Whoreders

Today I decided to invite my friend Jenn to write another guest blog.  You might remember Jenn from her last guest blog about how her son's head got caught in a vending machine.  Good times.  

Anyhoo, I've known Jenn since college where our similar 'we'll make fun of anything' senses of humor made us partners in crime.  Knock knock jokes about friends' dead grandparents, laughing until tears streamed down our faces at a senile man in a nursing home... I'm pretty sure Jesus was cringing at us for four straight years.  

Her piece de resistance was one time when she wrote a note with her left hand and put it in my mailbox.  For two weeks I thought a 12-year-old boy named Jimmy who lived across my government subsidized apartment complex had a crush on me.

So, without further ado... here's Jenn!   

I am very excited to be back offering up another snarky snackerel on Hannah’s award winning blog. Not only does it mean I didn’t get arrested following the son-stuck-in-the-vending-machine expose, but it also means I get to glom onto Hannah’s hard-earned fame and pretend to be one of the Kool Kidz for once.

Ask not for who the 15-minutes of fame tolls….this week it tolls for me, sucka.

Actually, that’s not even true. Somewhere deep inside, I know the score: My 15-minutes of fame will come in about 20 years. When the blue 1-800-Got-Junk receptacle o’ shame is parked outside my shanty and I am alternately screeching and hyperventilating about parting with a dreadlocked, moldy Bamboletta doll my daughter played with once when she was 2.

Destiny? Thy name is Hoarders.

I come by it honestly. Born both a pessimist and a planner, I resolutely believe that if I am ready for the worst, then I am ready for anything. Toss in 2 kids, an uncertain economy, and a penchant for bargain hunting---well, as my basement can attest, the results aren’t pretty. Unfortunately, as added insult, my idea of anything may mean a spur of the moment casino-themed party for 30, leading a 15-child hands-on demonstration on electrical circuits and rock tumblers, or suddenly needing to do 2 years’ worth of laundry in 1 night.

Yes it’s crazy. Yes, it’s unnecessary. But laugh all you want: This cat hasn’t bought diapers in 2 years. And if China sinks into the ocean forcing Wal-Mart to shutter its doors, that sound you’ll hear is me laughing. I’ll be cackling madly from atop my perch of cereal, deodorant, and any possible board game you could ever want to play. And don’t even think about picking me off and snatching my stash, because I have about 800 Nerf darts at the ready to help me defend my castle.

In talking with many of my mom friends, I know I am not alone in this feral need to provide for my family in the face of any possible scenario. As woman’s dual role in the family and workplace continues to expand, it has shifted the evolutionary balance that is at the core of our pedigrees.

We are now nurturing caregivers and hunter/gatherers. I may have been born an Eva Gabor ingénue ala Green Acres, but 35 years later I come home from work like William Wallace in Braveheart; dragging my freshly skinned pelt of shopping bags behind me when I arrive. And I sleep soundly knowing that if I am accidentally devoured in an unfortunate grizzly bear incident, my kids will have cute shoes and stylish clothes for at least 3-years following my dirt nap.

But kidding aside, I don’t really imagine that I’ll someday be on Hoarders. Forecasting the needs of your family and enjoying the spoils of a good sale are a far cry from having 74 cats in your air ducts and rusted drums of urine in the hallway. And besides, if those Dumpsters think they can make it up my driveway over the 4-miles of spike strips I found behind the local Police Department, they have another thing coming.

Amateurs.