My Stuff

Like George, I freak out when I’m without my stuff. I must have it at all times. This is why I carry a big purse; I need my stuff.

On my sojourn back from the wilds of Virginia to the wilds of Biloxi, a retarded weather event made my flight to Atlanta a fucking comedy of errors. At the end of it, I was safely in Gulfport and my stuff was in Atlanta. Not good!

Delayed baggage claims are filed (On a hunch, I actually kept my baggage claim tickets at the ready this time around), curse words are muttered under my breath and the waiting game begins. Luckily my purse and laptop were securely at my side.

My entire life was fit snugly in one suitcase and one duffle bag. My toothbrush, my toothpaste, my makeup, my face soap, my deodorant, everything I use to get me through the day and into the evening was in Atlanta and I was not.

My heart ached. Was my stuff OK? Were the baggage handlers treating them well? Did my camera and underpants and new clothes feel abandoned? I couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was me and my stuff and the space between us.

I woke up early and checked the status of my bags. They were in Gulfport! They were on the truck! They would be delivered between 11 a.m. and 11 p.m.? WTF?! What kind of cockamamie time frame is that?!

Like a good little soldier, I waited and waited and waited. About noon I could take no more. I called Delta’s baggage department. Their automated voice thingy apparently does not understand Southern accents under stress. Right in the middle of the eternal damnation known as hold, a bright shining light came through the phone.

It was the lady driving the truck that held my stuff. She had my stuff and she was right by my apartment! I gave her the pass code and went rushing out to meet her van. I nearly hugged her as I watched her haul my stuff out of the big white van. Praise teh baybee Jeebus!!! I had my stuff!!!

I can’t decide if the urge to acquire and keep stuff is a basic human instinct or a quirk of western culture. I lead a relatively simple life for the most part, but still, I must have my things.

I need my possessions. When the hurricane was coming, one of the first things I worried about was my stuff. The stuff that couldn’t travel with me got secreted away to various nooks and crannies. It’s not enough just to have stuff; nope, we must protect it from harm as well. I even have my stuff insured.

I think I have an average amount of stuff. I also have a hierarchy of stuff. The things that get taken with me when I’m fleeing: Laptop, purse, wallet, cell phone, iPod, necessary chargers, photos, insurance and other important papers; the things that I can’t take but take great pains to make sure they’re still safe: Wii, Playstation, DS, vinyl records, cookbooks; and then the things that I let fend for themselves: magazine collection, clothing, shoes, basically anything that can be replaced.

My objects, as inane as they are, give me comfort. They’re like security blankets. Everything will be all right because my makeup bag is right where it always is, my clothes are hung up in the closet and my toothbrush is standing sentry by the sink just as it should be.