The lost Collyer Sister

Margaret's shit is rapidly spreading into our domain. The pile of stuff that she had out there last week is gone but it has been replaced by this giant bureau. It’s actually hard to squeeze by it.







 And I spared you all this stuff at the end of the hall last week when I reported on Mat, her doormat, but I can’t hold it back any longer.

This is insane. I went in there one time and you can’t even imagine. I only made it as far as the kitchen because the rest of the apartment was blocked with boxes and chairs and crap. Her stove was covered with stuff, the top of her refrigerator piled to the ceiling with stuff. There was even a table in front of a table in front of a table in front of the stove, all of these tables covered with knick knacks. There was a small, winding path to the bathroom between the towering piles of bags and boxes stacked precariously on chairs. On a side note, the clearly nonfunctioning kitchen explains why she’s so damn skinny. I’ll take a photo of her one of these days. She also loves to wear pigtails and little girl clothes. Yes, she is 80.

Okay, now I realize that Tim and I don’t live in the nice doorman building we used to, and yes, our rent is unbelievably cheap for a two bedroom, but knowing this madness exists a mere 3 feet away from the place in which I sleep and hang my clothes really cheapens my identity. The reality is that I am not that fancy but I do like to give off a certain illusion of some taste and class. But it’s constantly threatened, especially when I can’t walk down my (already ugly) hallway without completing an obstacle course through a crazy old lady’s random objects. Damn, I am really struggling with this class thing!

I’m still recovering from the (non-denominational and yet clearly a Christian holiday based on Christ saving our souls) Easter weekend at my parent’s house in Pennsyl-tucky last weekend. But that’s another story. And a longer one. And I’m not in the mood to go there right now. Some things need to be fueled by alcohol and that’s just the truth. Next time I sit down with a glass of wine, I will go into the argument I had with my mom about whether or not The Da Vinci Code is a work of fiction. She is certain that it is not. Ladies and gentleman, she is an English professor. Oh my.