I couldn’t fall asleep the other night so when I stumbled upon a Hoarders episode, I thought, “this will help me fall asleep”. Um, not quite. Six hours and six episodes later, I was stuck like glue to the TV (kind of the way important papers from the ‘80s and take-out containers are stuck like glue to a hoarder’s walls and floors). You wonder why I was sucked in, why I couldn’t shut the TV off. When a six foot tall bearded guy decked out in a terry-cloth sweatband (I know, I really don’t need to say much after “sweatband”), a sleeveless khaki vest-shirt, and almost short-shorts who still manages to look like a biker says, “I have one too many rats” how do you say “well, I think I’m going to hit the hay now”.

First of all, isn’t one rat one too many rats? This guy had (drum-roll please…) over 2,000 rats! The best part was the fact that these rats didn’t emerge and multiply as a result of his hoarding, these were his hoarding. He kept them as pets. They were in the walls, on the floor, on the counter; they were everywhere (just like God…except he doesn’t leave excrement on bedspreads).

If you’re not familiar with the show, they always send out a psychologist (along with a cleaning crew & professional organizer) to help the hoarder. Every time the psychologist would speak to this guy about the rats, he would let out this kooky sounding yelp and start sobbing. And the craziest part of it, he was one of the more “together” hoarders of the series. He didn’t fit the hoarder mold (usually, part of the hoarder mold is mold). He appeared to have all his teeth, he didn’t have a waddle to his gait, and he wasn’t combative. He was cooperative and immediately acknowledged he had a problem. It usually doesn’t go that smoothly.

Enter Hannah—my favorite hoarder of all time. It wasn’t her hoarding style that wooed me; it was her down-home, old-fashioned abusive charm. Add in a mush-mouth; a walker powered by two of the most flabtastic arms I’ve ever seen; and a crippled goat, and you have the inspiration behind the saying “what the fuck?”

These people never think they have a problem either. They all say the same thing: “I am not a hoarder, I’m a collector”. Really? I wonder how much brittle cat feces and unpaid electric bills with Tang stains go for on E-Bay. Do you think it’s a problem when you’ve “collected” yourself out of your own home and into an unheated trailer that doubles as a chicken coop? Nah, of course not—that’s completely normal—especially when all the chickens have scoliosis from being cramped in cages like day laborers in Toyota Celicas.

I hate it when it’s time to get to the “clean-up” and they allow the hoarder to sift through each item ONE BY ONE. I’m pretty sure you could throw out their toilet and they wouldn’t miss it, or even notice it was gone. It’s kind of hard to miss something you haven’t seen since Joan Rivers had her original face. When you have so much crap that you have to walk through your home like a SWAT team sneaking up on a meth lab, chances are you don’t have a detailed inventory list of your “items”. If you do have an inventory list, what are the chances you could find it anyhow?

Here are a few tips to figure out if you’re a hoarder:

• You have to rake your house
• The only pathway in your house requires you to launch yourself from the top of the staircase to get to it
• Your dining room table is also your curio cabinet, file cabinet…and the cat’s litter box
• Your knick-knacks consist of Precious Moments figurines, miniature teapots, and cat carcasses
• The only garbage can in your house is your house

So next time you find yourself debating whether or not to throw out an expired bottle of Anacin because you “might need it someday”, realize you are one disability check and two estranged children away from becoming a hoarder.

There is nothing more touching than taking credit for the generosity of others. I mean, can you imagine how fulfilled *Stop & Plop, *Shop Wrong, or *HJ’s must feel when they deliver those bins of food to a homeless shelter and receive accolades for their charitable donation? The “donation” of food that they earned at least a 50% margin on before they turned around and gave it away despite no longer being the actual owner of it; the “donation” that, in essence, was a donation from customers, to the store, that the store turned around and gave away as if they didn’t make anything off it. WTF?

Call me crazy, but can’t the grocery store skip the extra step of getting others involved and just make the donation themselves…directly from their own “stash”? Wouldn’t that be charitable? Wouldn’t that be generous? Wouldn’t that make some friggin sense considering the fact they kind of have the market cornered on food-supply? I don’t know anybody who has more food in their possession than a grocery store or restaurant.
Speaking of restaurants and charity…I was at the *Cheesecake Storage Unit recently. After my meal, the waitress handed me the dessert menu. How delightful to see that they too were riding the “feed the hungry” train. Do you know that they were so kindly willing to donate twenty-five cents from each slice of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Chocolate Cake Cheesecake to charity? Gosh, they are soooo generous for creating this over-indulgent, diarrhea-inducing tower of sugar (that could feed a village), and sending a whole quarter from the sale of it to a place that doesn’t even have running water. So, after gluttonously stuffing your misshapen, vacuum-like face with a frivolous seventy-nine layer cake filled with chocolate, caramel, marshmallow, and blood diamonds, you can feel so good about yourself knowing that, of the twelve dollars you spent to put you one bite closer to convulsing into a diabetic coma, twenty-five cents of it is going to charity. “Hey Ethiopia, guess what we did for you? Rather than just sending you actual food, we created this outrageously humongous piece of cake that everybody but you can eat. Here’s a roll of quarters. Don’t spend it all in one place (like the divot in the road with the small collection of rainwater; or on that grain of rice you’ve been eyeing).”

Here’s a thought: How about sending the actual cake to feed the hungry? Better yet, how about opening a Cheesecake Factory in one of these countries? Can you imagine how long the wait would be?

