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My husband's a hoarder

It's official -- my husband is a hoarder.

He talks a lot of trash about my piggy habits, but he collects more garbage than a dumpster diver -- nuclear exit signs, rubber bats (the mammal kind), beer caps, melted candles, bread ties, expired coupons, patriotic Bics, broken pieces of shit, used stickers, every card he's received in his lifetime, decades old Halloween candy, lights for every holiday ... the list goes on and on.

I spent the entire day knocking out the 4-foot pile of junk that's accumulated over every surface of our  furniture and counters.

I filled most of a Rubber Maid with toys from McDonald's and birthday-party gift bags that Jerod -- not the children -- wants to keep around the house for sentimental reasons, I suppose.

I found vials of stink-bomb solution, shoelaces, crusty Play-Doh, a lifetime supply of bubbles, dried-out felt pens, half-sucked lollipops and some other stuff I couldn't identify.

The short of it: I'm falling asleep at the keyboard, because I've been hauling junk out of my house since Lily left for school this morning.


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