two garbage bags of TV Guides up three flights of stairs. Turns out "because I haven't read them yet" isn't a compelling answer.

To this day I still struggle to wrangle it. I employ filing cabinets with folders, desktop boxes, a desk that closes up. I have containers that contain chaos so that I may give the appearance of calm organization. But I know the truth. I'm an Oprah episode waiting to happen.