Hoarders and the "Only Episode" Law

Around Memorial Day, I found myself sucked in to a "Hoarders" marathon on the television. It was obviously like a train wreck, but my love for the human psyche had me hooked. I was amazed and appalled by the massive amounts of, well, crap (sometimes literally) that people had in their houses.

I think I was enamored because I know I have the potential to hoard. My dad is well known for going to the store and buying three of something because it might come in handy at some point. When I was in junior high school, I kept everything -- every note anyone had ever given me, every card, everything. After I realized this could create a major problem for my organizational obsession, I started throwing things away.

But watching "Hoarders" has made me think about items that I would consider acceptable to hoard versus items that should never, ever be hoarded. I present to you my lists:

Okay to Hoard

• toilet paper
• paper towels
• deodorant
• diapers
• paper plates
• ink pens
• batteries

For the Love of God and All Things Holy, Do Not Hoard

• living animals
• dead animals
• teeth
• perishable food items
• socks
  
• underwear that no longer fits
• toenails
• cats -- I know that the fall under one or two categories listed above, but I felt like they needed special recognition

So that day I had managed to randomly stumble upon "Hoarders." The only shows that I watch regularly are: The Office, Desperate Housewives, Big Brother, House and Parenthood. All other shows are shows that I may randomly find on TV when I'm bored. However, I have discovered what I will refer to as the Only Episode Law.

The Only Episode Law states that "a person who views a show randomly and then happens to view that same show again randomly on a different day and different time, will inevitably wind up watching the exact same SINGULAR episode of that show they have ever watched."

This happens to me all the time. How is it that we have over 200 channels and I end up watching the same five episodes of shows? In the last two weeks, this has happened to me at least three times. The worst part of the law is that "the viewer most likely has several shows left to watch in the DVR but still chooses to watch the one horrible episode instead."

Assigned seats, weedeater and pirates...

Someone had asked me to bring this post back and to start posting stick pictures that people have been sending me, so, here it is! Sticks at the doctor's office. I present to you eastern Kentucky sticks, complete with the "Friends of Coal" sticker. **Please note: the author actually considers herself a "Friend of Coal" but has to point out the positive correlation between the FOC sticker and sticks.


This car also sported another nifty feature -- assigned seats. Please note the names listed on the windows. I am a lover of routine. When I was in college, I always sat in the same seat. This approach here will help you make sure no one ever takes your seat in the car. Did you forget if you were the driver or the passenger? No problem with that here. Chandra is clearly the driver. She won't have to stop and hesitate before she gets in the car, wondering where to sit.

But I wonder, what happens if Chandra gets sick. Would her husband be allowed to drive her car? Would they have to scratch the name off? What if her daughter brought a friend home from school. Where would she sit?




If I were to get sticks for my car, they would look a little something like this...
I have definitely decided that I would opt for the weedeater, though the ninja or pirate options were both appealing to me. I have no clue how people make that oh-so-important final decision. Justin says that I don't weedeat enough to use the decal above. I guess I would opt for "ninja."

Speaking of ninjas, err, pirates... Where does a pirate go to wash his car? The Arrrrrrr wash!

The Root of the Problem

There once lived a little girl who loved, loved, LOVED her teeth. She enjoyed going to the dentist and didn't even mind having braces. She even thought, "Oh, how I would someday love to be an orthodontist and help make everyone's smiles oh-so-lovely! Surely this most be the most perfect job for me!"

Then one day the princess had her wisdom teeth extracted. All four. All at the same time. Did the princess mention they were all in her gums sideways? Nitrous oxide made the girl feel like she was in a very odd episode of "Mad About You" in which all of the sounds in the room worked together, quite dramatically, to set the score for the show. She drifted off to sleep only to suddenly awaken to see aliens standing in front of her, holding a bloody tooth. "You doooooooin' allllllllright?" the alien asked. The princess fell back asleep, only to have nightmares about the alien and the bloody tooth.

A short time passed and the princess needed to have a cavity filled. The bloody tooth image briefly flashed before her, only to be replaced by the thoughts of her love for the dentist. The cavity was filled, but something wasn't right.

Turns out, the princess needed a root canal. At this point, the princess is beginning to question her love for the dentist. Why, why would the dentist betray me so? During the root canal, the princess was in immense pain. The dentist, who clearly was no prince charming, developed and evil laugh and told the princess that she wasn't experiencing pain, it was only pressure. Then the dentist looked at the x-rays and realized that the princess was indeed in pain and extracted the tooth immediately.

That day the princess decided she would rather have dentures than go through that again, but the dentist refused. The princess went through one more root canal-oops-wait-extraction incident and then huffed and puffed and moved to Minnesota. In Minnesota, the dentist offered to replace the two teeth that had been pulled to which the princess replied, "Heck no. I don't want anymore teeth. Thanksomuchbye."

The princess then decided to floss and use a Sonicare toothbrush to thwart the evil ways of the dentist. She went four very long years without a cavity and then the streak sadly ended. The princess did not live happily ever after and still wants dentures.

Behind the Music....

