Why am I such a pack rat? Throwing things away is so HARD for me. This couldn't be inherited from Nanny because she kept everything ORGANIZED. If you needed a wheat penny or a maroon button or paperwork that showed her window-tinting was legal because it was done before a certain date, she could instantly produce it.
Her granddaughter, otoh, is just a messy, messy hoarder. The condition of my purse would seriously disappoint her.
In fact, they just arrested a fifty-two year old meth dealer on COPS whose purse was in perfect order. (With the exception of one broken glass meth pipe; apparently, the toilet paper she'd wrapped it in wasn't enough padding.) When the policeman first opened it, I was SO jealous...no gas receipts from last month, gum wrappers, expired coupons, empty Altoids tins, or Haverty's bills. If a policeman opened my purse, he'd just sigh with disapproval.
Karen actually *likes* my purse, though. We have laughed so often about Kristy's Purse being able to supply her with a lozenge or two ibuprofen or fingernail clippers or a tissue (usually during the singing at church), and we've also laughed about the time she liked the *style* of my purse so much, she ran to Penney's and bought the EXACT SAME ONE. (She promises never to do that again, though; we have accidentally switched purses so many times...)
And yet, sometimes being a pack rat has its moments. This morning, while sorting through two boxes of papers (old financial statements, checkbooks, pictures, medical reports and bills from the Great Lump Scare of 2005, etc.), I found copied pages from Bethany's old school journal. I'll try to scan and post some next week, but until then, I'll leave you with her Thanksgiving entry from November 28, 1995:
"Pumpkin pie hate it. I hate pumpkin pie. Corn bread hate it. I hate corn bread. Turkey love it. I love to eat turkey. I love turkey."