There are three known drawbacks to collecting irresistible stuff that you find so fascinating that you absolutely must have it under your own roof so you may gaze on it lovingly and dust it occasionally.

Drawback Number One: You will eventually run out of space to house your collection of stuff and be forced to move to a larger dwelling. [That actually happened to a neighbor of mine.]

Drawback Number Two: Your spouse or significant other will eventually threaten to leave you if you don’t get rid of the cluttered mess of stuff you call a collection. [Same neighbor.]

Drawback Number Three: The inevitable. You didn’t think far enough ahead to the  day you die and leave that collection of stuff behind forcing someone else to deal with it. You fail to take into consideration that you might be the only one in your family who finds your stuff fascinating and irresistible. The family member who is stuck finding a home for your collection of stuff will not think kindly of you and may even bury you with it. [That neighbor is still alive, but this may possibly happen to him eventually.]

Seriously, the reason collecting too much stuff is on my mind this week is that I recently encountered a personal situation where huge collections of stuff were involved. Our family paid a visit to Macho Guy’s clan west of the Mighty Mississippi. Earlier in the year, a beloved family member had passed away. The rest of MG’s family was involved in settling her estate. Prior to the estate sale, we were all encouraged to select mementos from her many collections.

We walked through her condo encountering room after room with stacks of items from her home furnishings and her collections on display. Furniture, large and small decorative items, China, small appliances, artificial floral arrangements she created, Christmas decorations, costume jewelry, artwork, craft supplies, family photo albums, books, movie DVDs and music CDs, and more filled each room. We each chose a few items but hundreds remained. That walkthrough made me think of my sons and of my own bulky collections.

I’m a book slut. I never met a book I could say no to. There are books–romance, mystery, western, and science fiction novels, classics, poetry, plays, non-fiction and reference books–stacked double deep on the book shelves in my office. Those will be donated to the local library one day, although the autographed editions will no doubt be sold.

Unfortunately, neither of my sons has any interest in my Star Trek collection of movies, videotaped TV episodes, novels, magazines, Christmas ornaments, a collectable plate, a poster of The Enterprise, a pen and ink poster of Kirk and Spock, a cute littleTribble, and William Shatner’s autograph. Neither do they want my science fiction artwork collection. I have been urged to sell the lot on eBay as soon as possible so they won’t have to deal with it at some future date when I lift off for that Star Base in the Cosmos.

I cringed at the thought of how much time selling the collection would take away from my writing. I mentioned this to one of MG’s nephews who is also a writer and a Star Trek fan. He expressed interest, so the Mafia Princess made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. If he would sell my Star Trek collection for me–with three important exceptions–he could keep the money he got for it. The three important exceptions I made were: the pen and ink poster of Kirk and Spock, the cute little Tribble, and William Shatner’s autograph.

I refused to part with those three items while I’m still earthbound. I saw no need to go completely overboard. Surely dramatically downsizing the collection is more than sufficient and should ease my sons’ concerns. Wouldn’t you agree?

Firstborn and his Little Brother informed me in no uncertain terms that neither of them, their wives, their progeny, or their dogs, wanted to inherit my Star Trek collection. They urged me to sell it on eBay post haste. I suspected their need for speed was fueled by their fear that I might meet an untimely end before unloading the collection, and then they would be tasked to do so following my demise.

I could hardly blame them, understanding mother that I am. I dreaded selling the collection myself. So, I did what I usually do under similar circumstances. I procrastinated, and procrastinated again, and again, and again.

I shouldn’t have. The second ST: TNG feature film was much better than the first. Actually, it was pretty good. It made me feel I was too hasty in abandoning the Trek universe. Guilt gripped me, along with its close friend misguided loyalty. I decided to hang onto the collection.

Wrong. The next ST: TNG film was so-so. The fourth and last was a creative and box-office disaster that all but slaughtered Paramount’s Star Trek cash cow. I packed my collection in a huge carton, determined to find it a new home. I would have done so, but I couldn’t seem to find the time to do that and write. Writing won out.

