I have a basement problem. Well, I have a scary part of my basement problem. By that I mean the area of my basement that's meant for storage is like a starter kit for "Hoarding for Dummies.
I don't spend a lot of time in this abyss of bins and boxes until I have to take out all my Christmas decorations, which totals, at last count, 26 containers that are so large they're on wheels. Most, as in at least half of the containers, are filled to the brim with Department 56 Snow Villages.
My mother-in-law started gifting my husband and I Snow Villages as Christmas presents when we got married almost 40 years ago. Once we started having children she began giving them Snow Villages as presents. In Snow Village math that equals way, way, way too many Snow Villages.
But as much as I would like to place the blame on the current state of my basement on my mother-in-law's fervent devotion to ceramic houses with icicle kissed roofs and candy cane laden front porches I can't. This is because the real culprits are my children. My grown children.
They treat the basement like it's their own personal repository. Back in the day, and by that I mean eight years ago before I had a child in college, the storage room in the basement was a site to behold. The only thing taking up space was holiday decor that was color coded and labeled according to the event it represented.
In fact, one of my proudest organizational moments was when a plumber who had to venture into that area of the basement commented that it was "the cleanest storage area he had ever seen." It was such a momentous life moment that I get happy chills, years later, when I think about it.
Now, it's full of what I call "crap my kids have, won't get rid of, but don't want in their own homes." For example, my son has car bumpers for some vintage BMW he may or may not own some day along with a convertible top for another car that he sold years ago.
My daughter has bins and bins of dance awards and plaques taking up valuable basement real estate. This is even after I made her purge a significant portion of her dance mementoes. In addition to the bins there are five-foot-tall trophies covered in large black trash bags standing like sentries guarding her childhood memories.
Here's a hot tip for anyone who organizes a competitive kid centric event - you need to start rethinking the trophy. They're a landfill nightmare and as for donating trophies it's hard to find any non-profit that wants them. This is why I think kids should get a picture with a really impressive first place trophy commemorating their win and have that be their keepsake. This way the trophy will live forever on social media and not in a parent's basement decades later.
In an attempt to practice some basement tough love at Thanksgiving I told my children they had one year left to get their junk out of my basement. Alas, by their nonchalant attitude I could tell they didn't take me seriously.
But they ignore me at their own peril. Because if they don't come and get their belongings I plan to "gift" each of them 44 Snow Villages (and counting) in my will.
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Back to School is a hysterical read for any mom currently marinating in elementary school parent drama. Trouble in Texas is a tall tale of what happens when a mother just can't stop meddling and enlists her 40 something daughter in her schemes. And Four Seasons of Snarky is the ideal book to give to someone who needs a primer on suburban revenge plots. (The book is a series of short stories so it's awesome for the person who doesn't have a lot of time to read.) Killer Dance Mom is the first Snarky mystery and involves all the crazy of being a dance mom especially when a judge gets murdered.
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