Like millions of Americans, you may have difficulty parting with excess personal items that have outlived their usefulness. To determine whether you exhibit any telltale signs of so-called “packrat” behavior, take this short quiz:
1. Whenever you misplace your keys, you usually:
A: Find them within a few minutes
B: Search for a while before they turn up
C. Don’t worry about them, since you can’t find your car either.
2. You’ve just finished reading a newspaper article that a friend might appreciate. You:
A. Make a mental note to mention it the next time you two speak
B. Cut out the article and mail it to him or her
C. Save the entire newspaper and search for a place in your house not currently occupied by all the other newspapers you’re saving — maybe the refrigerator.
3. When guests come over to visit, you typically:
A: Tidy up a little, but nothing substantial
B: Cram all the extra stuff lying around into one room
C: Lose them
If you answered “C” to any of these questions, you may have a problem. You may also, I suspect, own a large number of cats.
But who cares if you dotend to hang on to items others might not deem particularly valuable? You never know what kind of national security crisis might arise when 1,500 cardboard toilet paper tubes will come in handy.
Besides, this so-called “problem” has a long and proud tradition in this country. Certain Native American tribes are still widely admired for never throwing away any part of the buffalo they killed. Of course, how they used some of those parts remains unclear.
Native American Wife: “Look at this mess! There must be at least 200 hooves lying around. Can’t you just throw them out?”
Native American Husband: What? Have you forgotten that we have a reputation to uphold? Besides, you know what happens whenever I see garbage thrown away. Or do you want to make me cry?”
My wife has recently pledged to try to eliminate some of the detritus cluttering up our lives, a move I applaud. Except that, in casting her gaze across the old umbrellas, boxes of worn out t-shirts, piles of National Geographics and countless other mystery articles that fill our home (“What on earth is this? It looks like, could it be … a hoof?), she has decided that the first item to go should be: my car.
Sadly, her desire to purge my 1995 Plymouth Neon is propelled by purely emotional arguments. Like that it’s a 13-year-old piece of junk worth less than half what we pay to insure it every year. Also that it frequently overheats. And has a leaky head gasket, a cracked windshield, and that the wipers, speedometer, radio and tape deck don’t work. Not to mention a paint job that led our friend Kevin to dub the vehicle “Chip.” Oh, and that the interior reeks badly of gasoline fumes. Like I said, purely emotional.
I try to counter with unassailable logic such as that “Chip” and I have been through a lot together, like the time it broke down in a dodgy part of Washington and I spent the night crouched under a blanket in the backseat while rovingbands of toughs approached to argue whether my hubcaps were worth stealing (answer: no). Times like that you don’t just forget about — not without intensive therapy, anyway.
Since I want to hold on to my car, it looks like I may need to find her a different project besides clearing out our clutter. Which is why, after giving the matter a great deal of thought, I’ve decided what we really need is to get another cat.
Examiner columnist Malcolm Fleschner proudly uses every part of the Buffalo Bills bar cocktail set he owns.
