When it comes to material possessions, I’m closer to Fred Sanford than Gandhi. I’m moving later this summer and already I’m so tired of hearing everyone say, “Oh, you’re moving—that’s a great time to get rid of all of your stuff.”
Ummmm, did I say that’s what I wanted to do? I understand the general purge of useless crap that occurs when moving, i.e. old take-out menus in the kitchen junk drawer, dust-covered cat toys that got kicked under the couch during the Clinton administration, or 1999’s tax returns. But I have no intention of parting with everything else and I’m starting to resent the implication that I’m one of those crazy-but-doesn’t-know-it people featured on a Fox 9 Investigates segment about garbage houses—you know, the wingnuts who see nothing wrong with sleeping on an artificial Christmas tree and a pile of used pull tabs. I promise you that in order to answer the phone in my apartment, you won’t need to step over any food product, empty Huggies boxes, or hamster feces.
The reality is that I will be losing square footage and therefore will have to be more creative and selective about what is on display in living areas and what remains boxed in the basement. Therein lays my problem. I like to know that I can look at my stuff on a moment’s notice. If I want to refer back to an old Q magazine article on the Verve, I don’t want to run the risk of seeing water bugs to do it.
I like stuff. Stuff makes me comfortable. To know me is to know my stuff. I’ve never understood people who don’t have stuff. I don’t trust people who fill the voids in their lives with family and meaningful careers. It’s important for me to point out that when I talk about my love of stuff, I can safely separate myself from the “bad people who like bad stuff.” You know, there’s a big difference between measuring your self-worth based on the ownership of new cars, bling, and children—and, say, vintage lampshades, Dean Martin biographies, and thirty-eight pairs of clunky black boots.
Dig if you will this picture: My ultimate fantasy house would be the Addams Family’s altogether ooky crib. My perfect bedroom resembles the inside of I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle. Blank walls and tasteful open spaces break my heart. If you have extra space in your closet, you obviously don’t own enough 1930s dress mannequins.
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