So I love my husband, I do, I do. But one of my biggest pet peeves about him is that he LOVES to buy. And somewhat related to that, he can’t stand to throw anything away. Now, I’m someone who may keep things for a while, but will periodically go on cleaning frenzies where I’ll toss out my left foot if I decide that I haven’t used it for a while. So obviously, I don’t get this particular trait AT ALL. I’m pretty sure G’s got boxes of term papers from college, ashtrays made when he was 5, and receipts dating back to the dark ages. Because yes, he’s that old.
On the buying front, our garage also contains enough garbanzo beans to feed an army, cases of various juices that just “sounded good” but turned out to be disgusting, and diapers for when the little D turns 5 (because Cost-Co happened to be having a sale and who cares if she can’t wear a size 10 just yet). If the world is engulfed in a nuclear war, our family will be able to sustain ourselves in our garage for a good month. Assuming of course that we’re able to get to anything with all the other stuff piled over it. Last week, I had do some acrobatics (climbing over boxes, squeezing through stacks of who knows what) to reach a little bag of rice that was in our garage cupboard. Every effort I make to clean out our freezers so I can actually see what’s in there is countered by, “Oh look at that! There’s more room for more stuff. Awesome!” As many of you know, G is probably one of Cost-co’s best customers (and best returners, because he’ll be eventually able to scrounge up a receipt from 5 years ago to return that box of almonds we bought back then and opened but decided we didn’t like).
The other night, I was clearing one of our end tables in preparation for the maids and came across a weird box of black charcoal-y looking things. Included in the vicinity was some paperwork from some lab of some sort. Assuming it was junk mail, I started to throw it away. But no, it turned out it was a valuable test ordered by my husband to check the presence of radon in our homes.
“What does that mean?” I asked, because I'm such an excellent communicator that way.
“What do you mean, what does it mean? It tests for radon.”
“Yeah, but what makes you think we have radon in our homes?"
“I don’t know. We might.”
“What is radon anyway and how would we have gotten it in our homes?”
“I don’t know, I guess sometimes it’s just there.”
“I don’t get it. I mean, radon is a gas right? Does it emanate from the stove tops?”
“I DON’T know.”
“How does the test work?”
“I don’t know. You test and send out for the results.”
And round and round we went. I honestly wasn’t trying to give him the third degree to start. I was just perplexed and curious about how this sudden need to test our house, but G’s short responses just frustrated me more and more. It was only about 10 minutes into this rigmarole that I realized that G wasn’t trying to be evasive. Clearly, this is what happened: he saw something somewhere talking about radon emissions and decided to send out for the test. This could have been anywhere from a few months to a year ago. Since then, he’d forgotten all about it. But of course didn’t have the heart to toss the test out because who knows why it sounded important to him at the time. And possibly my endless questioning frustrated him because he couldn’t remember jack squat.
This is how most of the junk around our house piles up. At some time or another, it sounded “cool.” At any given time, you could come over to our house and we’d be able to scrounge up all kinds of snacks that we haven’t eaten because we simply haven’t remembered that we had them at all. When my mom was here, she mentioned that she found some cashew things under the laundry in the garage, and she hoped she didn’t mind but she broke open the bag to have some. The little D likes bubbles, so of course someone went out and bought not your average soap bottle/bubble blower but a monster, battery-operated bubble shooter. That we can’t use in the house because it leaves a soapy residue throughout the entire room. So of course now, it sits in the garage after we used it for maybe 10 minutes.
Our fights on the issue follow pretty much the same pattern. I complain, G might stop for a while, and then, within a few weeks, buy more. Or he finds ways around my complaints. For example, I told him he wasn’t allowed to buy food at Cost-co until we make a dent in what we already have. He's abided by that rule, but later in the week, shipments started to arrive from Amazon containing, you guessed it, food. None of it is perishable, is probably his favorite defense. We could have it for years before it goes bad.
So, any tips for living with a hoarder/compulsive shopper?
On the buying front, our garage also contains enough garbanzo beans to feed an army, cases of various juices that just “sounded good” but turned out to be disgusting, and diapers for when the little D turns 5 (because Cost-Co happened to be having a sale and who cares if she can’t wear a size 10 just yet). If the world is engulfed in a nuclear war, our family will be able to sustain ourselves in our garage for a good month. Assuming of course that we’re able to get to anything with all the other stuff piled over it. Last week, I had do some acrobatics (climbing over boxes, squeezing through stacks of who knows what) to reach a little bag of rice that was in our garage cupboard. Every effort I make to clean out our freezers so I can actually see what’s in there is countered by, “Oh look at that! There’s more room for more stuff. Awesome!” As many of you know, G is probably one of Cost-co’s best customers (and best returners, because he’ll be eventually able to scrounge up a receipt from 5 years ago to return that box of almonds we bought back then and opened but decided we didn’t like).
The other night, I was clearing one of our end tables in preparation for the maids and came across a weird box of black charcoal-y looking things. Included in the vicinity was some paperwork from some lab of some sort. Assuming it was junk mail, I started to throw it away. But no, it turned out it was a valuable test ordered by my husband to check the presence of radon in our homes.
“What does that mean?” I asked, because I'm such an excellent communicator that way.
“What do you mean, what does it mean? It tests for radon.”
“Yeah, but what makes you think we have radon in our homes?"
“I don’t know. We might.”
“What is radon anyway and how would we have gotten it in our homes?”
“I don’t know, I guess sometimes it’s just there.”
“I don’t get it. I mean, radon is a gas right? Does it emanate from the stove tops?”
“I DON’T know.”
“How does the test work?”
“I don’t know. You test and send out for the results.”
And round and round we went. I honestly wasn’t trying to give him the third degree to start. I was just perplexed and curious about how this sudden need to test our house, but G’s short responses just frustrated me more and more. It was only about 10 minutes into this rigmarole that I realized that G wasn’t trying to be evasive. Clearly, this is what happened: he saw something somewhere talking about radon emissions and decided to send out for the test. This could have been anywhere from a few months to a year ago. Since then, he’d forgotten all about it. But of course didn’t have the heart to toss the test out because who knows why it sounded important to him at the time. And possibly my endless questioning frustrated him because he couldn’t remember jack squat.
This is how most of the junk around our house piles up. At some time or another, it sounded “cool.” At any given time, you could come over to our house and we’d be able to scrounge up all kinds of snacks that we haven’t eaten because we simply haven’t remembered that we had them at all. When my mom was here, she mentioned that she found some cashew things under the laundry in the garage, and she hoped she didn’t mind but she broke open the bag to have some. The little D likes bubbles, so of course someone went out and bought not your average soap bottle/bubble blower but a monster, battery-operated bubble shooter. That we can’t use in the house because it leaves a soapy residue throughout the entire room. So of course now, it sits in the garage after we used it for maybe 10 minutes.
Our fights on the issue follow pretty much the same pattern. I complain, G might stop for a while, and then, within a few weeks, buy more. Or he finds ways around my complaints. For example, I told him he wasn’t allowed to buy food at Cost-co until we make a dent in what we already have. He's abided by that rule, but later in the week, shipments started to arrive from Amazon containing, you guessed it, food. None of it is perishable, is probably his favorite defense. We could have it for years before it goes bad.
So, any tips for living with a hoarder/compulsive shopper?
No tips, but if you find a solution let me know. My husband does the same thing, but with thrift stores. So he'll come home with things we "might need someday". Like the dowel on suction cups that's supposedly some sort of a towel rack and is currently living on the floor of our bathroom (where it's been for at least 2 weeks) waiting to find its new home. His defense is that it's cheap.
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