A-Hoarding We Will Go

We are a family of hoarders. Hoarders. Not that other word, like
when my friend Jim the 5th Grade Teacher told the kids if they
didn't turn in homework, he would be a Holy Horror...and one
boy went home and asked his dad, "Can men be wh*res?"

I mean the kind of people who save things like they're goin' out
of style. My Hillbilly Husband hoards everything: old tires, doors,
windows, vinyl siding, cedar siding, pipe, tile, wire, cabinets,
wooden crates, life jackets, rugs, beer and Coke memorabilia.
I'm surprised he wasn't the one running that salvage crew that
picked up Sigourney Weaver's shuttle from the Nostromo in
Aliens. I just looked at the top of my kitchen cabinets to count his
little six-packs of 8 oz. Coke bottles. 20. That's 20 six-packs,
plus about 20 oddball single bottles of various sodas. The Cokes
are full. That's a lot of weight on my cabinets. Some day they might
come crashing down on me as I cook. Hey! It could happen! I
make Chex Mix twice a year. I'll make it any time Redneck Diva
drops in, too.

Which reminds me...while counting the Cokes, I spied HH's
ceramic rooster that I HATE! I thought I had lost it when we
moved. I used to put it under the sink in our old house, but
HH would find it and set it on the windowsill. And there is was,
looking down on me from the end cabinet, right above the sink.
I don't know how long it's been watching me. When the boys
get back from their overnight stay at Grandma's, you can bet
one of them is going chicken-plucking. I'll hide that thing good
this time. I don't know why HH likes the cheap ceramic knick-
knacks. He saved some from my childhood bedroom. One
still had a Woolworth's sticker on the bottom. I think it was
25 cents. Don't worry, Diva. That ol' chicken won't be here
when you show up.

We don't really need the life jackets. We used to have a little bitty
pontoon boat, and HH's two older boys had to wear them out on
the lake. We got one for our #2 son for the pool, because it was
over his head. Now he can tip-toe and get his nose above the
water line, so we've thrown caution to the winds, and let him go
without it. He's fine as long as he keeps his mouth shut. And
there are no waves. He can dogpaddle to the side, too. Out in
the garage, we have about 8 life jackets. We could build our own
raft out of them and go Huck Finn-ing up the Mississippi, I guess.

My boys are also hoarders. #1 son, for instance, hoards dirty
underwear. He's not kinky. He's lazy. I nagged at him back in
April that I couldn't find his underwear in the laundry. I bought
another pack. He never knew what happened to it. Then when
I had the Not-Type A Influenza in May, I slept in his room on
the bottom bunk. He didn't care. He sleeps in the basement.
He came up one morning amidst my coughing fit, and I croaked,
"What's that junk over there by the closet?" He said, "Oh, that's
just the underwear pile." Mystery solved. That boy also hoards
scissors, tape, glue, rulers, pencils, and pens. He's a bit of a
nerd. I can't find these stashes. I have to buy scissors about once
a month, and pencils once a week during school.

The #2 son hoards rocks. Or to hear him tell it, crystals. I suppose
he's going to become a New-Age healer. He picks them up on the
school playground, and I find them in the washer. At least they are
clean. I don't know how he picked up a habit creek rocks like this.

I confess. I, too, am a hoarder. At home, I hoard books. I can't
throw them away. I can't give them away. I loan them out, but I
want them back. I read them over and over. I still have one of my
teaching buddy Mabel's John Grishams. It is sitting high up on the
shelf, looking over my shoulder. The Pelican Brief. He mocks me.
I know how Poe felt about that Raven.

I also hoard dirty dishes on the counter by the sink, and loads and
loads of clean unfolded laundry on top of the dryer. It's a regular
Leaning Tower of Apparel. I think JustLinda has one at her house,
too, unless she sacrificed it to the Nanny gods.

At school, I hoard paper plates and plastic spoons. You don't
understand. It is hard to remember to bring paper plates from
home. I am not an animal. I have spent many a lunch shift eating
off a brown school paper towel. I'm talking the good paper plates,
the plastic red or blue Solo plates. They don't get dirty from a little
ol' sandwich lying on them. I wipe it off each day. Mr. S thinks this
is funny. He volunteers to throw away my trash every day. Cause
that's a perk to having lunch with 5 penises. They are chivalrous
redneck penises. Even if it's my duty week, I know they would
jump to my aid if a fight were to break out. Because redneck guys
are OH SO PROTECTIVE of their womenfolk, if they're not busy
beating them themselves. Anyhoo, Mr. S would reach for my
baggie or wrapper, and would say, "Wait. I'm keeping the plate."
He got a chuckle out of that. The day before Christmas break, I
told him, "Take the plate. I'll start a new one next semester."

If you're looking for some moral or redeeming value to this little
slice of Hillbilly Mom life, there is none. It just means that there's
a lot of junk floating around the mansion.

I vaguely remember threatening Stewed Hamm about negative
campaigning in the Big Blogger 2 voting war, but it was only a
threat, not a promise, and I'll have to put that off until another day.

But since I'm on the subject, VOTE FOR ME again and again if
that voting thingy will let you. If not, meh...I'll survive. I'm not the
first Hillbilly Mom ever to lose Big Blogger.

Errrrr...yes I am.