Greetings trash pickers.
So curbing my hoardtastic tendencies is going well. It’s a slow process, but I’m getting there and I’m learning a lot about myself. Why I hoard. One of the biggest reasons is emotional attachment. For example, if my kid wore an outfit and we had fun that day, I feel bad letting it go. Even if the outfit is now way too small, covered in stains and good to no one, I have trouble parting with it, because I’m attached to the memory of the moment it represents. Apparently such emotional attachment is common, but it’s a spanking clutter no-no. Clutter experts reckon the solution is to remind yourself that this ‘thing’ is just that. It’s not alive. If it disappears, you are not going to change, one little bit. The memory of the experience lives within you and no one can take that from you. The Clutter Queens also agree that ditching excess stuff is good for mental health as well. So with those thoughts in mind, I’ve been purging. This week alone I’ve ditched:
1. Three black bags brimming with clothes.
Enough said. Three bags though – that’s insane!
The worst part is, there is still an overflow at my house. It’s as though a laundromat exploded.
2. A plasticine arm that fell off a sculpture. One of the boisterous beings made in art class. I promised to glue it back on…three years ago. Now I’ve admitted proscrastinator’s defeat and launched it.
4. Several loads of paper to be recycled. Mostly cute kid drawings and misspelt notes. Those were hard to part with. If you could see my face right now, my tortured expression, I look like an art critic who has just been asked to torch the Mona Lisa.
5. Mr.Potato Head’s lips.
This sounds creepy. But those little lips were a favourite of the boisterous beings. Back when they were toddlers, they loved to plunk them in their own mouths and then ham it up. They were cute and funny. But just talking about that memory makes me feel better. Farewell lips, you provided hours of innocent kid giggles.
6. A headless barbie.
Enough said really. That bitch is scarey enough with her head attached, never mind without it.
7. A quarter bottle of Martini.
Alcohol lovers, don’t hate me. That bottle had to go. It’s the bottle-that-wouldn’t die.
It’s been lurking in the back of my cupboard since I got married, ten years ago.
It always seems to get pulled out any time someone’s desperate for a drink.
Turns out, when I pour people a glass of that, they ain’t so desperate anymore.
Anyway that bottle of Martini had it’s last outing on Saturday night when, after a particularly rowdy book club meeting (in the pub), my wonderful friend Jude and I came back to mine. Just like the good International Women’s day revelers that we are, we felt in need of a post-pub tipple. But my alcohol supplies were low and measly. No matter! We proceeded to polish off the dregs in the left-over bottles of my liquor cabinet. With the gusto of sailors on shore leave. After working on a tee-total ship. We finished off a bottle of apple rum. A bottle of espresso vodka. Some god-awful mystery Spanish bottle, that I’m fairly sure was nail polish remover. So between the pub and that lot, we’d had more than enough. But no. We still attempted the never-ending martini bottle…but we just couldn’t do it. That’s how foul it was. So this morning, I finally put that vintage out of it’s misery. I tipped the last of it down the sink. Just the smell of it going down the drain made my nose hairs curl. R.I.P. My old friend. You knew how to shut a party down.
Anyway, clearly there is still much work to be done if I want to get 30 per cent of stuff banished by the end of the month. Perhaps if I buy a NEW bottle of martini, tackling the scarey closet under the stairs might not seem as bad after all.