Hoarder

I live with a hoarder. I’m serious. E is Mr Stuff and I am Anti Stuff. Like a superhero. That’s me.

Most of the time, I am quite happy to let the stuff accrue. That, after all, is why we got a two-bedroom place. It was a stipulation of mine. I knew I was with a hoarder when I saw the Canadian Living special seasonal book called “Keeping A Canadian Christmas”, complete with tartan and teddy bears, in his desk, the first month we were dating. Either I was with a secret Betty Crocker (I really wasn’t), or I was with a hoarder.

So his stuff. Most of it fits in his room, but things creep out. And it’s my job to deal with them.

I know lots of people who live with hoarders do the thing where they secretly throw things out. I have never felt comfortable with that. It’s his stuff, not mine. But I do have to do something. Because the boxes of gig clothes from fifteen years ago? I’m tired of working around them. The cardboard box full of Styrofoam esses? Well, I did deal with them. However, the two sleeping bags he has not used in eight years? The ugly beer glasses in a box? Why are we keeping them? Ditto the cowboy boots and the army trunk full of musty coats. I don’t know why he needs them. I just don’t. But every time I suggest that we might decide not to keep things like these, he refuses adamantly. Maybe even vehemently.

I’m going to have to do something and I don’t know what it’s going to be.

Things That Might Have Happened

Me: I’m really happy you guys could look at this car today.The window doesn’t roll up.
Receptionist: It’s okay, we’ll get right to it.
Me: I’m so glad. If we’d left it at UBC it would be colonized by raccoons. And that’s just going to scare people.
Receptionist: Uh. Yeah. Glad we can see to it, then.

Friday Confessions

Well. I haven’t done much that was too heinous over here. I did think grumpy thoughts about getting up at 7:30 on Sunday to do the MS Walk, but then I did actually do it for charity, so I can excuse that. what I cannot excuse:

1) I ate a sausage and cheese McGriddle. It was absolutely sickly-sweet-chemical-laden and part of me loved that. This concerns me. People should find more natural food to be more delicious. If you can taste the chemicals, it shouldn’t taste good, right? Not so with the McGriddle. Yikes! It’s like my tastebuds are devolving.

2) This is a confession for something I am going to do. A, what, a confession-in-advance? Yeah. I am going to take a jar of pickled cockles to the Fringe tonight and coerce/bribe/convince people to eat them. And I am going to take pictures of it. Because I am sick. What? Pickled cockles, that’s right. They’re a Welsh delicacy. No. Really. If you want me to save you, some, just say so, because they’ll be going fast, oh yes they will!

What did everyone else get up to?

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