Tuesday, August 20, 2013


Her Stuff. My stuff. Her stuff becomes my stuff. I am beginning to forget which is my stuff and which is hers. I have a lot of stuff. I feel shame over this, but truth is about 10-20 of these packed boxes from the condo are marked eBay. Stuff I can't bear to throw away. Stuff that might be worth some money. Now I have 20+ more boxes of her stuff to add to my eBay inventory. I am truly my mother's blood kin. Respectable member of a hoarder family.

I lie awake thinking about what could happen to my stuff. I can't leave the door ajar without worrying about someone slipping in to steal my stuff. I hesitate having a yard sale because a.) People would see all my stuff, b.) There is so much stuff it's overwhelming.

When I go out I mentally checklist the locks and windows to make sure nobody takes my stuff. I believe I may be more fixated on my stuff than concerned for my own bodily safety.

How is it I can have so much stuff and have nothing to work with? The gutters need cleaning on the back of the house--all I have is this puny ladder barely taller than me. I have spent 2.5 weeks with AT&T desperately trying to get internet access; I am now the proud owner of two additional modems and still no internet—oh wait, yes I do, FINALLY. God dam AT&T to hell.

I guess my fixation with stuff extends to other people's stuff, because I still have my sister-in-law's sponge mop, bleach and garbage bags and I'm anxious to get them back to her. I think she's forgotten them! Some people are chill about stuff.

Tommie was a woman all about stuff. Forty years of mail, bottles, Christmas stuff. Great clothes and shoes. Good quality too. In her later years she made use of giant pill bottles for keeping stuff like nails, keys, pencils and rubber bands. I can't imagine the horse pills she had to take that came in bottles so big.

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