My parents don’t like to throw things out.
Neither do I. Steven keeps saying, “apple, tree” whenever he sees evidence of a hereditary hoarding pattern. And since we’ve been living here for a month, he’s had many opportunities to say it.
Here are some of the things my parents hold onto:
A ziploc baggie of rubber bands.
Usually, the rubber bands turn up in all corners of the apartment, so I guess my mom finally corralled them into one spot — either to make them accessible, or to contain their eggs. You think rubber bands don’t lay eggs? Then please explain how they multiply and spread all over the house.
Packets of soup crackers.
My mom saves them from Hale ‘n’ Hearty and stashes them in the bread box, where they fall into the crack of the bottom-hinged door and get crushed into crumbs.
Many two-bite portions of leftover salad in deli containers.
If it weren’t fermenting, I could see the wisdom in this. You never know when you’ll want just a bite of something. I’ve kept one little plastic-wrapped bite of brownie in the fridge for weeks, just waiting for the moment when I must have one bite of brownie.
Up to two weeks of newspapers.
Do not mess with my Dad’s New York Times or his Jewish Week. He likes to catch up on old news while eating his “Zabars Cream of Musshroom (No Cream)” soup. If anyone would like to read a reform rabbi’s predictions of the no-longer-upcoming presidential election, we have that issue.
Stuff from our childhood.
I keep thinking I’ll help them get rid of stuff — like my sister’s doodles from 7th grade math class or my high school English papers — but then I look through it and can’t throw it out, either.
That includes my button collection from the early ’80s.
It’s in a dusty Bennetton bag, taking up prime real estate in my bedroom closet. Which, I’ll add, was stuffed until recently with my sister’s chunky platform shoes from the 90s, and still houses a hanging accessories organizer packed with scrunchies and Kieth-Haring-esque earrings. (I might have to take responsibility for those.)
My first thought when I came across the button collection was, “Do we really need to hang on to this? I need more room for sweaters.” And then I pulled it out of the bag.
Steven said, “bet some of those are worth money.” The magic words that keep me from getting rid of anything. And if that doesn’t do it, there’s the nostalgia. And/or “I might need this at some point.” (Apple, tree.)
All the buttons are exactly as I had them arranged, fastened to a piece of maroon velour. My mom helped me search every fabric and trimmings store in town for that maroon velour. No other cloth would do. I must have seen something like it in one of my teenage cousins’ psychedelic lairs. Or maybe in the Ricker’s room on “Silver Spoons.”
As you’ll see as we walk through these buttons, the fabric was the only thing I was selective about.
It’s not a very cohesive collection.
I was a gung-ho collector, but not choosy. I would add any button I could get my hands on. When I announced this fact to my strident, hippy camp counselor Judy, she tested me: “Really? What if the button says ‘YAY, NUKES’?”
Hippy, please. I had my button collection dangling from my bunk, so my clear stance on nukes was right in her face.
Which brings us to the first category:
Anti-nukes buttons.
Actually, my position wasn’t so much anti-nukes as it was pro-buttons. And I probably would’ve pinned a YAY NUKES button next to these. But still…how could she doubt my principles about power plants?
Scarily still-relevant buttons.
The pro-choice and Big Bird are so Election 2012. Why did I have them at age 11? Too young to vote or “choose,” too old for Sesame Street. And definitely not yet an uppity woman, whatever that was. But hey, a button was a button. Plus, I probably thought “pro-choice” meant “in favor of choosing sundae toppings.”
Mild insult buttons.
“GO FLY A KITE” is something Wally Cleaver would’ve said when he was really pissed off at Eddie Haskell. I probably thought “what keeps your ears apart” was LOL hilarious. And “Basingstoke” was a code word between my great-aunt and -uncle. To them, it meant “shut up.” I don’t know what it meant to anyone else, but to me, it was a “shut up” button. Sassy!
Emotional-eater hippo buttons.
This was the age of Sandra Boynton and her moody, gluttonous hippos. It seems arbitrary that hippos were pegged as chocolate fiends. Maybe the hippo was supposed to symbolize pre-menstrual woman, in which case these buttons were over my head.
Random political buttons.
I parroted any political views of my parents’: “Boo Nixon,” “Yay Carter,” “Boo Reagan.” Of course, “Boo Reagan” was a more informed opinion since by the time he ran for his second term (and beat Mondale-Ferraro), I was 15. And, apparently, still collecting buttons.
I know I loved the word play of the Nixon and Kennedy/ Carter buttons. Hee hee! “Jail to the Chief” is a play on “Hail to the Chief”! And “ass” means “butt,” but also means “donkey,” the symbol of the Democratic Party. Get it? And yes, Ted Kennedy tried to beat Carter for the nomination when Carter ran for reelection in 1980. Ballsy.
