Now I’m not a hoarder. I’m not even very sentimental.
(you’ll note that I am decidedly NOT a hoarder because every time someone comes over, I try to send them home with everything from Orchids to children)
I watch Hoarders as inspiration to clean my fucking house, and I’ll tell you that it has worked to curb any impulse buying I may or may not have experienced (so, so sorry, The Target, for breaking up with you like this. I know I should have done it more personally, but hey, you read my blog).
I’m also not attached to my stuff. Not most of it, at least. I’d throw down some fisticuffs if you threatened Big Mac II or my iPad. It’s not, however, because they remind me of “greener days,” and “happier times,” but because they allow me to work. Or try to get more than one star on those stupid Angry Birds game. Which is more complex than actual work, but I digress.
My Son: *carrying around a baby doll*
Aunt Becky: “Why are you carrying around that doll?”
Ben, My Son (Not the Guy on my Couch*): “We’re playing Oregon Trail at school and Sam needed a boy baby.”
Aunt Becky: *thinks about how awesome it would be to make the doll have “dysentery.” *
Ben: “It’s for school.”
Aunt Becky *still bitter that the i(can’t)Phone version or Oregon Trail is neither gory or has fun as it used to be. These are probably related events*. “Oh? What are you doing with it?”
Ben: “I told you. Sam needs a baby boy.”
Aunt Becky *grumbles* “Like THAT clears it up for me.”
Ben: “I have to bring it.”
Aunt Becky *looks at the stained baby and recalls how she’d lovingly gotten it for her then-five-year-old son Ben who was about to become a big brother*: “Ben, no. You can’t take it.”
Ben: “I HAVE TO TAKE IT.”
Aunt Becky: “Why?”
Ben: “SAM NEEDS A BABY BOY.”
Aunt Becky: “So you’re going to bring it to school and probably forget it there, right?”
Aunt Becky: “NO.”
Ben: “But I’m GONNA GET LATE POINTS!”
Aunt Becky: “The doll’s for Sam, not you. If you need something to signify a baby that badly, take a stuffed animal instead.”
Aunt Becky: “You have your teacher call me and tell me why you need to bring this particular doll in.”
Ben: *stomps off in the way only a histrionic 10-year old can.*
Aunt Becky (to herself): “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Two adult male voices chime in simultaneously: “Waco.”
Turns out, Pranksters, I wasn’t quite ready to let go of that baby doll; the one he’d once named Seth.
*my BFF who moved here to start a new life.