Ummm, ‘scuse me? I know it was my husband’s grandmother’s and all, but IT’S BROKEN!!!!


Yes I am throwing it out. No, I do not have the missing piece. Not, I do not give two shits if I might later find it. Right, because no matter how campy tacky-adorable it is and no matter how cool it looks in my new blue back porch, I do not want someone’s glued or broken tchatchke in my life. If I need a hideous campy vase I’ll go to the so-called antique store and buy one from the other delusional hoarders – oops I mean dealers.


You were cute. NO, IT CANNOT GO IN THE HENHOUSE! Goodbye.


PreTax Decluttering


I actually filed for an extension on my taxes because the clutter was so bad. This tub holds a pile of stuff that had been on my kitchen counter for years. I swept it into the tub about a year ago. That was a good move: I was able to start baking again because I could get to my mixer and bread machine. But there was a spindle with receipts and a bunch of tax papers in here and I never got to them. Today, my goals are to 1)toss any trash in this box 2) Extract any tax papers that are in here and put them in the tax folder. I only have about an hour so let’s see how I do. The challenge will be to not get distracted by folders and a box of photos I know are in there.

Here’s how I did:

I created this blog to help me beat hoarding

Listen:  I’ve passed the midpoint of the number of years I can expect to have on earth – I’ve got to start deaccessioning my stuff.  It’s killing me, it’s annoying me, it’s crushing my spirit.  It’s making me feel like a loser, and it’s keeping me from doing cool things and, dare I say, keeping me from being who God intended me to become.

I thought I wasn’t a hoarder.  We’ve all seen TV hoarders: elderly, declassé, lonely people who bury themselves in beanie babies, ugly tchatchkes,  and towers of newspaper, or 147 desperately ill-kept cats.   Hoarders aren’t like me:  highly educated, creative, down-to-earth, functioning.  They don’t win awards, volunteer, take classes, write articles, have happy marriages, interesting careers, and fun social lives, like I do.  At least that’s what I thought.

I have a clutter problem.  Maybe not full-blown hoarding (whatever that is) but a serious problem.  A first world problem, I acknowledge, but a problem nonetheless.  I concluded a while ago that my stuff was a burden.  It’s in my way, literally and figuratively, and I know it’s worse than most people’s.  Hours spent looking for last year’s lecture.  A low-interest student loan award lost because I’d buried the paper and forgotten about it.  Not being able to have anyone over.  My kids ashamed to have anyone over.  Buying stuff that I already have because I didn’t know I had it.  Clothes I discovered that I’d completely forgotten about.  A moth infestation.  Receipts I didn’t itemize in my taxes because I never came across them.  Bulging closets.  Filled storage. Books and books and books and books.
I feel the drag.  I’m sick of pawing through stuff. I know I don’t “need” all this.  I’m sick of spending time dealing with stuff like dishtowels or a broken shovel or some toys the kids haven’t played with in years, when I could be using the time to do something cool, to create, to help others.

So I’ve been making stabs at cleaning it all up.  It would work for a while, but even Flylady, God bless her, hasn’t been permanent solution, although her motherly encouragement has done wonders for my state of mind.   I was  frustrated.  I knew it was hurting me, hurting my family, but I didn’t know what to do about all this junk. The specter of my great aunt hung over me – it had taken me and six other relatives three days and half a dumpster to clean out her one-bedroom apartment.  We found an entire dresser drawer full of used Kleenex, boxes full of neatly filed junk mail, yellowed clothing, a broken-off wax doll’s hand from the nineteenth century, probably, and a refrigerator jammed with two month’s worth of rotting takeout dinners still in their foam containers. Could that happen to me?

My husband “collects” stuff too, and we agree it’s too much. He can’t get to his tools – it adds sometimes half an hour to a minor repair job.  We own an apartment and we can’t renovate and rent it because it’s filled with crap:  stuff from his job, stuff from my old job, stuff from the homes of two elderly relatives who died a few years ago. We want to get rid of it, but we haven’t gotten further than a brief, energetic attack on the storeroom last summer.  We figure our clutter is costing us hundreds of dollars a month in lost rental income.  More when you count our time, and lost opportunities – like paying off a six-figure grad school loans for a degree I still don’t have partly because (I’m convinced) my mess made it nearly impossible organize my materials and complete my dissertation.

And that’s not even counting the psychological cost of clutter.  We keep our public areas – kitchen and living room – pretty clear.  But I’m ashamed of the rest of the house. I feel like a loser every time I walk into my study.  I’m irked every time I can’t find a paper, every time a bunch of boxes falls on me in the pantry when I’m trying to get a spice.  I despair every time I pile my clean laundry on top the dresser because there’s nowhere for it to go, or re-iron out a wrinkled suit that’s been crushed by an overstuffed closet.  I’m convinced my clinging to stuff has kept me from finishing my PhD (see above) and getting a better job because it robs me of confidence.  I walk out of the house and somewhere inside, my dirty secret is galling me:  I must not really be competent because if I were, there wouldn’t be such chaos at home.

I’m headed down the path to becoming a hoarder.  A couple of weeks ago I came across the International OCD Foundation’s Hoarding Center pages.  It’s thorough, with info for clinicians, hoarders, and the people who care about them (even though hoarding is about to be decoupled from OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and listed as its own disorder).  What I read there, and the videos I saw, gave me pause.  It gets worse as you get older.  Visiting my great aunt as a kid, I saw she had one room filled to the ceiling with junk, that no one was allowed to enter.  As she aged it got completely out of control, spreading to the garage, and her bedroom.  Even a move to a much smaller place in assisted living didn’t help – her clutter took over the apartment.  I have a couple of rooms that are almost like that, and it scares me.  Is a fridge full of poison and a pile of used Depends under the bed the future I’m headed for?  Reading that website was sobering.

I’m a lot worse than I realized.  I read everything on the site, then bought Buried in Treasures, a self-help book  by some leading researchers on the problem of disordered acquiring, saving, and hoarding.  (Yes, I know, I approached my clutter problem by buying something. But bear with me for a moment.)  I started reading and did some of the exercises in the book.

It confirmed how disordered my thinking is about my stuff.  I was shocked to recognize my behaviors and thinking in its pages.  Not good.  No, it’s not normal to go through your children’s trash after they clean their rooms to make sure they haven’t thrown out anything “good.”  Yes, it is a bullshit excuse to say “I don’t have time.”  My trusty mantra turns out to be a classic excuse given by people in complete denial about their severe clutter problems.  I’m grateful that I was able to accept this valuable if painful realization about myself.  Now I have to do something about it.

I created this blog to help me beat hoarding. Or saving, or acquiring, or collecting, whatever you want to call it.  The authors of Buried in Treasures say about half the people who use the book show a good bit of improvement.  I want to be free of all this stuff, and the blog will help  me do it.  So let’s get started.