At lunch today, Susan mentioned in passing that she “almost cleaned the garage out for me.” It was said in that tone of voice that means, “I’m sort of kidding, but you better do it before I do.” Nothing sends shivers down my spine like the thought of other people cleaning, organizing, or messing with my “stuff.”

I know I have too much stuff. All I have to do is look around at the towering piles, bowing shelves and overstuffed storage tubs in almost every room of our house to tell. The upstairs room teeters back and forth on being kid-friendly (depends on how dangerously high the piles are stacked) and the garage is almost unmaneuverable at this point. Upstairs alone I have videotapes I never watch waiting to be converted to DVD, tubs of outdated computer parts that I may need someday, and thousands of dollars of Star Wars collectables hidden away in boxes, waiting to be displayed someday (when and where, yet to be determined). I have more stuff than anyone I know. I know it, and everyone around me knows it. I just don’t know what to do about it.

Do no misread this as a cry for help. I’ll deal with my own stuff, thanks. Anyone showing up for an unannounced cleaning party will be removed from the premises with much gusto.