me, and my stuff, and my psyche, and GUNS

There's not really anything about guns. I was just trying to keep my male readers. 

Now that we're en route to becoming homeowners, we are trying to display responsible behavior and do things like cleaning gutters and replacing light bulbs and such. Along with these lofty goals, I have been assigned the task of paring down all the clothes and shoes, so we can put shelves in the closet and buy new dressers and be totally awesome with our home makeover skills that we might have.

Now, for some people I'm married to, this job is über simple, and not just because they're Danish. "It's so easy!" they say. "I could clean out all the clothes and shoes in 15 minutes!" And maybe that person could. First, they would put half the clothes in an obscure location and then immediately forget that location. Then, they would throw the other half away. "There." they'd say, walking away smugly, with big plans for loosing Tomlin's hold on the worship market in the remaining 3 minutes. 

The next morning, when the shivering bare children wailed for their clothes, I would say something biting and sarcastic and awesome, and the other half of my marriage would be like, "Well, it shouldn't have been sitting in the middle of their DRESSER, then..." 

But for me, it's a bit more challenging. I've always known getting rid of stuff stresses me out. Not food, so much. It's clothes and shoes and toys and books. I remember as a kid, feeling a deep sense of remorse and guilt while putting toys in a donation bag, like I was hurting the toy's feelings. Now, it's a little different. I think I might wear those shoes again, or maybe I could cut off those jeans of Brynn's and make them a skirt, or maybe R2 actually cares about that toy and he'll just wander around silently, looking for it.

Yesterday, I went through all of Brynn's stuff, and I actually cried. What a wuss. It was hard, though, putting things that she looked so cute in in a bag, knowing that I was acknowledging that that stage of her life is over forever. Jeez. 

A couple of times a year, I go find one of those reality shows about hoarders and scare myself silly. Because these mentally ill women with bags full of rotting pumpkins or whatever SAY things that I say. And a lot of time, most of the time, the hoarding became a serious issue after losing a child. I watch it in horror, and then I tell the MOG to throw away everything I own, and just don't tell me. Just wait till I'm gone and throw it all away. I will be fine. I will gripe, and maybe I will buy 2 hair dryers from the thrift store, just in case one breaks, and then I will be fine. Right?