“It’s a little bit…busy in here, don’t you think?”
My Mother’s been openly critical of my home during her last few visits – she thinks that I need to put some of my things in storage.
I spend quite a bit of my time at home, that’s why I’ve populated it with dozens of trinkets, bric-a-brac and ornaments. It’s not as if I spend all my time wandering around my house like it’s a museum exhibit, I’ve just got used to a certain lifestyle and that lifestyle involves numerous tightly arranged items gazing at me from mantelpieces and shelves all around the house. The faces of miniature glass deer stare out vacantly from their carefully positioned crannies in the kitchen. Finely crafted crystal hangs suspended from the ceiling, vases crowd shelves and souvenir crystal balls perch precariously on dressers.
Yes: It’s a lot of dusting. No: It doesn’t ever get done.
Perhaps it’s the dusting workload that my Mother finds troubling. Don’t forget, all that time spent inside attempting to dust novelty ornaments is time that I’m not spending out in the ‘real world’ meeting potential husbands.
Regardless of her motives, when a sexagenarian starts hinting that you have a hoarding problem, it’s probably time to start packing a few things into storage.
I rent a lock-up off one of Mother’s friends, just around the corner from my home – it’s a 3×6 metre space that is slowly starting to resemble that warehouse from the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Unlike my rather ramshackle home I’ve kept my little storage space pretty well ordered. One simply constructed metal shelf runs down the centre of the space and both walls on either side have been fitted with similar shelf brackets, that are starting to get a little full.
When I started storing things in here I thought I’d never fill the space. Over the years though, my buying habits grew more extravagant, until I found myself sneaking around the corner to the garage every other month or so. I began with plastic boxes, thinking that I’d only be holding onto certain items for a few weeks at most, but soon I found that I was in need of even more space. The plastic boxes gave way to wooden packing crates, then the crates started multiplying until I’d reached the aforementioned Area 51-style warehouse situation that I’m in now.
Once more the shelves have been cleared in every room of the house, with only a handful of my favourites being left behind in strategically placed positions. The glass deer have been slyly shifted into less conspicuous positions, the (rather dangerous) hanging crystal has been carefully packed away and I’m now happy to say that the dusting has gotten to be a lot more manageable.
My Mother recognised the effort that I’d made as soon as she came in. Her eyebrows arched and there was a perceptible nod of approval.
“That cubby-hole of yours must be getting pretty full now.”