Not long afterward, a series of unforeseen obstacles hindered my resolve to end my Star Trek obsession and dispose of the collection that had become my personal albatross.

First, a cousin surprised me with the gift of a Star Trek collector plate depicting a scene from the “Amok Time” second season episode in which Kirk and Spock engaged in pon farr mortal combat. Drat. I had hoped to offer him my collection, but it seemed my cousin decided to rid himself of his collection, did not equivocate as I did, and he beat me to the draw. Double drat. That presented me with one more item to hoard. I hadn’t started, and I was already losing ground. Triple drat.

Next, I began watching the hilarious Big Bang Theory. Every other line of nerdy dialog seemed to contain the words Star Trek or Mr. Spock. How could I turn my back on Star Trek with that weekly reminder? The hysterically funny “Tiny Spock” episode really got to me because I adored Mr. Spock. (I adored Captain Kirk too. I never said I wasn’t fickle.) Big Bang Theory made me realize I wasn’t ready to part with my collection. Auctioning it off on eBay would have to wait a while longer.

Then I began following George Takei on Facebook. Oh, my-y-y. Here we go again.

Two new Star Trek films that reinvented the Trek universe burst onto the scene and captured my imagination. Rats! Hooked again.

When I was forced to declutter my home office not long ago, I found William Shatner’s autograph. It was more than a signature on a scrap of paper. The Shat touched that scrap of paper. It might even contain his younger self’s DNA. ::sigh, drool:: I was overwhelmed by nostalgia, and not a little lust for his younger self, so I boldly went ahead and framed it.

Recently, one of Macho Guy’s nephews—a young writer I mentor—thanked me for my support by giving me a Tribble. You know, one of those little fur balls from “The Trouble With Tribbles” episode. Yes, I have my very own Tribble, dang it. The Tribble joined The Shat’s framed autograph on a shelf in my office right above my desk.

That was the tipping point, the point at which I surrendered and acknowledged that I am powerless over the lure of Star Trek. Resistance is futile. Unless someone out there saves me from myself by taking my collection off my hands, I may never be free of Star Trek’s hold on me. It’s kind of like being in a Star Trek mafia. Once you’re in, they don’t let you out. Ever. That is, not until you join The Great Bird of the Galaxy among the stars.

I believe Michael Corleone said it best in Godfather III: “Just when I thought I was out…they pull me back in.”

You and me both, Michael. You and me both.

The root of my hesitation problem is a little voice in my head that says: “You don’t have to waste money hiring someone to do this; you can manage by yourself if you try hard enough.” At other times, the niggling little voice says: “Are you sure you’re right about that?”

That little voice in my head is my late mother’s voice, intoned to evoke endless guilt, which did not pass over to the other side when she did. Instead, it took up residence in my subconscious where its main function is to promote doubt, waffling, and self-loathing should I ever decide something in my own self-interest.

One memorable time when I heard this voice, Mom was alive then and chastising me for selfishly thinking of hiring a part-time cleaning lady to help out after we enlarged our small raised ranch home with a sizable two-story addition. I was tempted to remind her that she had help cleaning her apartment—two young daughters that she pressed into service and paid them deep, deep, deeply below minimum wage—but that would have opened another can of guilt.

In this particular instance however, I must point out in my own defense that dear old Mom never owned or operated a computer or tried to maintain a wireless network, all the while keeping Macho Guy [aka Mr. Kiss of Death to Computers] from complicating matters further by booting up his laptop. So there.

I admitted defeat after two long, drawn out and excruciating weeks of failure after failure. Regrettably, I called in the Geeks to save my cyberbutt. I say regrettably because that meant I had to declutter my home office ahead of my usual semi-annual purge so the Geek Squad Agent could gain entrance without using a machete or a flamethrower. Drat.

All is well now, wirelessly and clutterwise, but something unexpected occurred during the unscheduled, last minute clutter purge. While sorting through stacks of unopened envelopes and piles of unfiled papers, I turned over a tiny scrap of wrinkled graph paper and discovered a lost treasure. I didn’t want to lose track of it again, so I framed it.

