ROOM FOR A PONY

Yes, of course we give our slightly used clothes to the thrift shops, but MY old clothes have had a very thorough life.

I only wear clothes that I love, and after many mendings they are eventually pronounced dead by a certain person who is really tired of looking at them, and mending them. And then I can’t even give them to the used clothing stores because surprise, no one wants clothes this raggedy. So I’ve had to throw them away! which feels like I’m throwing a dear friend into the trash. I can’t bear it. So Lindi has to do that for me too, at some tactfully chosen moment when I’m not watching.

But wait! I’ve just found out there’s a better fate for them! They can be made into fabulously useful RAGS! Then they can truly be used, down to their last gasping thread.

The place to take them here in Portland is the Pioneer Wiping Cloth Company at 10707 N.Lombard Street.

As to what they will accept: anything that can be made into a rag.  Apply this test question: Is the item made of an absorbent fabric?

They don’t want your spandex. Or your underwear. Or your silk or nylon anything. And no socks.

They take cotton and knits, like T-shirts and sweats, in addition to sheets and towels and blankets. Knowledge of the exact fiber content isn’t necessary. They can tell by feel whether it would work as a rag or not.

Good to know that if I have to give up my clothes, at least they can serve my country as a batch of rags before their final demise.

Exhibit A: This shirt has been on its deathbed for months. All its edges are shredded. But I’m in love. I’m not giving it up without a funeral.

It seemed inappropriate to write about clutter with that whole bombing thing going on in Boston. I was watching and re-watching the videos just like everyone else. Maybe not just like everyone else — I’m not sure. After a point, I made myself stop.

I think for a while we do it because we just can’t believe it, and we’re trying to digest what happened. But if we keep on endlessly, now we’re getting morbid. Like picking at a scab. Stop it! Time to do something constructive — how about getting rid of some of the detritus that has exploded out of our junky society and landed in our houses?

Having junk around makes me feel like I’m in a rubber raft trying to escape from a flood but I can’t get anywhere because I’m trapped on all sides by the flotsam. Nor can I help anyone else — both raft and self are rendered useless.

It so happens that I came down with a bad cold right when the Boston explosions happened. After the initial two or three days of comatose behavior, I started on small decluttering projects for short spurts of time till I wore out. Then I’d crash for a nap, and wake up and start again. It was the only thing I felt capable of doing. I may have gotten more clearing done in this last week than I have in the past year. Maybe my subconscious self was getting rid of the illness inside my body by ejecting everything in sight.  Lindi said, “You should get sick more often.”

I’m almost well now, and I love these clear surfaces! Away with piles screaming at me about undone tasks! (I’ll try to stick a before and after picture in later on. gotta go.)

Back to the bombing aftermath: A question always nags me after these things, and I wonder if I’m alone. At the risk of being too verbose, I’ll address it in my next post.

I admit i have a bit of a “thing” about collecting. There’s a-whole-nother category that lies somewhere between packratness and hoarderliness, and I’m in it.  The people in this category are called “collectors” instead of packrats or hoarders because they collect things in a systematic, purposeful and orderly way, display their collections in a proud and dignified manner, and often spend a lot of money on them. They are driven by something they all have in common, a condition I’m hereby naming collectivitis.

(Note that I’m not bailing out of admitting I’m a packrat. I overlap in both categories. If you recall, I explained earlier why I don’t place myself in the hoarder category.)

My earliest memories of these urges are from when I was eleven and began to collect bottle caps. I amassed shoeboxes full of them. Precociously, I recognized way back then that if I was going to indulge this compulsion, I’d better pick something small (we moved a lot) and cheap (my income was …. an occasional peanut). For that I deserve a TON of credit — which, by the way, I never get.

Certain people, such as the one I live with, might express a little gratitude once in a while that at least I’m not like a guy I used to know who collected office machinery — and I don’t mean staplers. I mean xerox machines and the like. Besides the money he doled out for them, he had to rent a warehouse for their storage. His wife resented it horribly.

how would you like a warehouse full of THESE?

In light of that, How can you really find fault with pen caps and sock hangers?

But never mind. I’m over it. For my own clarity of thinking, I’m taking the brave step of purging these collections from my environment. Fortunately I don’t have to throw them away. I can give them to SCRAP, which makes it a lot more bearable. There they’ll capture the heart of some other loon, and be adopted forthwith — thereby assuaging my abandonment guilt.

