The first step to self-improvement is admitting you have a problem. Here goes: "My name is Trisha Peters, and I am a hoarder." I literally keep everything until it is no longer useful (i.e. past the point of repairing). I have dishclothes with the edges so shredded in my kitchen drawer that they wind up in a huge ball in the washing machine because the strings knot up. I have my adjustable plastic locker shelf that was last used in 1999 because I think my 2 year old might use it in his locker someday (like that's cool, Mom. By the time he is in school, all his books will be stored in 'the cloud'). I have mix tapes of music taped off the radio in the 1980s because every product of the 80s needs a homemade Casey's Top 40 mix tape. (Ironically, I do not have a tape player!) You get the picture. It's a problem. One that has been lurking in the darkness of my basement, and that has only recently come out to play as I try to regain control of my life. Combine this trait with a husband who shares the same characteristic, and we are one chromosome away from being a TV reality show. For crying out loud, he literally saved the boxes for all the toy tractors that he has displayed in a glass case. Every time I look under the basement stairway, I want to pour gasoline on them and burn them in the backyard. But, that would get me arrested. And, jail would not be favorable to me.
Why in the world can't we throw anything away?? I blame it on my Grandma. She used to wash out Ziploc bags and reuse them (guilty as charged). When something can't be effectively reduced, reused, or recycled in our family, we just store it until it's dead or someone else renders it useless and throws it out for us. Because, you know what, the second I throw those mix tapes out, I'm going to need them. Happens. Every. Time.
Case in point, digging through a box last Saturday, I found my old Alphie II robot computer and Smart Start calculator. I carefully replaced the 16 size C batteries each one required back in 1987 and waited anxiously to show them to the boys when they returned home from the farm with their dad. By this time, I am well on my way to winning Mom of the Year. Man, did their eyes light up when they saw that little plastic robot sitting on the kitchen counter. I was tickled pink! Then, the highly unanticipated Scenario B played out. A huge fight ensued as I introduced the iPad of my day to the boys. Little brother was ready to rumble for possession of that little robot even though he had no clue how to read the cards or answer the questions. The oldest one deemed Alphie as "not working" because you have to push the buttons just right to get it to register the answer. Seriously? I played with that thing for like an hour Saturday afternoon and had no troubles! Why do you think I didn't get any vacuuming done? C'mon man! This thing is retro...a classic! As it turns out, my nostalgia is not the same nostalgia my children share. Who knew? Since then, I've managed to stub my toe on the dang thing seven times in the middle of the night because the only thing the kids think its good for is to have his face light up in the dark as they are laying in bed. If anything can be said about 1980s plastic toys, it is that they were built to break a toe or at least roll an ankle! iPad, shmy-pad. Whatever, Bill Gates.
I guess the moral of the story is that if you are storing stuff in boxes that you haven't used since the 1980s, pour gasoline on it and burn it in the backyard. Just don't let the cops catch you. Jail isn't all real estate and roses. Welcome Home.
(Disclaimer: Blog author, Trisha Peters, does not encourage you or any others to perform dangerous activities. Pouring gasoline on anything and burning it is not recommended. Advice is given strictly for comedic effect and is not meant to be practiced in real life.)
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