#hoarder: novak

[1dalmatianeveryday]

9.22.23

[starbase-yorktown]

The Ghostbusters’ Keeper, Part 3

Author’s Note: only part 4 left to go! this fic is my contribution to the fanon sub-genre of “so Janine is actually psychic she’s just off on timing, and she was the one who found Egon, right?” GB:A compliant/canon feasible.

Word Count: 4.1k || Tagged People: @leah-halliwell92 @oddities-and-endings

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 4

Warnings: handling of a dead body (not as intense as part 2)

+++

Knock-knock—

Janine opened the door before the coroner could get his third rap in and looked the man over with a piercing, hawkish stare that left him squirming as he awkwardly lowered his hand. Behind him, she noticed the sheriff square his shoulders a bit further; his hands settled on his belt in a vaguely intimidating pose as he braced himself to engage with someone apparently just as contrary as Dirt Farmer. If Janine stared him down a little longer and harder than she’d originally intended, well that was his problem, now wasn’t it?

“Ms. Melnitz?” the first man asked. “I’m Andy Novak, the coroner—I believe we spoke on the phone.”

Her eyes snapped back to him; she gave him a second once-over.

Yup. Absolute milquetoast.

“Yeah. Come in.” She pulled the door open fully and stepped out of the way, beckoning them through. Andy hurried to collect his duffel bag and nodded his sincere thanks. “He’s through here.”

She led them into the house and tried to ignore the way their eyes widened as they took in the occult hoarder’s insanity stacked around them, laced with cobwebs, dust, and dirt. To the coroner’s credit, as soon as he followed her pointing finger into the designated room, his fascination switched off entirely, pivoting instead to professional somberness. He scanned the space, calculating how much room they had to maneuver, and turned to his coworker. He placed a gentle hand on his arm and kept his voice low.

“Domingo, could you get the spinal board out of the van? Gurney’s not gonna fit in here.”

The Sheriff gave the chaotic, eerie room one final, slow scan, eyes lingering on the numbers written across the tops of the walls. He nodded absently. “Uh-huh. Sure thing.”

Janine stepped out of his way as he swept from the room, backing up onto the first couple steps of the stairs. A chill came over her as she did, and she rubbed her arms with a shiver. The sensation diminished just after the sheriff stepped onto the porch and swung the front door closed behind him, the clomping of his boots on the old wood marking his departure.

In the other room, Andy knelt before Egon’s body, placed a hand on the man’s knee, and bowed his head in a moment of silence. Janine slowly returned to the doorway and peered around the corner to watch him. For a moment, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she glanced over her shoulder to find only empty air and barren stairs. When she turned back, Andy was standing back up, and he gestured between himself and Egon.

“Just a thing I picked up from my old mentor, takin’ a moment of silence to honor the dead.” He bent down to pick up her bowl of water and dishcloth and set it delicately aside. “For most folks out here, I say a prayer, but, uh….” He eyed the house’s interior again, uncomfortable. “Let’s just say I couldn’t rightly tell you what path your friend walked, faith-wise.”

Janine snorted at that, a small, bemused chuckle escaping her quietly smiling lips, and a flash of relief crossed Andy’s face.

“Sometimes I don’t think even he knew,” she returned and nodded her own thanks this time. “But don’t worry, he’d’ve appreciated the silence.”

The van doors slid shut again with a distant bang, and Andy set to work with a second repositioning of Egon’s body, moving him now so that he’d be easier to transfer to the floor. Janine’s stomach twisted as she watched him work, but she didn’t retreat from her threshold vigil.

“You did a good job,” Andy huffed as he moved Egon’s legs. Janine frowned quizzically, and he elaborated, stumbling a little as he ran into the same resistance in Egon’s right leg that she had. “Makin’ him presentable. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he’d been in some kind of accident, between this leg here and that laceration on his head—”

Janine immediately waved for him to stop talking and shook her head. “Look, we…I don’t want an autopsy.”