Before I tell you the story behind this lost treasure, it must be understood that I was and am a devoted fan of the original Star Trek series. I never missed an episode. When NBC threatened to cancel it, I wrote a scathing letter demanding that it remain on the air. NBC acceded to my demand. When NBC moved Star Trek to a night when I had a late evening grad school class, I paid my Baby Sister to watch the first fifteen minutes so she could tell me what was happening once I arrived home. I was that mad about Star Trek.

Flash forward a year. Macho Guy and I were married, he was still in the Army, and we lived in Kentucky on base. My Baby Sister and her then fiancé visited us for a week. Macho Guy and I drove them to the Cincinnati airport when they left for home. We had lunch on the way—burgers with the works, including raw onion slices. [This is an important detail.]

While milling through the airport, I spotted a very handsome man walking across the concourse. He reminded me of someone I knew. Hmmm. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? I pointed him out to my Baby Sister.

ME: See that good-looking guy over there?

BABY SISTER: Where?

ME: That one. Straight ahead. [I pointed in his direction.] The good-looking one with the brown hair—with the pointy sideburns.

BABY SISTER: Oh. Okay.

ME: [Gasping for breath] Pointy sideburns? Oh. My. God. That’s WILLIAM SHATNER!!!

BABY SISTER: Who?

ME: William Shatner. William Shatner. Captain Kirk on Star Trek. William Shatner, that’s who.

BABY SISTER: So what?

ME: [Digging in my bag for pen and paper] So, I’m going to ask him for his autograph, that’s what.

BABY SISTER: Are you sure it’s him?

ME: [Hesitating a bit] I’m…I’m pretty sure. It looks just like him. It has to be him.

BABY SISTER: You’ll make a fool of yourself if it’s not him.

ME: [Hesitating again] Well…if he’s just a lookalike, he’s probably used to being asked for his autograph, don’t you think?

BABY SISTER: Yeah, but if it really is him, do you want to embarrass yourself by going up to him with that onion breath and asking for his autograph?

ME: [Exhaling into my palm and hesitating yet again] Damn. That’s really bad. It would be embarrassing.

BABY SISTER: [Nodding] Besides, it can’t be him. Think about it. If he’s such a big TV star, what’s he doing in Cincinnati?

ME: [Hesitating for the final time, I shrugged and sighed as I watched the handsome lookalike disappear from sight.] Right. I guess it couldn’t be him.

A few days later, I received a letter from Baby Sister. A tiny scrap of graph paper floated out when I unfolded her letter, but I didn’t notice something was written on it at first. I read the letter:

Dear Sissy,

Guess what? You were right. It was Bill Baby, and he was on our flight. My darling fiancé went over to him, talked to him, and he got Bill Baby’s autograph for you. All he had on him was a pad of graph paper, and so Bill Baby asked him if he was an accountant. He was really nice. I guess you should have asked for his autograph after all.

Love,

Your Adorable Baby Sister

I was right? She guesses that I should have asked him for his autograph after all? She was the one who talked me out of it, and then she has the colossal nerve to call my William Shatner Bill Baby!

I dropped the letter and turned the scrap of graph paper over. There it was—William Shatner’s autograph. The autograph I could have asked for myself if my Baby Sister hadn’t been channeling our mother and made me hesitate and doubt myself. She who hesitates . . . damn.

I ran into the bedroom, put a pillow over my face and screamed into it. I could have met William Shatner face to face. I could have shaken his hand. I could have thrown myself into his arms and hugged the living Trek out of him. I might even have planted a kiss on him. Uh, maybe not that—damn raw onion. My hands began to shake as my thoughts turned homicidal—no, fratricidal. I wanted to kill my Baby Sister.

I thought I had forgiven her after all these years, but rediscovering that lost treasure brought back the fury and resentment I felt for allowing my Baby Sister to talk me out of asking William Shatner—The Shat—for his autograph. It seems I’m feeling fratricidal again.

I think I’ll invite her here for a visit—without hesitation.