After watching this week's episode of CSI, I'm pretty much convinced that I'm at least a “Level 2” hoarder.

"We found her! The body was buried under a pile of kids' art and old phone chargers."

I could kind of relate to the woman who sealed all her memories into labeled plastic bins, stacked them up and then couldn't get out the front door of her house. Except the part where she had a dead body in the house she didn't notice. Then again, I haven't gone through the guest room in a while ... the only way a guest is staying in there is if it's that lady from Clean House who sells all your crap in a yard sale while you're on vacation.

I have great admiration for those people whose homes are immaculate and free of clutter. Where do you put the unfiled receipts? The wonky crayon drawings of pumpkins? The seven different bottles of almost-used-up bug spray? The wires, chargers and cables that seem to spontaneously reproduce around each of our computers and TVs?

I learned my minor hoarding from my mom, who instilled in me an absolute loathing of waste. I can't stand to see things wasted. Not that I don't waste stuff. I just feel this tiny sense of shame about it whenever I throw something away rather than repair it. Of course, my mom has a great way of handling clutter: She brings it to my house.

I don't hoard everything. There are a some things, though, that I find it almost physically impossible to throw away:

Re-usable bags
I have a stunning collection of these from canvas “green” grocery bags to those clear zip-up plastic bags in which comforters and sheets are packaged. Sign up for a Books-A-Million discount card? They give you a bag. Enroll in Kindermusik again? They give you another bag. The only cure for this addiction we've found is moving. I refuse to move my collection to a new house, but in the past year we've lived here, I've collected about 100 of them.

Plastic containers
(Related to the reuseable bag fetish) I'm a little better about this than I used to be. I no longer collect Chinese take-out containers, which was something of a break-through.

Coupons
In my mind's eye, I'm this amazing money-saving machine like the ones you see on Good Morning America who manage to get a year's groceries for seven dollars. In reality, I have a pile of out-of-date scraps of paper that represent way more time than I could ever earn back in savings.

At some point earlier this year, I was convinced that I desperately had to try the Lettuce Cups at some restaurant in another town and this $1 off coupon was gonna come in handy if we ever went there. I know this because the coupon lived on my refrigerator (see fridge magnets below) for more than six months.

I'm thinking that if the one on the right is raisins, then the one on the left is a picture of Billy eating raisins at Zoinks. (You thought I was kidding about the stump-grinding, didn't you?)

Fridge magnets
I don't have one of those interesting, purposeful collections. No, I have a variety of magnetized business cards from air conditioning repairmen, stump grinders and tree removal services that probably don't even exist any more. Because who needs a file cabinet when you can stick everything from old receipts to coupons to artwork (see Artwork below) to the fridge for everyone to see?

Electrical wires
There really isn't any use for all these old phone chargers I've collected, is there? I should point out that I do not currently own a working cell phone.

Artwork
At some point, apparently, I'm planning to launch the world's largest and most pointless show of children's art. It will begin with the fingerpaint handprints I made with Billy when he was barely upright through Willow's crayon drawing of an “apple.” I have a couple pairs of “rainbow viewing binoculars” made of toilet paper rolls for the “sculpture” exhibit. I imagine the abstract "I Like Raisins" (black dots on white paper) will fetch a hefty sum. Let's get those phone bids going.

Toys
I think I must have been traumatized as a child by that cartoon where Rudolph visits the Island of Misfit toys. That and Toy Story has instilled in me an emotional connection to toys that is unreasonable in an adult. I just can't throw them away, even if they're broken. Even if they're so stupid or inexplicable that my children never play with them. There are toys I hang on to in the hopes that I will, at some point, find the rest of it: the missing puzzle piece, the ball that drops down the little chute, the arm to Batman. Poor little misfits. It's not your fault.

Books
I never re-read a book. NEVER. Whenever I read a really good book, I immediately find someone to give it to. And the bad ones? I keep, for some reason. The collecting of terrible fiction seems to be a bit of a compulsion of mine. I have to line up ever bad novel I've ever read on the shelf rather than take it to Goodwill and give it the opportunity to bore somebody else.

Clothes
I once told an old boyfriend, "I can't throw this away. I've had it since I was in high school." After a long moment, my much more fashion-conscious boyfriend responded, "You do realize, don't you, that that is NOT a reason to wear something?" No. I don't.

I realize intellectually that I'm equating things with memories. I realize intellectually that throwing away, donating or re-gifting a thing doesn't eliminate all its related memories from my mind. I realize intellectually that I will never find a use for all these plastic bags.

But my heart still feels a tug every time I load up a box of old stuffed animals for Goodwill or even throw away the hand-written receipt (stuck to the fridge for several months) from the first day we signed Billy up for gymnastics.

I've made a commitment, though. I'm cleaning out that guest room, so that we can actually have some guests and make new memories. Get ready mom: I've got a couple dozen boxes of "old memories" coming to your house.