America's 'orgy of consumption’

Breaking a cycle
Not everyone who lives in a cluttered home is a compulsive hoarder and people who are messy might not need a brain scan. But increasingly they are seeking professional help.

Lowe contracted with Aricia LaFrance, a suburban Denver psychologist and organizational consultant. She describes Lowe as a Level 2 on the household clutter scale, but warns she could get worse.

“She says her mother is this way and now her daughter is this way. So there is a cycle that we need to break,” LaFrance says.

The purge requires three consecutive August weekends with Lowe doing “homework” on closets and junk piles during the week.

An entire afternoon is reserved for Elphey’s room. At 12, her Lil’ Bratz dolls mingle with teenage hip-hugger fashions that cascade in knee-deep waves from her bunk bed across the floor.

Elphey retreats to her top bunk and pulls a leopard-print blanket over her head. Her mother stands on the bottom bunk and, resting her chin on the top mattress, speaks quietly to the curled shape.

After several minutes, Lowe starts back downstairs. Elphey slams her bedroom door with such force that the banister shivers. Her mother winces.

“She’s going to work on her closet,” Lowe explains. “But she doesn’t want anyone to watch.”

Chief culprit: easy money
Social forces contribute to clutter, too.

The chief culprit: Easy money. Americans use 1.2 billion credit cards and carry an average total of $8,562 in consumer debt.

A surprising villain: Technology. Just consider how the entertainment industry has lurched from record players to 8-tracks, cassette tapes, CDs, VCRs, DVDs and now digital downloads.

One area where technology should reduce clutter is documents, but the paperless office has not materialized. Lowe and LaFrance agree to combine file boxes and digital storage, and they banish the file cabinet to the alley along with the desk.

Cooking trends spawn drawerfuls of specialized gizmos. Does anybody really need both a tomato corer and a tomato slicer?

Lowe balks at discarding several bottles of fruit-flavored syrup — mango, kiwi, raspberry — that cost $10 apiece.

“I MIGHT make an Italian soda,” she protests.

Ready for guests
“Or,” LaFrance counters, “you COULD just go to Starbucks and buy one.”

By September, Lowe’s apartment is ready for company. The brown floral print sofa sports a snappy denim blue slipcover. The hamster has been moved. Monopoly and Clue rest neatly on the living room shelves. Instead of the monster desk, a blonde wood table and chairs gleam beneath the dining room chandelier.

Elphey has donated three huge trash bags of clothing. Together, she and her mother have hauled out dozens of bags and boxes.

They admire the front closet as if it was an oil painting. The coats hang straight. Snowboots are matched on a rack, ready for winter.

Suddenly, the gnarly mountain biker in Apartment 17 staggers past Lowe’s open front door, wrestling the hideous file cabinet with the faux oak veneer.

“Hey, look what I found out in the alley,” he announces. “Got to get organized.”

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