The Hoarder!

The Hyphenator! is afraid one day she will become The Hoarder!

After reading a column by Mark Morford on SFGate.com about crazy cat ladies and hoarders, I find myself horrified and yet enthralled by these stories of women who have houses full of cats and piles and piles of crap. Every once in a while, I'll come across these stories in the news, and for a period of time I was addicted to Animal Planet shows such as "Animal Cops" because they showed cases of abused animals being rescued from their terrible owners.

I think the crazy cat ladies began with the best of intentions -- taking in stray cats or adopting homeless ones -- and may have just become overwhelmed when the cats started having litters of kittens. And then the litters of kittens grew up to have their own litters of kittens. Next thing you know, dead cat corpses are filling trash bag after trash bag.

It gets so bad that the stench of urine, feces, and diseased and dead cats drives neighbors to complain to authorities, when it's way too late to help these animals. The cats are diseased and feral, and cannot be saved or adopted.

When I read about hoarders who have mounds of newspapers, magazines, and junk in their homes to the point that they become uninhabitable, I sometimes think of my grandfather and also worry I'll become one myself.

My grandfather's hoarding can be easily explained. Mine on the other hand is questionable. Not to say that either one of us lived or lives in a home that ought to be condemned, although my mom might disagree with that statement.

My grandfather lived through the Depression, and like many other Depression-era kids, he lived his life influenced by his early experiences. In his cupboards and basement, he stockpiled cans of food with "Best when used by" dates that had long since passed. I remember visiting him and every time I opened his refrigerator or freezer, I'd see it jam-packed with food (he lived alone, mind you). I never wanted to know what was hidden in the back of the refrigerator. He had a deep freezer chest that my parents cleaned out after he passed away. They found neatly labeled and packaged pheasants that someone had given him 20 years ago after a hunting trip.

Piles of brown paper and plastic bags lined his breezeway. He never owned a microwave, but he loved his toaster oven. In fact, he kept two of his old ones on a table in the breezeway, next to the stacked plastic containers and lids. On his kitchen countertops (what you could see of them), used tinfoil, plastic wrap, and Ziploc bags sat out, waiting to be reused ... again.

Up in the attic, trunks were filled with brand-new blankets, still in their original packaging. My mom donated garbage bags full of old clothes to Goodwill. Seems he never gave anything away, not even pants from his days as a svelte younger man.

Me? I have no excuse. I admit I have a hard time throwing stuff out. I keep junk for reference or for nostalgia. I haven't thrown out a movie ticket stub in ages. I used to write on the back of tickets the names of the people I watched the movies with, along with date and time (this was before the nice, computerized tickets you get now that have detailed information on them). I often mix up which movie I saw with whom ("Didn't I see that movie with you?" "No, dear, that was someone else.")

I've got old clothes from my school days: fluorescent Umbro shorts, Hard Rock T-shirts from all my traveling, and every single semiformal dress I ever wore to a dance, homecoming and prom (I figure my daughter will one day love playing dress-up with them). Suprisingly, I threw away a whole shopping bag of old shoes a few weeks ago. My fiancé was shocked. They were so old and falling apart that I decided that even though they reminded me of happy times dancing the night away, I had to get rid of them. Besides, have to make room for the new shoes!

Boxes in various sizes and packaging material (bubble wrap, packing peanuts, etc.) clutter my home office. You never know when you have to mail a gift or package to someone. Old magazines and catalogs are stacked underneath our coffee table, and receipts for groceries, restaurants, gas, clothes and wedding supplies are piled high on my desk.

My garage space is filled with empty, good boxes (the ones that have handle openings) for my next move, so that I can't actually park my car in the spot. I pay extra for a parking spot (necessary in San Fran), but instead use it for storage.

In one box in my garage, I have magazines that I couldn't bear to part with, even when I packed up and moved 2,000 miles away. Old celebrity hearthrobs grace the covers of some of the teen magazines, while models I found to be beautiful when I was younger (and even today) are on others.

To make things worse, my parents gave me all my childhood toys and books before I moved. I love having them, but aren't parents suppose to keep that kind of stuff? Then one day you discover them when you're cleaning out your deceased parents' home?

You'd think I would have seized on the excuse of moving across the country to throw out a lot of junk I'd collected over the years. You'd think so.

I did throw out some stuff and gave away other possessions: some plants (hopefully, they found a new owner who would remember to water them), a stereo system in which the CD player didn't work anymore but I kept anyway because I bought a portable CD boombox to listen to CDs, and an ancient JCPenney color television that my fiancé insisted I get rid of (hey, it had a remote and still worked). Luckily, one of my good friends saw the value in them that I did and took them.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't thrown away certain things, like my journals. (I know, I keep old teen magazines, but throw out my personal journals. Sigh.) Ever since middle school, I had kept a journal, detailing my crushes, heartbreaks, anger, disappointments and dreams. They filled two boxes, which I convinced myself to throw out since moving to California was suppose to be a new beginning. I regret that decision now. My friend jokes that some bum is reading my life story while sitting in a landfill.

I also miss my old bed terribly. When I moved into my first apartment, my parents bought me the bed, but I don't miss it for nostalgic reason. It was so comfy that I could sleep the night and day away in that bed. But alas it was only full size. My fiancé had a queen bed (a rock hard one) already, so I gave my bed to my parents for their spare bedroom (at least I get to reunite with my bed when I go home to visit). I wonder if my more frequent talking in my sleep is due to my fiancé's uncomfortable bed.

More and more I'm starting to believe that I shouldn't throw stuff away, unless of course it truly is garbage or a health hazard. Little things, even receipts, can trigger a memory. They help me remember when certain events happened or when I traveled where. Besides, without journal writing now, I need them more than ever.

You'd think my fiancé and I would be drowning in all my junk, but we're not. I'm very good about organizing, storing and hiding things in our apartment: in closets, in cupboards, under the bed, etc. We even have room for a pet.

Unfortunately, pets aren't allowed in our current place. I do not want to move again for a while, but when we do finally pick up and move, I'm making sure we can have a cat ... or two. I'd love to have a male and a female cat so that we can have a litter of kittens. One day, maybe you'll hear about me on the news -- the crazy, hoarding cat lady!