*names not changed to protect the guilty; names changed in an attempt to be silly

Going through life as a scrawny, breast-challenged female hasn’t been a picnic (especially since picnics involve food and apparently, according to most fat people, skinny people don’t eat)—but I certainly don’t expect special treatment from others because of it. As far as I know, there aren’t any special parking spaces for anorexics, or disability benefits for those who can’t put on weight.

When I used to work with the public, it was almost a daily thing with female customers: “Oh my God, you are so skinny; I bet you don’t even eat!” “If you turn sideways, you’ll disappear.” “Wow, there’s nothing to you, you must be anorexic”. I don’t recall any witnesses who were offended by the slew of insults I was forced to swallow (and then regurgitate because that’s what skinny people do). Nor do I recall any advocate groups rushing to the defense of the badgered, bony banker.

It’s always interesting to me that fat comics (particularly female ones) will do a bit about their weight and they always have the cliché bit about the “skinny bitch” friend who goes to lunch with them and wants to smell their food (because the “skinny bitch” doesn’t actually eat). Not only is the term “skinny bitch” so unoriginal and expected, it’s just not funny. However, everybody in the audience howls with laughter and does the “good for you” fist-raise to express their approval. Well, they attempt to raise their fists in approval but many of them are excessively large and attempting such a motion could cause great rotator-cuff damage and shortness of breath.

There’s this “good for you” trend that’s out there now for overweight people. We have to say “good for you” that you are “happy” the way you are. “Good for you” for wearing a mini dress that makes your thighs look like Godzilla wrapped in an ace bandage. “Good for you” for constantly commenting on how fantastic your physique is and that you’re a “real” woman.

I really hate when women say, “Real women have curves”. So I guess I’m a pretend woman because I don’t have any rolls on my body that can be renamed “curves” to make me feel better. Would it be acceptable if I said, “Only real women have visible rib cages”? Or, “only real women can control their diabetes without medication”. How about saying, “Real women come in all shapes and sizes. Nobody is better than anybody else because of their ability to lose a pair of panties in their ass.”

I am very petite and have basically no fat on my body, but I have areas of my body that “curve”—my waist curves in, the area from my lower back to my butt curves, there’s even a curve to my legs. Can I now run around bragging to everybody that I am curvy and so sexy and wonderful? I think not. How about being humble regardless of your size and not criticizing people who happen to have the opposite weight problem. The thing that gets me the most is that  society encourages these women to exclaim how proud they are of their bodies, how happy they are with their curves, how sexy they are for having something to grab onto—and everybody cheers them on no matter how obnoxious they are. But if a thin woman were to exclaim how pleased she is with her body, or that she thinks she looks fabulous, people would criticize her for being a conceited bitch (because she is! Who the heck likes a braggart?)

The celebrity tabloids are interesting because in almost every issue, there’s a picture of Tori Spelling’s spine. The picture caption is always a hurtful, insulting remark about how thin she is, but it’s always followed with a comment implying concern for her health. Really folks? Are you really concerned for her health? Is she having trouble walking? Breathing? Wiping?

Meanwhile, one of the biggest stars (pun intended) to come on to the scene recently is Gabourey Sidibe. Do I think she deserves to be made fun of? No, but I do think if we’re going to purport to be concerned about a celebrity’s health, perhaps she’d be a good candidate. Instead, everybody ignores the elephant in the room (pun not intended…or was it?) and gives her that “good for you” bullshit, and “you look gorgeous tonight, who are you wearing?” I didn’t know that falsely building somebody’s self-esteem could unclog arteries, and reduce your risk of diabetes.

I have some very overweight friends, I have some “average-size” friends, and they have all made insulting remarks about my size. I have never done the same to them (I usually just insult their careers). Here’s the bottom line: I don’t care if you say stuff about skinny people, people have always made fun of me, and continue to make fun of me. But, if weight is not an equal opportunity topic, maybe instead of spitting out your thoughts, you should eat your words (after you dip ‘em in high-fructose corn syrup).

How uptight do you have to be to obsess about the cleanliness of something that is meant to be walked on in the first place? How about instead of requiring guests to remove their shoes, just give them wings when they walk in so they can float around your house to avoid contact with anything.

Besides the fact that it’s incredibly rude to demand your guests remove their shoes, it’s just plain gross. Feet are ugly…and for some reason the hosts’ feet are usually the ugliest: big fat pale toes that are so white you can’t even tell if there’s a toenail on there. Some shoes should be forbidden: Crocs, Docksiders on women (or on men with penises), sandals for men; but bare feet are for the beach, the bed, and the shower. Bare feet don’t go with any outfit. Who puts on a pair of khakis (besides nerdy white men who look like lesbians and unfeminine white women) and says, “You know what would look great with these slacks: My navy blue fleece, Eddie Bauer vest and a callus-ridden hammertoe”?

Have you ever been subjected to one of these affairs? Doesn’t it feel so creepy when you’re standing in a kitchen amongst a group of frumpy, shoeless white people eating seven-layer dip and sipping Merlot while talking about their escalating oil bills and what a “hoot” their cat Tony is when he watches Grey’s Anatomy with “mommy and daddy”? And for some reason, they think lawn-care is a “hot-button” topic (“that branch missed Lloyd’s mower by thismuch”).
When you invite guests to your home, their comfort should be paramount to your own. So, if your floor is more important to you than the people in your life, chances are you’re as cold as the linoleum you walk on.