I realize this new, emancipated Self means that from now on, whenever I find a pen cap, or acquire a sock hanger, I’ll be tossing those babies right into the rigid plastics recycling bin in our garage. I’ve been mentally practicing doing this, and I’m fine with it.

Years ago I got rid of my huge collection of tiny tasting spoons (see blog banner, above) and now, in my new incarnation, after tasting something at the deli I toss the spoon ruthlessly into their recycling bin, with a debonair, nonchalant “Off with its head!”

See? People can change.

… the person who invented sock hangers. The way that socks are packaged and displayed should be held up as a model to the manufacturing industries of the world. A simple extruded bead of plastic in combination with a paper, adhesive-backed label does the job.

And if you think they all look alike, your observation skills need serious polishing.

I was always planning to mount them on a big panel of wine-red velvet, with their date of issue on little brass plaques under each one, and frame them in an ornate gold plastic cornice. No doubt I’d be in MOMA by now if I had. Fact is, I’ve never gotten around to it. Should I “hang on” for that rainy day? Well, considering that I live in Oregon where it rains most days and still haven’t done it, maybe I should let go. Let someone else have the glory.

Some of you might find this even more absurd than collecting pen caps. Go ahead and laugh! I’ve got the whole history of the sock-display industry right in the palms of my hands.

You have to admit, it is kind of fascinating. Notice the different shapes — some of them curving elegantly, others unceremoniously doing the job with blunt utilitarianism.

And honestly, as a method of packaging, how much more efficient can you get? That’s the most important part, in this Golden Age of Shamelessly Wasteful Packaging.

As for the mysterious aspects of collecting in general, I’ll have more to say about that in my next post.

This is my pen cap collection.

It lives in a can labeled “pen cap orphanage.”

One (1) can. Just one. One can, but many pen caps. At least I don’t have packing crates filled with them — yet. And I’m not going to let that happen, either.

But first: I know you’re wondering about the big Y of it. Well, it’s because I find it disturbing when pens are left without their caps. So I save loose pen caps that I find, with the idea that I’ll always have a replacement cap at the ready. But of course, my own pens are never without their caps. Ever.

The pens without caps are elsewhere, in the hands of inconsiderate users who don’t even think about these things. I would never even be friends with someone like that, let alone invite them into my house. Therefore a pen cap orphanage in my home is useless. I’m just now realizing that. It may seem obvious to you, but to me it’s an epiphany.

Where I work there’s someone who goes around taking off all the pen caps as a matter of routine. [And I’m the sick one?] No one knows who it is. Some day that person will be lost in the desert and die a long slow death of dehydration and see what it’s like.

Meanwhile I’m transferring my orphanage to my workplace, where it’s certain to be useful. I’ve made it a point to obtain almost every color and size of pen cap ever made so I’ll be able to rescue any type of pen.

If I were a known conceptual artist, I could get no end of recognition for my kindness, but since I’m not, my mental health is called into question.

The next item I’m going to post about, however, might make pen caps look really sensible.

I called Metro.

We in Portland have a recycling hotline where you can call at any time and ask a real human being whether this or that can be recycled and where. Here’s the number: 503-234-3000. Staffed by humans from 8:30 to 5 on weekdays.

They’ll either tell you exactly where to take an item, or supply you with another number. They suggested I call Far West Fibers, a recycling business that has three area plant locations and three depots where people can take their recycling. (And yes, we do have curbside collection in Portland, but they don’t take everything. We dedicated Portland green-heads routinely sort our other stuff in our garages and schlep it to one of these places in our cars.)

I both called and emailed Far West Fibers to ask if they take pens in their rigid recycling. Both answers came back Yes, we do. Even after I pointed out that most pens have at least two or three different plastics going on, plus metal nibs and sometimes the clips or the whole caps are metal, they still said yes. And they didn’t say anything about taking them apart and dividing up the different materials, either.

I don’t really understand that, but I’m letting go. I made the inquiry — I’m not just throwing things willy nilly into recycling bins for the sorting staff to deal with. I called the professionals and if they’ve given me the wrong information, that’s just going to have to be their problem. I’m very willing to recycle, but good grief, I can’t spend every waking hour of my life on it. I’m just an ordinary person, not a scientist. I have to rely on others for expertise outside my field.

Goodbye, dead pens. Thank you for your service.