Andy blinked, surprised. “You sure? ‘Cause if he was in a car accident or something, could be there’s someone out there who’s liable, and—”

Domingo’s footfalls neared the porch, and Janine stepped into the room, glancing between the coroner and the front door.

“Look, Mr. Novak, you seem like a nice guy, so I’m gonna be quick here,” she said, speaking fast and low. “I’m his medical proxy, okay? I’ve got the paperwork back home and copies on my phone, I’ll gladly get you a printout. But he’s had a-a hard, lonely life.” Domingo’s footfalls landed on the porch, and Janine stepped closer to Andy, grabbing hold of his hands and staring into his eyes with fervent, stalwart sincerity. “He’s done so much good that so many people will never know about, and for the sake of his family, I need his passing on paper to be somethin’ mundane. Please.”

The front door banged open as Domingo awkwardly shouldered his way inside with the spinal board under his arm, muttering under his breath the entire way. She let go of his hands and stepped back, and Andy thought back to her initial refusal to allow cops in the house. He thought of her ferocious protectiveness, her obvious love and care for the deceased, but this was lying. This was lying on federal paperwork, this was—

In the precious seconds left before Domingo’s return, Andy’s eye caught on an oddity. Certainly, practically everything in the house was an oddity, down to the very walls, but this one was beneath the body itself, tucked nearly entirely out of view beneath the chair. And suddenly, he recalled one of his elementary school friends, some nerdy kid named Gary who’d always run around with a homemade replica of something that looked quite a lot like that strange device beneath the dead man.

Back off, man! he could still hear the kid shouting at the people making fun of him. It’s for bustin’ ghosts!  

He’s done so much good that so many people will never know about.

Domingo rounded the corner, hefting the spinal board in his hands, and Andy propped his hands on his hips with a sympathetic sigh.

“Then, I’d say most likely it was a heart attack,” he said, speaking as though he and Janine had been carrying an entirely different conversation, and he didn’t miss the way her chest heaved with a sharp, quaking inhale or how her eyes sparkled with tears. “There’s no other injury on him, and you’d said he’d had one in the past, right?” She nodded quickly, and he turned his eyes on the sheriff. “She’s the deceased’s medical proxy, refusin’ an autopsy. You good with that?”

Domingo’s mouth twisted for a moment as he set the board on the floor before the body, still eyeing the house with open distrust.

“I dunno, are you good with it?”

“As I was just telling Ms. Melnitz, I don’t see any sign of foul play or injury that would make me want to dig further. If she wants to decline autopsy, I don’t see any reason we can’t honor that.”

The sheriff sighed but nodded and then gestured to Egon’s waiting body. “Fine by me. You ready?”

Janine withdrew once more to the foyer hall as Andy pulled a body bag from his duffel and opened it up atop the board, the starch smell of the new plastic filling the air with nauseating swiftness. But still she watched, maintaining her vigil with Egon’s glasses held so tightly against her chest that she was sure she’d have grooves dug into her fingers and palms by the time she let go. She watched as they eased her dear friend out of his chair and to the floor, his stature seemingly smaller in death as the bag engulfed him into its anonymous, equalizing darkness. She watched until the last of his face, the last of his hair, both so lovingly attended to, vanished behind the flap that closed over him, and she wiped the tears from her eyes as the sound of the zipper accompanied him to silence.

“Alright, I’ll get the feet, Andy, you take the head,” the sheriff huffed as they shuffled into position, Andy slinging the duffel across his chest as he took his place. “Got the back of the van open and ready for us, too.”

“On three.” They gripped the handles at their respective ends and met each other’s eyes. “One, two, three.”

They rose in practiced unison, and Janine followed in their wake as they moved into the foyer and then onto the porch and finally down the steps into the front yard. She didn’t follow them all the way. Instead, she stopped just on the edge of the porch, a strange sensation of confinement coming over her, and watched from there as they loaded him into the waiting gurney in the back of the van and strapped him in.