I have decided to expand Isaac's bath time musical experience. I normally sing "Rocky Top" to him because bath time is his favorite time of the entire day, and I want him to have a positive association with "Rocky Top." Justin has caught on to this and has moved on from dirty looks to all-out threats. So recently I have attempted to sing new songs to Isaac, but I realized quickly that I don't know all of the words to any single song aside from "Rocky Top." Well, that and maybe some Meatloaf songs, but I don't really have 23 minutes to sing one of his ballads during bath time.

My solution to this problem was to purchase "150 Fun Songs for Kids" from the iTunes store.


"This is going to be amazing," I thought to myself. "That's like, half a year worth of songs!" I was convinced that this would be the best ten dollars I ever spent, and I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that the music collection paid for itself the moment Isaac heard "The Ants Go Marching..." However, the part of me that still laughs whenever I hear someone talk about Uranus got a kick out of some of the song selections.

The best of the best:
This Is the Way the Ladies Ride
Six in a Bed
Let's Play Dressup
Cockles and Mussels
Rub-a-Dub Dub, Three Men in a Tub
Ride a Cock-Horse to Banbury Cross
Weenie Man

I'm not exactly sure what some of the messages these songs are sending. Justin and I, forever trapped in our 13-year old minds, analyze the songs.

"Why doesn't old Mother Hubbard have any food? She can't even feed her poor dog."
"Jack's mom was lazy and sent him up a hill to get water and he busts his head open?"
"The bridge in London is falling down? Why wasn't it shut down by some bridge inspector?"
"Who would put a cradle up in a tree, knowing that when the wind blows the baby is going to come crashing down? Who thought that was a good idea?"

Thankfully, I don't take any issue with Isaac's favorite song about the ants. We now sing that like it's UT's fight song.

A Horrible Way to Go

Once upon a time there was a very scary episode of CSI. In this episode, I learned what a "furry" is. I haven't been the same since.

I'm not going to get into what a furry is... If you don't know, just embrace that and go on about your business. Just stop reading right now and check back again later.

I'm sure that not all furries are created equal, and not all are killers with, ahem, questionable social behaviors, but I am a very fearful person, so I have decided to err on the side of caution on this one.

As a result of this episode of CSI I make every attempt to avoid costumed people (with the exception of the UT mascot, Smokey.... He has to be harmless, I just know it.) I try to avoid things like the circus, parades and Chuck E. Cheese, which just has to be a hotbed of furriness.

So imagine my utter dismay when I was at a professional conference last year and lo and behold... I turn around and notice a man with a tail, TAIL, in the food court. My palms were getting sweaty and my heart was racing. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a man with no shirt but a painted mane of fur on his bare chest. Holy bananas.

I went back to the hotel to discover that a national furry convention was being hosted at the hotel across the street. How's that for irony. I then decided that I would not leave the hotel unless the building became engulfed in flames. Better safe than sorry.

So, how does one become a furry? This thought has been nagging at me. I have a cute little bear coat for my son to wear next winter, but a coworker pointed out that this may set him on the path of furriness. I couldn't bear the thought (no pun intended) that I could contribute to this. Do I dissuade him from dressing up at Halloween? Do I not let him watch the three little mice on BabyFirst TV? I don't have the answers, but I do know I am worried about putting that little hooded jacket on him for the first time.

A Blatant Display of Fertility

You've seen them... Armies of stick people plastered across the back windows of SUVs across the country. They're moms in aprons, dads with golf clubs, little kids kicking around soccer balls. They're entire families in UK sports jerseys standing aside two very confused-looking llamas. They're goldfish permanently stuck in a bowl next to a string of seven children and two dogs.



The bottom line -- they are utterly ridiculous and somewhat dangerous. They scream, "Oh hey! Look at me and my perfect family. Look how fertile I am and how comfy/cozy my uterus is. Yay me! Oh look, and we even have a pet rooster! Aren't we just to die for? Don't you just want to be us?"

Maybe my disdain comes from the fact that I never feel that I could properly identify with a stick person, or maybe it's because of my own issues with fertility. Regardless, I find these stick people to be absolutely silly.

How do you identify which "object" best represents you and should forever be linked with your stick person? I have tried and tried to think what item I would choose and I've had no luck. A candy bar? No. Book? Eh. Football? Getting warmer, but still, no. How could I personify my love for office supplies with my stick person? Do you see the problem I am having here?

For the husband, I could maybe do a computer or a video game controller. How does this compare to the other stick dads and their briefcases and golf clubs?

And what about the baby? Do I just go for a little baby in a diaper with a bottle? But what about when he is older (like next year) and he doesn't drink from a bottle anymore? Do I just go outside and scratch that off of my back window?

Now, lets discuss the safety issue for a minute. Many of these "stickies" have names attached to them. Yeah, that's a real genius of an idea. Let me share the name of my child with you, so you can follow me in the "Walmarts" and entice my child, by name, with a soccer ball, because you know she loves soccer because she was playing with a soccer ball on the back window. Very smart, mom and dad.

I have a friend whom I fear would have stick folks on her car if it weren't for me. It feels good to know that I am saving her from dipping her toes into this cultural experience. She watches me get excited when I see a particularly impressive display of stickness and she always questions why they bother me so.

I don't have an answer. But like furries (I'll save that for another time), UK fans and people who don't like chocolate, I just think it's wrong.