You pays your money, you takes your chances...

I just bought a steam mop thing from The Shopping Channel.

H2O Mop X5 Steam Cleaner with Super Clean Kit

Why do I feel like I've shaken hands with the Devil, or taken my first snort of cocaine?

Is it a good deal, or just a slippery slope?

Will I really have the cleanest floors in the world, or will I end up on an episode of Hoarders, with a VISA card maxed out, shelves filled with the finest in "Diamondelle" TM jewelry and Bumpits TM that plastic, spaceman money can buy?

I watch The Shopping Channel while I'm on the treadmill. I'd probably be a better person if I watched the BBC news, but it's so much less shiny. Today's was my first purchase, but I have long been familiar with all of the fabulous wares on offer at TSC (that's an abrieve). I've come THIS close to buying a Kitchenaid, a pair of stretchy pants, Rhonda Sheer's Genie Bra (it's SO comfy. Apparently), a watch from the Joan Rivers' collection (I know), a carpet. The list goes on.

I'm also kind of obsessed with one of the models on TSC. Shona (Show-Nah). 

She looks a bit like the mannequins of my childhood.

Slightly elfin, crazy waist to hip ratio and a constant expression of demure that makes me want to simultaneously slap her and offer her a cup of tea. I want her job.

So yah, I can't stop watching, and while I watch, I want.
Usually by the time I'm off the treadmill, the urgency of needing a Wayne Clark's Ravishng Roaring 20's Crystal Cuff bracelet has worn off and I'm more interested in not perishing than I am in accessorizing. 

Today was different. 

I could not stop thinking about that damned steamer.

My floors are kind of a "thing" with me. What I mean by that is that they will never be clean enough. Never be shiny enough. Part of the problem is the animals. The other, bigger part, is that I am abysmally lazy and hate cleaning my floors. I vacuum once or twice a week. I wash the floors... well... less frequently, let's say. So the hope that this miracle machine will actually do all the work for me. And that I'll have the mirror shiny floors of my dreams.

I'm not holding out much hope. But I am a little afraid that now that I've opened the gate, that I've taken that first step, that I've, well, popped my Shopping Channel cherry, that I've embarked on the slipperiest of slopes.

It's a long way down.

I'll see you at the bottom, Ryan.

Moderate Hoarders - Reid Edition

In trying to clear out the spare room to make way for my super shiny Ovarian Den, I’ve had to be pretty ruthless in my culling of stuff. I’ve given away most of my books, thrown out all the useless computer software, old keyboard manuals, expired medications, taxidermy mice, bits of petrified apple core and muffin wrappers that I’ve accumulated over the years. I’m in the process of scanning all my photographs so I can get rid of my many many many bulky photo albums. It has been a long process and there is no end in sight.

I come by this honestly, this pack rat mentality. My mother and my late father could both be called Happy Hoarders, experts in the field of “stocking up” on all sorts of nonsense. While I would stop short of calling it a sickness, and I don’t think we are horrible enough to qualify for a reality television spot, we Reids have hoarded our share of items, useful and otherwise. 

We weren't this bad. Not really.

My dad was a collector of paper products. From post it notes to toilet paper by the skid. And I use the word skid hilariously. He had towers of kleenex boxes on top of a cabinet that reached our very high ceilings. We had the storage space. I think it was just his way of building an empire, and he liked to gaze upon it from time to time.

And the multi-packs of toilet paper -  I get it that you don't want to be caught short but seriously? I have to wonder, what was the reasoning behind THAT much toilet paper? What kind of digestive disaster was my father expecting?  Why would we need 200 rolls of 2-ply? We are a family of Scottish origin, so, one, we’re cheap and two, we hardly ever poop, and when we do, it’s because the stupid English forced us to. 

My mom, for some reason, used to buy tomato soup in 24 can packs. 

We lived, literally, 50 yards from a large grocery store.

She also saved every margarine tub that ever crossed the Reid threshold. Vast armies of Imperial Margarine containers lying in wait to tumble onto the floor anytime Ellen would get within range.

Padlocks.

Yes. Padlocks.

My mother’s wool supply was legendary. Garbage bags full of it. Just in case she needed to crochet an afghan at a moment’s notice.

Or crochet 20 afghans at a moment’s notice.

National Geographic back issues. And don’t tell me they were ALL for potential school projects, Mom. We had them in the verandah until I was 30.

I can’t remember what I hoarded, but I must have at some point. I don’t think my brother and I were as diligent about saving and storing up stuff. I try to be sensible, but sometimes it’s really hard to throw out those elastic bands that the postal carrier bundles your J Crew catalogues with. Oh, and the J Crew catalogues. You never know, right?