“Actually, not really” buttons.
I hated cats, for no other reason than that my mother hated cats. I did not think they deserved love, and even back then I knew what “pussy” meant, so I cringed at the word “pussycat.” But it was another button, and its shape was rad.
Now, I didn’t hate music, but beyond listening to my “Pass the Dutchie” 45 album over and over, I was pretty neutral about it. I quit piano lessons, and I only went to the record store to play video games. Also, I wasn’t a big hug seeker. So I had no business with “I’M A HANDFUL, GRAB ME,” which implies a love for both guitar chords and cuddles.
Fashion buttons.
Now you.
Are you hoard-y? What can’t you bear to get rid of? Do you think Pussycats need love, too?
Tell me in the comments.
UPDATE: My friend Bruce wanted to post his excellent button collection in the comments, but couldn’t. So I’ve given them their own Talking Shrimp page, here: Bruce’s Buttons
Laurie Rosenfeld says
Laura, this post is hilarious! I remember so much of what you describe here. I am a hoarder and I come from a family of hoarders too. I collected stickers as a kid. Today, I have a hard time getting rid of files, books and clothing… I love your sense of humor.
Beth Picard says
Love this! and I empathize, being a nostalgia hoarder myself- don’t throw anything out, you just never know…….
Mom Belgray says
Cons? There are cons about living with your delightful, fascinating, non-intrusive parents? I can’t believe that. And I think your blog is funny and brilliant. Right on the button, so to speak.
marian belgray says
Omigod I never realized why I had an association between colorful cotton Hammer pants and fish smell. Thank you for cracking the code.
But hold on. What happened to the “I Like Girls!” button??? Since you left it out, I demand that story have its own blog post!
Cecilia says
Thank you Laura! I had a time travel moment when I saw those Sandra Boynton buttons.
You know that ratty old plastic bag is worth money! One hundred dollars at least!
One item from my youth that I had a terrible time parting with (and probably still have) is my “How to Breakdance” book.
I stalked it at Robert Holmes Books for weeks before I saved up enough allowance to buy it. I can’t say that it’s helped with my breakdancing yet. But hey, I’m not to old to learn the headspin. Right?
Do you want to read about the box I found in my basement? I’m sure the copy could use some pretty woman action but if you like reading about clutter, I’m your gal! 😉
http://spaceforlife.ca/blog/2012/10/16/how-i-cleared-clutter-to-find-love-the-box-in-my-basement.html
Paul says
I still have my button collection which I kept on my rainbow suspenders; but I lost my mood ring (which makes me sad — but I have no way of knowing for sure.)
I also still have my Charlie’s Angels cards — and a complete set of Mork and Mindy cards. If you turn them over they make a puzzle picture! I haven’t checked — but I like to think they are worth a small fortune.
Grace says
Love this post and your badges – I have the same ‘atomic power – no thanks’ badge! But I also have it in welsh too.
We used to live near Basingstoke, it’s nice, with friendly people and lots of random shops down little streets, all around huge shopping centre. I’m not sure what basingstoke means in a badge context though!
Badge love x
Nancy Randall says
I have pictures. Solidarity metal badge from Poland. Housing Is A Right, Not A Privilege. Places I went to. I have the jacket upon which all those buttons were placed. The lining is a piece of fabric I got in the 6th grade. Silkscreen of Woodstock crowd. Hippy…… Posting photos on Facebook.
Llyane says
Hi, Laura
I love your writing like there’s no tomorrow! 🙂 I ‘met’ you in Marie Forleo’s B-school course.
How do we get peeps to pay you for your amazing talent… hmmm
Would you like to do a guest blog post on my site?
I’d love to show your writing to my rather large audience.
Write me, please, and Oh! Those buttons! Who in the world could throw them away?? Hihi – and the categories are hilarious!
Much love,
Llyane
Bruce says
There are many pop cultural references to Basingstoke. Perhaps the very first, and therefore most significant, is contained in Gilbert and Sullivan’s Ruddigore (my favorite G&S comic opera, and also the favorite of my father). In that work it is a code word used by Sir Despard Murgatroyd to soothe his wife, Mad Margaret, When she seems in danger of relapsing into madness.
Liz A says
Basingstoke: Once when riding in the car with the self-same great aunt and great uncle, our GA paused and said “Liz, have you ever smoked Marijuana?” Quick as a wink, our GU said “Basingstoned!”
Laura says
Brilliant.
Reminds me – in the 90s, when I was working at SPY, GU would always ask me, “Laura, are you still working at that porn magazine?”
Liz A says
he was a funny man.