Crapacity

Lately I've been throwing out crap. It's a wonderful sensation.

I don’t like clutter one bit. Like most humans, I acquire things constantly. I’ve decided it’s simply another effect of being alive. I don’t even know where the crap comes from. It’s just there when you come downstairs in the morning. I was also raised by two people from the “Rinse Off Your Tin Foil and Use It Again” era so I have a hard time getting rid of things that are not entirely repulsive. Sometimes, when I throw away something that isn’t broken or overipe my brain says, "Mom would really hate this.” and I walk away from the trashcan with a sense of guilt and shame.

A hatred for clutter and a conviction to hold on to anything that scored better than “mildly unpleasant” on the scale of Off-Putting Things means I make small piles of crap that I don’t like that I pack away with immense precision and discretion. I’m a very efficient packer. You will not find my crap piles. You will not realize the volume of crap tucked in the dark recesses of my light and airy home.

I’ve been going through my crap piles. In addition to the crap piles, I’ve been going through clothes and tossing out lots of my sad-sack, “I’m a depressed art student” shirts and the enormous pants that fit me in high-school when my affinity for sugared cereals cared not the hour of night. I started a Goodwill pile back in March when Brett noticed that most of my shoes had holes in them. He was truly appalled when he hastily barged into my closet. He insisted I throw out all five pairs of my blown-out, rubber shoes that I wore hiking across Scotland, into sterile lecture halls, and countless trips to the Surf Bar. “But all my memories are in those shoes!” I argued.

“Why do you have them on your shoe rack like they’re still an option?” he asked, ignoring the sentimental value of shoes with no soles. All the shoes he said I had to throw out sat in a bag by my door for weeks. I did finally toss them (and I haven’t thought about them since) and felt somewhat liberated. I had five new cubbies in my shoe rack. So I started a clothing pile and then space started appearing in my closet. I called Ari.

Ari told me about an article she happened to be reading about decluttering your life. (Ari and I have what we call ‘parallel lives’. We often find out that we’re listening to the same song, cooking the same dinner, reading the same article, or one time, buying the same dishes –all at the same time but in different cities.) She told me the key is to be brutal. “It needs to ‘spark joy’” she said, quoting the article, “…otherwise, get rid of it.”

I went back to my piles. “Do you spark joy?” I asked, holding up an itchy cardigan that I never wear. Suddenly, talking to my clothes, telling them whether or not they brought me joy seemed incredibly mean and I kid you not, I felt bad for my sweater. I consoled my sweater. I folded my sweater and put it back on the shelf. “This won’t work for me.” I said out loud, being sure to give an encouraging smile to the contents of my closet. Instead I threw out old paystubs and bottles of dried paint. You see, I pack away my crap piles so effectively that I forget they’re there and then I find dried paint and bank notes from 2007.

Last month, with the addition of 52 vases I had to order for a floral event, my house reached it’s crap capacity or ‘crapacity’ as I continue to call it, despite it never earning a laugh from the oblivious minds I practice my material on. I have since acquired a Lux & Union storage closet for all of my decorative bee-bobs, thrown out Taylors cumbersome fake Christmas tree box, and introduced the concept of throwing inanimate objects away promptly, before I form a relationship with them. My house feels wonderfully clean. While it always appears clutter free, I still know about the presence of the piles, those heavy, burdensome piles. Now I feel as light and airy as my living room does. How about that?

Matthew

We had a hurricane last week. While Charleston began to panic and evacuate on Tuesday, the storm didn’t make it’s way to Charleston until early Saturday morning. While Yankees and assorted transplants made a break for it, locals enjoyed a few days in town that felt like it did fifteen years ago. No traffic, no lines, and plenty of time to stop and chat with strangers. It felt like the quiet and content beach town I grew up in and for three days my childhood nostalgia came to life and I got to go home again. 

On Friday we packed a few things and drove to Ellen’s house to hunker down for the storm. There was a total of ten people, two dogs, and four cats staying in Ellen’s house, each room stored a different feline and every bed, couch, and chair was slept on that night. We spent the whole day staring at each other and occasionally going outside with the dogs to wonder where the storm was. We had barbeque for dinner, watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels for the fortieth time, played cards, and ate ice cream. Dad, Chris, Jordan, Margie, and I stayed up until 1:30 playing Phase 10, a game similar to Shanghai except longer and even more frustrating.

Things got exciting around bedtime. I slept up in Chris and Ellen’s room. Ellen and I shared the bed with one dog and one cat. Poor Chris tried to sleep somewhat upright in a chair in the corner. It started to rain hard around now and there was an occasional blasting wind gust rustling the trees outside. Apparently I was sleeping in the cat’s favorite spot. I endured a night of the dog laying across my feet and the cat dancing around my head, stepping on my hair, and lining up their vibrating purr box with my left ear. Anytime I almost dozed off, Ellen would roll over with irritability and announce to the room that she couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I woke up to the sound of her complaining. “Who could sleep through this crappin’ storm?” she shouted somewhere around 3 am.

“I was sleeping.” I told her and she apologized. Ten minutes later she let out an exasperated groan that caused the dog to stir and kick me in the side. I looked over at Chris who was awake and playing on his phone. Sometime around 3:30 the power went out and Ellen shouted, “There it goes!” and I shouted “Will you please shut up?” and then we laughed at her inability to stop talking and so the three of us got up and checked the news on our phones. It was a miserable night, one I would probably have slept through just fine if Ellen had any common courtesy.

The power came and went all morning but we were able to bake some cinnamon rolls and entertain each other until we finally felt safe to go home. The storm was much less of a disaster than the news made it out to be. That said, Downtown Charleston was completely submerged in water again and the city lost a number of pretty great trees. I hate to say we got off easy because lots of people had trees fall on their cars and houses but it was definitely less of disaster than it could have been. I was secretly embarrassed for all the people that put on a dramatic show as they fled town on Tuesday.

For the most part, all of our houses were fine. We had one major loss that mostly offends Buddy and me. We lost the dock. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. It’s not been in great shape for a while but it doesn’t make it better now that we can’t go out there. Buddy dashed about thirty feet before he reached a drop off. He looked back at me like he didn’t understand. Sometime last month our kayak disappeared. While the polite side of me wants to pretend the wind blew it away, I’m quite certain someone stole it. I don’t know where the wind learned to untie my perfectly executed sailors knots! So we can’t kayak this fall, our favorite season to kayak and now we can’t run out to the end of the dock chasing birds and lunging off for dolphins. 

I know we can rebuild it but it’s hard to imagine a whole winter without going out there. This dock was the sight of my teenage brooding, big family get-togethers, lazy afternoons, and a few cruel pranks. I learned to swing a hammer knocking those boards back into place and I attribute my knowledge of tides and seasons and weather to sitting on that dock, observing things. We had pluff-mud days, water-game days, and a day laying in the hammock with Mom trying to teach ourselves Italian. I have had so many perfect moments on that dock, my favorite one with salt dried on my warm skin and the bright afternoon sun in my eyes. I’d always planned to get married on this dock with a few twinkling lights and just the most important people present.

I wonder what Buddy’s Ode to the Dock would sound like? We’ll build a new one and I know I’ll love it and Buddy won’t notice a difference. But this one will always be my favorite.