Confessions of a Pack Rat

I did some spring cleaning this past Saturday, and all I kept thinking was “where did all this crap come from?!” I kept finding stuff in the most unusual places. I must have taken at least 4 bags of trash to the chute, and I haven’t even tackled the den yet. We live in a two bedroom apartment, but somehow have managed to accumulate stuff as if we lived in a five bedroom house.

 I really do try to get rid of things, but it’s hard. Now, I highly doubt that I’m on my way to an episode of “Hoarders,” I just like to keep things that have meaning to me. Like the movie stubs from the first movie the bf (Dennis) and I saw together. Or the napkins from our first vacation together, that I insist I’m going to put in our travel scrapbook. You know, the one that I haven’t started in the five years we’ve been together, but I keep collecting things from all of our travels for. And I am adult enough to say that, yes, it’s all my fault. Although, not entirely. I come from a long line of pack rats.

When my grandfather passed, it took FOREVER to go through his things. Actually, I think there’s still stuff in his house that’s been empty for over ten years. I remember sitting with him at the dining table, a cigarette hanging from his lips, going through a box of screws, nails and bolts because he was fixing something. I asked him why he has a box of that. He gave me the pack rat’s motto: “You never know when you’re going to need it.”

When I was growing up, my mother had a collection of old Reader’s Digest and Burda magazines dating back to 1971. Burda is this magazine, from Germany I think, with patterns for people who sew. She would make dresses for my dolls. One of the most comforting sounds of my childhood was my mom’s sewing machine, and the sound the metal pedal made when she took her foot off it and it plopped back on the tile… Anyhoo, my mom kept those magazines like they were a long lost child that she needed to protect. Oh, and her extensive Agatha Christie collection. Those were precious! As I got older, it kind of became a running joke in the family, mom and her Burdas.

I guess that stuck with me, because this was a scenario Saturday:

Me: “Oooh, the ‘Vanity Fair’ with Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattison in it. I should recycle that.”

(Blank stare, puts it back in the magazine rack).

I have tickets from shows I went to during college, Dominican currency that isn’t printed anymore, deflated helium balloons, birthday cards, the whiteboard that used to be on my door in my dorm, palm cards from events I worked on, comic strips that I liked, and the list goes on and on.

As much as I try to throw things out, I can’t. As soon as I touch something, I remember that moment. I remember coming back from class to a message from my roommate on the board, walking down the block to the store to buy candy with the 5 pesos my mom would give us for our weekly allowance. I want to remember those moments.

So maybe I won’t stop being a pack rat, I’ll just regress to being a cute little organized pack mouse. Maybe I’ll start consolidating and organizing, and putting all my memories in boxes. Pretty boxes, not the kind you get from Publix to move. And right next to that, I’ll put another pretty box with screws, nails, buttons, chopsticks, string, ribbon, hot sauce from Taco Bell, remotes for TVs, manuals for said TVs, a squirt gun, bolts, needles, thread, birthday candles and USB cables. Because I know the day will come when I’m going to need it.