Here’s another weird thing about me, and no, the list of weirdiocrity is nowhere near exhausted.
I have a weird aversion to stuff. Things. Possessions. Paraphenalia. I hate stuff. Tchotckes. Home detritus. Accoutrements. Appurtenances. Trappings. GEAR.
You know those people that Oprah likes to parade out for all of us in a 21st century style freak show, the ones with hoarding problems? And that Australian guy who comes on and makes them get rid of all their piles of twenty year old never used wafflemakers and their closets full of brand new clogs? And we all get to say “oh my god, they are SICK!” and feel so good about ourselves because although we may have a display case full of miniature giraffe knickknacks and Thomas Kincaide figurines, at least we aren’t LIKE THEM?
I have the opposite illness. I don’t like having stuff around me. At all. Blankness, to me, is nice. I love it. Mm, mm, good.
What does this say about me? I feel like a stuff-anorexic. And it’s not even like I feel this way for saintly reasons. I am not trying to make a big statement about the Overly Bloated Consumption of Crap in American Society. Although I do think people tend to have too many things, that is pretty much a fringe benefit to my feelings. A bonus. Like I can pretend that it’s because of that that I don’t like having stuff, but truly, it’s an aesthetic thing for me.
I think things look nicer when there isn’t a lot of stuff crammed everywhere.
That’s right. I just think it looks prettier. How shallow.
So, even though I am a librarian and I likee the booksie, I haven’t bought a book in like…years. The sum total of my book ownership is twenty two books. I just counted. I don’t have knicks nor do I have knacks, I have one set of mugs (what is with the mugs, people? Everyone I know has a bazillion mugs!), I own less than a dozen movies, I have four canvases on which I paint, and when I am done painting on one, I just paint right over it. And clothes? You think I have a lot of clothes, right? Not true. Whenever I buy something, I give something away. I have four pairs of earrings. I have three necklaces. I have two tubes of lipstick. Not because I am Mother Theresa. Not even close. It’s just because if anything in my living space gets complicated, I will seriously lose my shit.
Let’s just think about that for a second. If anything in my living space gets complicated, I will SERIOUSLY LOSE MY SHIT.
That just don’t seem right, do it? There’s a little screw loose somewhere, is what I’m thinking.
The latest thing for me is my mantle. When I moved in, I was excited to have a fireplace. I was not excited, however, for the ugliforousness of the fireplace. Check it.
So, I started the home improvement whine machine. Here’s how it goes. I whine for a day or two. Then Nordic Boy springs into action. A weekend goes by… and voila! I get a new mantle.
So now, I have a pretty fireplace and a nice big mantle. With nothing on it. What the hell is a mantle for, if not for putting out pictures, and knickknacks, and objects aplenty? THAT’S WHAT IT’S FOR.
But I couldn’t do it. It was just so…uncluttered the way it was. And uncluttered floats my boat to an almost sexual degree.
To much information? Sorry.
Someone who was in the home interiors business once said to me that one’s home should reflect one’s soul. That your outer landscape should reflect your inner landscape. I have always loved that.
But! Then it would follow that I am a vacant person. Do I look dead behind my eyes? Has Elvis left the building? Are the lights on but nobody’s home?
Last weekend, Nordic Boy coaxed me into putting stuff out on the mantle. Just try it, he said. You might like it.
So I gathered up a few things. Photos, all the vases I own (three), a decorative bowl that I usually keep fruit in on the kitchen table. I kept it there for a few days, and the whole time, it bugged the everloving shit out of me. I HAVE A MANTLE DISORDER. And as a result, I took it all down after a couple of days of interior design pain. And you know what’s even sicker? The only thing I got out of this exercise is my saying to myself “Three vases? THREE? Why the hell do I have three vases? THAT IS TOO MANY VASES!”
Oprah, please help me.