Hoarding in the Country

I think it has been a combination of several things over the past decade or so.  I have always loved crafts and do it yourself projects.  I took a special interest in sewing and one stroke painting and floral design and the list really goes on and on.

It really wasn't until a lethal combination of events occurred in the past 12 months that I really started to consider the idea that I may have a problem:  My son's wedding with all the enticing projects, being the self appointed decoration chairperson of my parents anniversary party...and the introduction of PINTEREST!

Jon will be embarrassed to find that I am spilling my guts here on my blog and admitting my serious um, problem.  Half, and that is a conservative estimate, of the basement is completely covered floor to ceiling with crafts.  Now, I don't mean junk, I mean high end craft material like cloth ribbon, strands of beaded pearls, silk flowers all there just sitting and waiting for some inspiration.   The only thing is, every time I go down there my inspiration is overcome by well, desperation.

Hence my story for today.  As I was picking up Eli from preschool I met my Mom at the stop sign by the school.  When you live in a small town this occurs quite frequently.  Anyway, we eased the two vehicles closer together, rolled down the windows in the brisk morning air and relayed our morning salutations.  I can't remember what we were talking about but my mother suddenly said, " Do you want me to come over and help you organize your craft room?".

Suddenly I was transported to the starring roll of the A & E series, Hoarders.

 All of my life long crafting supplies were on blankets and tarps and scattered across the front lawn.  A line of semi trucks with GOT JUNK printed in bright yellow letters sat idling in a line down our usually quiet country road.  Some sort of person with a PhD introduced herself to me saying her specialty was obsessive behaviour and hoarding.  All of my so called family members were standing around me in a semi circle, most of them wearing work gloves!

  I instantly saw myself sitting in a lawn chair as my family walked items past the viewing platform as if on parade.  " You can throw that away"' I dismiss with a wave of the hand.  " That bolt of material is brand new, it stays," I yell, as Aaron brings me a glass of ice cold lemonade and pats my shoulder.  I imagine Ashley scolding me, "Mom you bought all of this paint over five years ago.  It is old and none of them are any good anymore.".  I plead with her, " But I picked out all those colors, they are all mean something to me".   Tony steps in and quietly says "mom what's more important, this stuff or your family?"

I spy my Mom out of the corner of my eye.  She is the quiet strong supportive rock in my life.  I see a single tear fall from the corner of her eye.  My Dad stands with a shotgun at the corner of the road to fire warning shots should the building inspector arrive to order the house demolished.  (my imagination has a flare for the dramatic too)   Jon?  Oh he is in the back of the room (the crap room he calls it, rather than the crafts room) he is wearing a white paper suit and a breathing apparatus in case a case of spray paint spontaneously combusts, but he is hauling everything out, not even brotherly to parade it by my personal viewing stage.

"Roxanne, Roxanne"' my Mom shouts.  " There is a car behind you....move."

I came home and went straight down to the room from hell.  I stared at it. I contemplated, I planned, I plotted......

.....then I went out to lunch.

PWSD

Consider this a public service announcement.  PWSD is real, it's dangerous and it is merely one retail visit away from invading your emotional wellness.  I am talking of course, about "Post Walmart Stress Disorder".

If you are a past reader you will know how much I dislike the retailer that is so pervasive throughout this country.  You will also remember I typically refer to them as "Faltart", So as not to mistakenly provide them with any additional free advertising.  This will be the case from this sentence forward.

I have to be in really dire circumstances to voluntarily go to Faltart.  I have certainly learned not to run to this retailer for random items I may need for a recipe, because they usually don't have it anyway.  It has to be something more catestrophic than needing a few items.  Last Sunday ( okay a Sunday...at Faltart that should indicate where this going), after the Bronco Game ( okay, right?  I never claimed to be all that smart) at around 4:00 p.m. (seriously somebody please just poke a hot needle in my eye) I had a REALLY weak moment and I found myself sitting outside the parking lot.  Did I mention I was way outside the parking lot as it was completely full.

I pried my white knuckles from the steering wheel, glanced in my purse for Faltart shopping supplies (Clorox wipes, a can of Pepper spray, sunglasses to remain undercover and one of Eli's plastic drink cups full of ice....and Tequila).  I took a cleansing breath and stepped into the wild.

You know nowadays I am a pretty positive kind of person but the sights and sounds of this one hour shopping extravaganza make me want to crawl in a dark cold hole and send up a prayer for all human kind.  First of all how many people in Morgan County suddenly become afflicted with an ailment that causes them to be in need of the Faltart company car, aka the little motorized chair with the basket attached.  I watched one woman hippity hop to the door only to slowly crawl into that contraption.

I heard a young mother yell down the aisle " you better get your ass over here or someone will steal you.". I glanced down the aisle and she was yelling at a toddler who probably wasn' t even 3 years old. I mean who the hell does that?  As I weave and criss cross my cart through the apparent impromptu social gatherings in nearly every single aisle, I stopped a woman to ask her what aisle the matches were in (I'm thinking about torching the place at this point).  She had on a name tag and she had a radio....and she didnt  speak English.  None, nada, zip.  Really, I get the entire bilingual thing, I do, but this sends me through the roof.

I call Jon from my cell phone, just to let him know what kind of suffering and anguish I was going through as he was sitting comfortably at home in the man cave watching NFL football and drinking micro brewed beer out of a frosty mug.  As always he was supportive and told me to build a bridge and get over it.  

The last straw occurred as I was making my way to the exit and I witnesses a rodent creep under cereal shelves.  I think it was a mouse but it could have been a rabid badger for Christ's sake.  I glanced around at the shoppers in row9 and saw no reaction whatsoever.  Maybe they didnt see it, or more likely they saw it and didn't care.

So finally I proceeded to the self checkout counters.  I usually pick this area to pay for my goods so I don't have to deal with the rude, semi comatose checkers I am accustomed to.  The line is 6 or 7 deep, in self check out....and my tequila is long gone.  There directly in front of me is the able bodied woman in her Faltart company car.  I listen as she screams and yells at the poor little man helping her unload her groceries.  I mean, sweet Jesus who uses the company car and THEN goes to the self check stand.  I watch as some dirty little kid dumps an entire box of Chapstick on the floor.  I am amazed when his mother makes no attempt to pick any of them up.  No wonder the checkers are the way they are.

So you see folks, PWSD is a real disease.  It is chronic and progressive, but you don't have to fight this battle alone.  Join forces with me.....maybe we can get the bulk rate on tequila!,,