MY SECRET

© 2010, Mary Elizabeth Raines

I have a confession to make. Nobody knows about this, so hang onto your hats, and please, oh please, let me know that you still like me after you hear what I am about to admit:

I am a cardboard box hoarder.

There. I’ve said it.

I will keep any box, of any size. This secret hoarding of mine has been going on for nearly ten years now. It has gotten wa-a-a-y out of control. My home and my garage are in jeopardy.

Here is my rationalization for needing to keep every box that crosses my doorstep:

1. Some day I will move. Boxes are necessary for packing. When that day comes, I am going to need boxes.
2. Some day I will actually make good on my intention to sell my extra doo-dads on E-Bay. When that day comes, I am also going to need boxes.

The thought of not having boxes for either of those eventualities makes me tremble a little.

As long as I’m confessing, I will admit that I also save used packing material, like bubble wrap and foam peanuts and those funny air-filled plastic pillows. Who knows when that stuff will come in handy?

It’s a compulsion, yes, although I do think that boxes aren’t the worst items a person can hoard. At least my hoarding is not as dreadful as collecting uncontrollable numbers of dogs or cats. Boxes don’t pee on things. They don’t smell (usually). They can’t scratch you. (Well, at least they can’t if you avoid rubbing up against them the wrong way).

As I tell myself how vitally I need all these boxes, that they will be useful some day, I confess that my collection has crept up on me and has begun to turn into an out-of-control problem. I’ve nearly filled up a spare room in my home, as well as the back half of my garage, with countless cardboard squares and rectangles.

The problem might be genetic. My grandfather, of Scandinavian descent, had three unmarried siblings who lived together when they were in their senior years. Their names were Hilma, Nora and Carl. We referred to them as “the Folks.” They were gentle people. As a little girl, I liked the Folks a lot. When they visited, they always brought me Peter Paul Mounds candy bars, because I had once mentioned that I enjoyed them. They paid attention, you see. They would also bring bags of pastel-colored marshmallows for me to toast.

Hilma, Carl, Grandpa, Nora with their father

The Folks did have one peculiarity, aside from their penchant for colored marshmallows. They never, ever let anyone inside their shared home. After Nora and Carl both died in the same night, we found out why. The two, who were quite elderly, probably had heart attacks (although the adults in my family speculated that they may have frozen to death, since they had never installed central heating in their old Wisconsin farmhouse). Naturally, the authorities needed to enter the house to get the bodies, and when they did, it was discovered that the Folks were desperate hoarders of the worst kind.

Here’s an example: believing that my relatives were dreadfully poor (although they were actually quite comfortable financially), the local church would make sure every few years to give my great-uncle Carl a warm winter coat. When people went through the wreckage in their house, they discovered a total of eight such coats, none of which had ever been worn.

It wasn’t just coats. The Folks kept every empty tunafish can, every newspaper and magazine, every birthday card, every shoebox, every coat hanger, every scrap of clothing, everything they ever owned. Nothing that came into their possession had ever been thrown out. By the time Nora and Carl died, the ancient, yellowed newspapers and empty cans and old magazines were stacked up nearly to the ceiling, and the only way to move through the house was by squeezing precariously along a series of narrow tunnels through the debris.

Okay, so hoarding is in my blood.

I, however, prefer to blame Trader Joes for my neediness where cardboard boxes are concerned. My problems arose from a traumatic incident that happened nine years ago, when I was leaving Los Angeles yet again.

(SIDEBAR: Periodically in my life, I move to Los Angeles, home of Hollywood, warm breezes, huge dreams, and equally huge roses that grow to be eight inches across. This magical city, for me, is like an incredibly handsome guy whispering sweet, sultry promises in my ear. He says, “C’mon baby. Come back. You want me? I’m all yours. This time it’ll work, I swear. I’m so hot for you, baby. The two of us are fantastic together! I can’t wait! I’ve missed you like crazy, baby, and I promise I’m gonna treat you right this time, the way you deserve to be treated. TRUST me. Oh baby, come back to me soon. It’ll be different. Please hurry.”

In my lust for him, I forget about all the times he has treated me poorly. Blind with delusion, I decide to trust him just one more time. After all, he wants me; this gorgeous guy really wants me! So eagerly, naïvely, I return to Los Angeles. The moment I get there, he breaks his promises. He becomes cold and rejecting. He dumps me. Eventually, I move away from California, discouraged and broken-hearted, my dreams crushed. As soon as I turn my back on him, he begins whispering in my ear again, making new promises and pleading for my return. This is my relationship with the City of Angels.)

In 2001, I was in the heartbroken cycle of that relationship (yet again), and had decided to move away from Los Angeles. I needed boxes for the move. Curiously, clean empty boxes are hard to find in L.A. In my search, I went to my favorite Trader Joes, a trendy and much beloved grocery store rampant in southern California. Everyone in L.A. has their favorite Trader Joes. On Los Angeles singles’ sites, a key question used by prospective lovers to establish rapport is “Which Trader Joes do you go to?”

Mine was on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. That store always made me feel good about myself. When I got there, a clerk told me I could take any box that I saw. I was delighted, and I immediately spotted an immense pile of empty wine boxes stacked up against a wall, all uniform in size, all strong, and just perfect for my moving needs. Even better, they were boxes that had once held my favorite Trader Joes’ wine, which at the time sold for $1.99 a bottle. The brand of the wine was Charles Shaw. To this day, locals refer to Charles Shaw’s Cabernet Sauvignon as “Two-buck Chuck.” But I digress. My where-to-find-moving-boxes dilemma was solved! In a jubilant mood, I took a grocery cart full of these empty boxes out to my waiting car, and returned gleefully for another heap.

And I was interrupted by a store manager. He stepped out in front of me, hands on his hips, glaring angrily as if I were a thief, and said, “I’ve been watching you. What are you doing?”

I ducked my head and stammered that a clerk had said I could take some empty boxes, because I was moving…

He interrupted me, frowning. “Well, sure, one box,” he scolded loudly. People in the checkout lines paused to stare at us.  “But you’re taking them all! We need these boxes. We have customers who order wine by the case. If you take all these boxes, what are we going to put the wine in?” He did not expect me to reply. He stared at me in accusation.

Always before, I’d felt chic and cool and trendy while shopping at this particular Trader Joes. It was horrifying to be dressed down and humiliated like this in front of the other customers, as though I were some kind of sneaky bag lady. I still feel shamed and embarrassed when I think about it. An inward part of me vowed then and there, in a dramatic Scarlett O’Hara moment, that I would never scrounge for boxes again!

Sometimes I think that maybe I can overcome my addiction. I could really use the space. My storeroom and garage are becoming suspiciously like the Folks’ house and tunnels are starting to appear. I shudder, however, at the sacrifice involved in flattening the hundreds of boxes I have, and sending them all away to the recycling center. Who knows how that would go? I might plead and attempt to wrench the boxes out of the hands of the recycling guys, like sobbing hoarders do who are trying to get their dogs back from the Animal Cops.

I’m also pretty sure that the minute I get rid of the boxes, not only will I finally begin selling on E-Bay; Los Angeles is going to come sneaking back, whispering promises in my ear again, coaxing me into returning, and I will have to pack in a hurry. I must have boxes at the ready.

So that’s my secret. Don’t tell.

And don’t ask to look inside my garage.

(c) Mary Elizabeth Raines, 2010

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