Today I was looking through my linen closet for a beach towel and realized that I have dozens and dozens of duvet covers, many of them never used. It seems every time I walk into a goddamned department store, I buy a duvet cover.

I seem to accumulate certain items as though I have obsessive compulsive disorder. They are as follows:

Bathing suits. Do I really need 20? I wear three of them.

Marijuana remnants: Can I not just finish the whole bud? Do I have to hide little scraps in tin foil and in obscure places all over the house, like inside the piano, fearful that my children will stumble upon them? Hey, idiot: How about just SMOKING IT til it’s done and when the children are out, and then keeping your stash in one top-secret place?

Cereal: Ditto. I have about 20 boxes of cereal in my kitchen cupboard right now. I wonder why I need four boxes of All-Bran Strawberry Bites, three of which have a minuscule amount left at the bottom.

Tweezers: I have lost count. There are at least 20, and they are situated in almost every sunny window of my house, along with a magnifying mirror. Yes, I have an obsessive fear of facial hair.

Summer clothes: Tank tops, sun dresses, flip flops, shorts, gauzy, flowy tops, shorty cotton nighties — my drawers are stuffed with them. It snows in this country from October to April. That’s seven of 12 months. What the hell is wrong with me? I have more sundresses than I have sweaters or wool socks.

Tea towels, or dish towels as you Yanks call them: I blame this on my deranged old mother. She buys me about 20 a year from the church bazaar.

OK, ladies. Let’s hear it. What are you hoarding?

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