Dirty Secret

When I first moved to Florida, I was living in my grandparents' apartment, had no friends, and was bored. So I did what any Jewish girl from New York would do, and went shopping. A lot. I lived near about three different malls, one of which was an outlet mall, so there were plenty of choices. The truth is, I got a lot of shit I didn't need. The truth is, I got so much stuff that I couldn't properly utilize it all. When I moved to my own place, it wasn't just a walk-in closet. It was a closet that could comfortably fit a bed. A closet I could easily do a cartwheel in. Well, if there weren't so many piles of bags and clothes.

At some point, I confessed to my brother how bad it had gotten, and from the opposite end of the East Coast, he gave me one of the best presents I've ever gotten. He hired someone off Craigslist to help me clean out my closet. Now, unfortunately for this poor girl he hired, despite the fact that I honestly explained how bad things were, she agreed to work for a flat fee. I'm not sure how much Golden Boy paid her, but she knew it was a present for me, and you could see all over her face when I showed her my mess, that she was upset she'd agreed to the price. I wound up giving her like $60 or so, calling it a tip. Plus a few bags of clothes. But I'll bet you she never again agreed to be paid something without seeing what she was walking into after that.

Anyway, this girl, I want to say her name was Clarice, but it wasn't, but it was something like that, was great. Golden Boy sure knows how to word a Craigslist ad. And sift through responses. Clarice and I spent three days sorting, tossing, donating, washing, folding, and ironing. At the end of the experience, I promised myself I'd never let it get that bad again. I've kept my promise. That was the closest I've ever come to being a hoarder.

At the time, I didn't know that word - like the word introvert, it would be a word I'd learn after moving to California - but I was well on my way to becoming one. It was something I didn't want to become, and each time I've moved, I've gotten rid of stuff. You know that little high you feel when you find something in a store to buy? I get that high. But I also get a high when I've created space in my home by getting rid of things also. Time to confess: what do you hoard?

I'm not sure how I stumbled across Jessie Sholl's Dirty Secret book. But I did, and I reserved it from the library. I can't watch Hoarders anymore. It skeeves me out to think of the bugs that must be there. Because I have bugs where I live. Not because I hoard, since I don't, but because I just live in a shitty place. It grosses me out so much that I have hives, daily. So I can't watch Hoarders anymore. I wasn't sure I'd be able to read the book.

Shouldn't have worried. Jessie Sholl could write a fucking phone book and I'd read it. She is funny and light and deep and interesting all at the same time, which shouldn't even be possible. She throws out hoarding statistics that you'd think would get really dry, but somehow they don't. She psychoanalyzes her own mother, publicly. I can't even imagine how difficult that must have been.

Jessie Sholl gave so much background about her mother, the hoarder, that as frustrated as you'll be on Jessie's behalf, you also feel sympathy for her, and understand why she does it. There was a slight touch of Eat, Love, Pray about the book that made me wary, but right before Jessie could have slid down the Italian rabbit hole she stopped and went in another direction.

Also, here's a Surprise! Bonus! At the end of the book she has her Acknowledgments section where she thanks people. You know who she thanks? You know Alice Bradley? That slippery lady? Yeah, me either. But they are friends! Like with each other! How cute is it to find out two awesome writers are friends?

So yes.
Dear Jessie Sholl,
Your book was great. Please write a phone book. Tomorrow.
Thank you,
Green Yogurt
P.S. An Ikea instructional manual would be a fine substitute.