I read a tweet posted by my friend Howie back on March 4th.

Instead of “Hoarders”, A&E should make “Neat Freaks”. In each riveting episode, someone will tidy up & use a Swiffer.

Frankly, I think he’s onto something. People who love to scrub and wash and dust (à la Monica Geller) freak me out. Don’t get me wrong, I recognize the importance of things being clean, I’m just satisfied to live in a jumble rather than spend my free time lining everything up into rows and columns in order of size and by colour.

That said, I do like to categorize and the simplistic side of me would like to say that there are two types of people in this world: neat freaks and hoarders. By default, I must accept myself as the latter. I’m a hoarder.

For the first time, I caught an episode of the show of the same name last night. That was interesting. And it convinced me that either I’m wrong about my two simple categories or I am a failure as a hoarder. I could be so much better at it!

Obviously, I’m not too bothered by my status, although I would downgrade it to pack rat. (Denial? Perhaps.) The sentimental side of me rules a lot of the time and, as a result, I collect. I admire friends who are rigid in their list of things to keep and their ability to get rid of the rest, but it just isn’t me. Not all the time, anyway.

After saying all that, I’ll let you in on a little secret… my apartment is in serious need of some attention. After the recent loot-fest that took place at my grandparents’ place, I amassed a lovely collection of trinkets from my past and my history. A whole lot has come into the joint, but nothing’s gone out of it. That needs to change.

It’s funny that when I googled hoarders, alcoholism came up high in the search results because, let me tell you, with just the thought of diving into this, I sure could use a drink.

This letter was written just about 2 weeks past my 8th birthday. I’m fairly certain that the stationery was a gift from my aunt that year and I remember it as the very first set I ever had.

Truth is, I’m not sure how I’d cope in a new city: alone and without my regular circle of support, my friends and, most importantly, my family. I’m not so close with my family that I couldn’t leave them, but I am close enough with them that they are always a consideration.

I don’t know that I’d have the guts to move away and make it permanent. A great job opportunity might sway me, but that’s about it. I doubt I would ever have the faith required to move someplace new for the prospect of being with someone, no matter how much I revel in that romantic idea. The LB did and, sadly, I rarely give him the credit he deserves for that. It’s gutsy, to say the least.

Tonight is the first time the LB has gone out on his own. Of course, that isn’t entirely true. Sure, he goes out to the store and, yes, he goes out fairly regularly to play the sport of his choice, but this is the first time he’s actually gone out On The Town with someone who isn’t me. It’s not easy making friends as an adult, finding someone to do things with. He and a friend have concert tickets tonight, though, and there’s no saying when he’ll be back.

“Are you guys going out after the show?” I asked.

“I’m not sure what we’re going to do. I’ll text you later when I know,” he replied.

“No. Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Just have fun!”

For all those times when, living in the same city as your beau, you’re excited for them to make their arrival at your place, there’s the equivalent. I truly hope that they go out after the show. I even hope, a little, that they go to a bar and maybe even get a little (or a lot) drunk. This’ll be the first time I’ve had to wait up for him (or wake me up when he crawls into bed beside me.) I’m excited about his new friendship, his new experience and something other than work to talk about at the dinner table tomorrow.

Anyway, I’ve started my research this weekend. I picked up a few memoirs in the various used book stores we visited and once I get home, I have some instruction awaiting me. I almost forgot that when that English professor from Ole Miss published my blog in his textbook, it was included in a section about writing memoirs. Without knowing it, I guess I’ve got the idea of how to write it, but I’m excited to learn more.

This all came about when I had lunch with a friend a week ago. He is, by far, the most interesting person I’ve ever met and it would be an honour to record his life, a tragedy if it was never done. I’ve been struggling all weekend with whether I would write his memoirs or if technically it would just be his biography. No matter, it’s been added to my list of projects.

P.S. It reminded me of one of my favourite jokes.
Q: How do you get 100 Canadians out of a pool?
A: Okay, everybody out!

My parents didn’t go away a lot, but once a year, they’d spend a couple of nights downtown. At the end of that weekend, upon their return, my brother and I would take turns drafting our preferences into our collection. One Perrier water for you, a monogrammed shoe mitt for me.

Tonight, I had a welcome surprise upon entering our room at The Magnolia Hotel in Victoria, BC. I think I may have found my hotel loot mecca and it’snot even limited to toiletries! There are apples and water and chocolate! Plush robes with slippers and sleep masks! Bath bombs! I’ve never even seen a razor and shave gel before! There are three different bars of soap, shampoo, conditioner and shower gel! A vanity kit! And my personal favourite: a mending kit!

The LB thinks I’m crazy, but all I think is JACKPOT!

I’m excited to get to some adult adventures this weekend. Yes, I brought my iPhone, but I left the MacBook at home these’ll be the first three point five days I’ve spent without a computer for a long, long time.

P.S. Last time I was in Vic was when I got an email asking for permission to use my blog in that textbook, remember? Maybe something equally exciting will happen again this time. Maybe lots will.

My grandmother was the glue that held us all together. No one defy Nannie in her insistence that we all gather for Easter, Mothers & Fathers Day, birthdays, Thanksgiving, several other dates and events and especially Christmas. She was crazy for Christmas. Come December, the house was full of decorations, some of them as old as the house itself. She was particularly fond of those of the musical variety. Anything that sang or played music was put out with pride and one of my favourite holiday memories is of the times when she and I would team up to set all off, playing simultaneously, creating an awful out of tune racket for the sole benefit of the family’s very own Scrooge representative: my father.

Obnoxious sounds were not limited to the holiday season, however. While the distinguished grandfather clock rang every hour and on the half, so did the chirping of random birds as well as the reliable cuckoo. There were singing ornaments, bells, jewelry boxes and, well, you can imagine. There were no limits.

