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Aug 28, 2004 After my ill-fated cry for help to the Garage Sale Guru (see previous article) made the rounds, I received an avalanche of mail and a flood of support from fellow sufferers. I felt just like the alcoholic who has admitted he has a problem at my first AA meeting, because many brave individuals have come forth in a spirit of fellowship and confessed their own subconsciously accumulated assortment of questionable, sundry useless things that choke their living spaces and strangle any hope at a feature in Better Homes and Gardens. One unfortunate lady bespoke the need for warning placards at both front and back entrances of her home (and had toyed with the idea of placing them in the windows as well). She also asked me what she should do, and I helpfully reminded her that if she had a homeowner’s insurance policy, perhaps she could increase the liability and then would therefore have nothing to worry about should someone get hurt in there. However, large, reflective “Danger” signs with easily recognizable stick people suffering all sorts of dire injury and possibly deaths could be an intelligent precaution if she feared personal injury lawsuits that might exceed her policy limits. I then asked her if she had considered building on a room or buying a spacious utility shed (lots of crap can be concealed in there)—or barring that, did she have room to move her furniture inward from the walls a foot or two? All manner of embarrassing objects can efficiently and quickly be crammed behind a sofa or recliner. I believe I’ve just uncovered yet another symptom of this dread condition. Do you break into a sweat when a car pulls into your drive? Do you frantically gather up jockstraps, dirty clothes, empty food containers and the like, running madly (think “cockroach” when the lights come on) from place to place hoping to find a place to shove it before the doorbell rings? Do you cram dirty dishes into the dark interior of your oven when a visitor threatens? To keep focused on the problem at hand, I will forgo the inclusion of the ancillary symptoms of child- induced dementia that determines you will habitually forget the dishes, preheat the oven for dinner, and melt the handles off your pots and pans before you remember it. With all this in mind, I realize that I am not, in fact, the only one suffering from the Crap Collecting Syndrome (CCS) or its related conditions. It seems as though it might be a fairly widespread affliction. And thus encouraged, I stand before you and say, “My name is Anne, and I am a crap collector. I live in a seething nest of contributors and enablers of which I have little hope of escaping and recovery is probably just an elusive dream. But I shall do my best.” I’ve tried to protest and deny it for many years, although the evidence has been before me my entire life. Denial is a terrible thing. Yes, I’m guilty of stacking it floor to rafters in my garage, my bedroom, and other areas out of sight of the general public. I am known to do a “crap locate and frantic crap toss” to the less obvious corners of the house when company is expected, because invariably, the crap will overflow its previous boundaries and make its way into the general living spaces of my home. So alas, I have no choice but to finally come clean on the issue. I realize there is now a whole new sector of the population to whom I might now possibly cause offense—other than just my family, friends, and the occasional innocent bystander. But really, if this is a hidden problem clinging to the dark underbelly of society or perhaps an angry pimple on its broad backside, then perhaps I have a responsibility to drag it out into the light of day, or at the very least give it a hearty squeeze. I will fear no evil, even if the contents of my garage scare the daylights out of me. I will not be afraid…I will not be afraid. Perhaps I could spearhead a new 12-step program… I mean after all, they have them for everything now, why not crap collecting? It probably does meet all of the necessary criteria. It’s obviously hereditary (would that make me a “crap baby”??). I believe it can possibly be a learned behavior—and with no real scientific studies or data to rely on—I tend to believe it could be a strange combination of both nature and nurture. I can see the genetic evidence right here in my own children. Now I’ve already confessed all the sins of my forefathers and those of my husband’s family as well (See Garage Sale Guru for more sordid details) but I have to admit that my children are already showing a well-developed tendency to collect crap…any crap at all will do. They lack any sense of taste or discretion whatsoever—a sure sign of a well advanced case. In proof of my theory, I offer Exhibits A, B & C: Their bedrooms. Stand in the doorway of any of their lairs and I DEFY you to find the floor. Go ahead. You can try, but trust me; it ain’t gonna happen here, there or anywhere for that matter. I’ve noticed though, that from certain angles, the beds can be identified by the sheer height of the pile, but not always. Never assume anything when crossing the borders of insanity or you might end up never finding your way out. A cautious approach is always recommended and I can’t stress enough the importance of personal safety when approaching a child’s bedroom (the gaping maw of the monster or maybe it’s the Gates of Hell; never could make up my mind on that one—depends on your point of view, I guess) who is afflicted with CCS. I’ve stood paralyzed with fear at this horrifying border myself many times, with a handful of breadcrumbs in hopes that I might find my way back out, ala Hansel and Gretel. I quickly discarded that plan, because I don’t know what actually might LIVE in there. Sometimes things move, apparently independent of human agency, so this approach may not be recommended, as the breadcrumbs are consumable and therefore not reliable. Eventually I settled for a rope wrapped tightly about my waist and tied securely to the stairwell. It was close thing, but I lived to tell the tale. Looking back, I believe my daughter first exhibited symptoms at…well, she had just graduated from her infant carrier to sitting upright in the baby prison at the front of a shopping cart. The first incident happened in the winter and I remember it well because she had a snowsuit on. You know…the kind that makes a baby look rather like an overstuffed marshmallow with appendages? It was warm in the store, so I unzipped her snowsuit and properly restrained her (tied her down) in the seat. From this new upright vantage point, the store presented all kinds of fascinations for her. I remember her chubby little hands reaching longingly toward items that were just out of her grasping reach…or so I thought at the time. I didn’t actually see her TAKE anything… We proceeded through the check out lane (a mother’s hell if ever there was one). I paid for the groceries, watched the bag-boy smash my loaf of bread under the 12-pack of Coke and then headed innocently for the car. I unloaded the forty or so bags from the cart and then turned and unsnapped my sweet baby girl who was grinning at me sweetly as I lifted her out of the cart. The snowsuit was a little big on her and it didn’t fit all that closely around the ankles, so it was only natural that the $50 or $60 worth of crap she had somehow stashed inside her snowsuit (I had thoughtfully zipped it up before we left the checkout) came out the legs. I had her in my arms and looked down to find more that she had shoved under her bottom in the seat. It’s a sad state affairs when the mother of a 10 month-old infant is reduced to conducting “shake- downs” before exiting a store—a clear and unmistakable early symptom of crap-collecting if ever there was one. She had everything in there from Bic pens to Vienna sausages, not to mention a fairly wide assortment of candy, gum and breath-mints she helped herself to right under the cashier’s nose while I was monitoring prices, fooling with coupons and writing a check. Now that, my friends, is dedication to the cause! So for the sake of my fellow sufferers, I have penned a Serenity Prayer for us all, to help remind us of where we have been and where we are going. God, grant me the serenity To accept the crap I cannot part with The power to sell the crap I can And the wisdom to know the difference (Or a bulldozer if I can’t tell) Amen ------------ About the author: Anne Eldridge is the author of "Olivia's Story" and an upcoming novel titled "Precognition". For excerpts of both, stop by her website at: www.bdwinternet.com/eldridge Email: AnneEldridge@msn.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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