True Confessions Of A Hoarder

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1

Iɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴀʀᴅ ɪs ᴅɪsᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ.

Somehow, at the age of 45, I have managed to collect enough items to fill my small house from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. There's hardly enough room for us humans.

My husband, Ron, doesn't appreciate my stuff which he calls a "hoard." I think the more appropriate term would be "mess." Anyway, Ron and I get into a lot of arguments over my stuff. He says that I need to get rid of it, and I say that I have nowhere else to put it. Ron gets mad because I won't let him get rid of anything unless he puts it in storage. He won't. He insists that my items are junk. I beg to differ.

All of my items serve a purpose. That pack of socks over there? Those are for my son Jamie, but Jamie can't fit in them anymore, so I keep them in case someone else can fit in them. That stack of towels over there? I can't reach them for the boxes of clothes in my way. See? All my items have purposes and reasons they are where they are. Ron just can't see that.

My daughter, Amy, still has some baby toys she might want to use for her future kids. She may be 14, but she'll have kids someday.

Amy's not too happy about the current "situation" of the house. She won't invite her friends over because she's embarrassed that she'll be made fun of. I keep telling her that it's nothing to be ashamed of, it's just a little mess, but Amy gets prissy and goes to her room.

Sometimes I wish she wouldn't be such a teenager, but then I guess that wouldn't be normal, so I leave her be. She can feel how she wants. Everybody has a little mess in their home. My mess just happens to be a little bigger than usual, but that's alright. A little mess never hurt anyone.

Well, my "blissful ignorance" as Ron likes to call it, is made apparent when my sister, Ally, suddenly shows up in my kitchen.

"Who let you in here?" I ask her, watching as she looks around the house in shock and disgust. I don't know what she's disgusted for, she was the one that waltzed in here like she owned the place.

"I can't believe you live in this filth," she says, tearing up like a child.

"You're such a child. I do not live in filth," I say, rolling my eyes. How rude could she be?

"Tammy, if this hoard is not cleaned up, I'm taking your children with me. Am I clear?" She asks. I roll my eyes.

"Well, you're the one busting up in here like you own the place! There's a reason I never invite you over here, and this is it. Now get out. You're pissing me off," I tell her, clearly done with her for the day.

However, the insistent hussy doesn't leave. Instead, she stands there with her arms crossed against her chest, tapping her foot.

"Tammy, I'm serious. Clean or I take your kids."

She turns around and walks out, stumbling on a pile of papers. I laugh at her near-fall.

What a hussy.