After she died, the clocks kept time, but everything else fell silent. No more lullaby music, the music boxes were never wound again and the wind chimes were never brought in during the winter and found no replacement when they fell apart as a result.

Herein lies my story.

Shortly after my grandmother passed away, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of the tinkling of bells. At the time I lived in a townhouse and my room shared a window with the common courtyard. At first, I didn’t think anything of what I was hearing. I just laid there listening, thinking it sounded beautiful. As I came to and started to think about the situation, I realized that it was quite late at night – I can’t remember exactly, but, perhaps two or three in the morning? No way was someone ringing bells outside my window at that hour and, the more thought I put into it, the more I realized that there weren’t chimes outside. I got out of bed and snuck a peek through my blinds. Nothing. The sound just carried on. Not satisfied with my investigation, I left my room, snuck past that of my roommate and opened our front door. When I went outside, I was met by silence. I inched over to the window where I was sure I had heard the bells. Again, nothing. I eventually made my way back to bed and never heard that ringing again.

At the time, I was having a really hard time dealing with the loss of my grandmother. She was the first person I was close to who had died. I was perpetually sad about it and missing her. I’m not really one for ghost lore. Ghost shows really kind of freak me out. This time, however, it gave me comfort to think that my grandmother had been there ringing her bells. It made me feel better.

I’d forgotten that happened until this weekend.

Sunday was the day that all the family gathered to loot the house. Saturday was more productive. I met my mom there with the intention of cleaning up. As we moved from room to room and dealt with what should be kept, what could be thrown out and what someone (and who) might want to keep, we stumbled on a lot of great memories and a lot of stuff. I spent some time in what we used to call the “back bedroom” lugging all the Christmas decorations out and displaying them to make it easier for aunts, uncles and cousins to choose what they wanted. I completed that and moved onto other tasks, but later, we both went back to survey the scene. As we walked in, one of the musical ornaments, placed far across the room, out of each of our reaches, just started playing. We both froze. After a second, once it had registered to both of us, our eyes locked and we just smiled at one another both thinking, I’m sure, ‘could it be???’

“It’s Nannie,” I said. My mom laughed and agreed, but I’m not sure she was completely on board with my thinking.

Later, we were both working in the bedroom that my grandparents had shared. Both beds were left made and immaculate aside from the fact that they were both so overly used and should have been replaced long ago. My mom sat on the floor and I was at the vanity, looking through the alternately gorgeously precious and gaudily costume jewelry that my grandmother had collected over her 74 years.

“Look! Pearls! Remember how long I’ve been wanting a strand!?!” I exclaimed to my mother. She responded distractedly, but acknowledged my discovery nonetheless.

“Can I take them?” I asked.

Immediately, as though an answer of it’s own, the jewelry box within grasp started playing music.

This time, there was no freezing. I immediately looked at my mom and she at me and we laughed.

“Hi, Nannie!” I said.

“Well,” my mom said. “There’s your answer.”

I’m not sure if she was saying that I should keep them or if she was condemning me for taking what someone else might want, but, for the second time since I lost her, I felt certain that she was there with me and I can’t ever explain how great a feeling that was.

P.S. I took them. I also took some really obnoxious Christmas ornaments and if they all start singing sometime in the middle of the night down the road then maybe I’ll consider offering my heirloom pearls up to someone else. For now, I’m totally cool with hogging them.

Unfortunately, that isn’t an option for me anymore. Now that I share my living space with the LB, there is no way that cable could be considered even remotely optional. As with many things, he and I are extreme opposites. While I am prone to filling the apartment with musical sounds directly from my iPod while I’m here alone, he is absolutely compelled to turn on the TV the minute he walks in the door and will not shut it off until the moment he falls asleep. (And sometimes not even then!) That’s cool. To each their own.

I know. You’re thinking, “Then why even mention it QC?” Well, I’m glad you asked.

I’ve become the same kind of person. It’s contagious and now I’m infected. I don’t hit the power switch often, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hang around after he does. I do. It’s partly because due to the limited space offered by our apartment, by having the television on, he kind of hijacks the living room. With all the racket generated, only the bedroom is left unaffected and who wants to hang out in the bedroom all the time?

Last week, I was home alone and it was an occasion when I’d turned to the TV on myself. After scanning all the empty options for that particular time slot, I realized there wasn’t anything on that I had even the teensy tiniest desire to see. So I turned the television OFF. And it made me feel empowered. No lie.

It’s just come to my attention tonight how dissatisfied watching TV leaves me feeling. It’s just such a waste of time! With that in mind, I thought of all the other ways and places I could better spend my time. I used to be an avid reader, but when I changed jobs and became an office based worker, that all went out the window. Working with words on paper and computer screens all day made reading just about the last thing in the world I ever wanted to do once I got home at night. Now, after about a two year hiatus, I think I’m ready to get back in the game. If I have to lock myself in the bedroom sometimes, so be it, but the days are also getting longer and there’s an amazing park just blocks from my place. Just another reason why reading rocks: totally portable.

Creatively, there are a lot of things I want to do as well. I am mentally working out how to reinvent a space currently used for storage as a craft room. There’s a world of possibilities when it comes to projects and, trust me, I have most of the supplies already!

I’m not hating on TV. I recognize a million reasons why I could, but, as I said, everybody has to make their own decisions. I’m not going to stop watching completely. There are still a few shows I enjoy: The Amazing Race and Criminal Minds in particular. Also, I am completely okay with and unapologetic about my addiction to CBS’s Monday night line-up, particularly The Big Bang Theory. My love for Dr. Sheldon Cooper is undying. I could never give him up.

Coincidentally, I found out, through my searches on TBBT tonight, it’s actually Jim Parsons‘ birthday today.