“We’ll be taking him to the local morgue,” Andy said as he made his way back over to her, and the sheriff shut the van’s rear doors. Egon disappeared behind white metal, and Janine turned away, hand raising to her mouth as she struggled to hold a sudden, vicious sob at bay. “Oh, ma’am—”

Janine cleared her throat and turned back to him, wiping her eyes and taking deep, bracing breaths. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know why that…” She gestured helplessly to the car. “Why that just….”

“Don’t you worry about explainin’, Ms. Melnitz, I understand,” Andy assured her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You’d be surprised how many people are affected by that moment; it’s one of the many goodbyes you have to say to him.”

Janine nodded and tried to breathe through the pain in her chest.

“Now, we’re gonna take him to the local morgue,” he repeated kindly and slipped a business card into her hand. “Do you know if he had any preferences for his remains? Embalming, cremation—”

She thought back to the many arguments the boys had had about the potential of zombies and ghosts and ghosts inhabiting dead bodies to create zombies and nodded with a wet laugh.

“Cremated,” she said through the gumminess in her throat. “He wanted to be cremated.”

“Alright. Did you want us to go ahead and do that now or wait?”

“Uh, if you could wait?” She adjusted her glasses and sniffled, trying to remain collected. “Not for myself, I, um, I’ve got family to contact out of state. I’ll be along to meet you in a little bit, there’s just some things I need to tidy up here first.”

“Of course. We’ll be waiting.” He patted her arm and started to retreat to the car when she called after him.

“Mr. Novak!”

He turned back to her, expression kind and open. “Yes, ma’am?

“Thank you,” she said and gave him a watery smile through her drying tears. “For the heart attack.”

“Well,” he scuffed the dirt beneath him with the toe of his boot and gave a wry smile at the cornfields around them. “Let’s just say it was the least I could do for an old friend’s childhood hero.”

A look of surprise flashed across Janine’s face, and he just held a surreptitious finger to his lips as she struggled to reply. She closed her mouth with a click of her teeth, and her death grip on Egon’s glasses eased just a little. Andy got into the car; the sheriff returned to his cruiser. Their engines started. And she watched, un-shed tears burning her eyes, as Egon Spengler disappeared.

She waited until she could no longer see the van on the highway returning to town before pulling the front door shut and crossing the yard to the shed. This time, she didn’t let the dark deter her; she opened Egon’s glasses, sitting them atop her own head, and grabbed the cold pole in her hands. Dozens of memories swept over her as she did, and on muscle memory alone, she pulled herself forward, momentarily weightless and free-falling in empty space, before her body clung to the pole, and she slid down into Egon’s lab.

She found the light switch just as easily as she’d arrived and took a moment to breathe in the scent of fungi, dust, old paper, and equally old electronics around her. She could still detect the metallic tones of soldering and burnt rubber, too, amid the cool earthiness. Row by row amid the cluttered space, she made her way, turning on the lamps as she went as if lighting a path home and running her hands over the tools she knew he used the most and along the projects he’d left unfinished, including a disassembled proton pack. She stopped by his spores, molds, and fungus collection, for a moment feeling as if they were some sort of bizarre pet she was trying to inform of the fact that they’d never see their human again.

Finally, her meandering brought her to her intended destination. She opened the uniform locker, and her misty eyes returned as she picked out Egon’s at the front. It hadn’t been used in a while, the weathered fabric still clean from its last wash with the zipper undone.

With the utmost care and attention, she zipped it fully up, imagining he stood inside it, still. She patted his chest, her hands landing on the same places they had last night in her nightmare. Then, she lifted Egon’s glasses from her head. She stared into the round, reflective lenses with a fragile smile before closing the frames with a soft click and worked open the zipper on the chest closest to her.

She tried to slip the glasses home and frowned as they hit crinkling resistance.

“What in the world…”

She reached inside to pull out whatever it was and stopped as soon as her fingers closed on the item. And after taking a split second to process what she was touching, she started to laugh.

Janine pulled a half-eaten Crunch candy bar out of the uniform, and her laughter redoubled until she had to sit on the floor, wiping at her eyes and feeling lighter than she had all day. She let out a beaming sigh as her mirth eased up, and shook her head as she stared at the ancient food in her hands.

“I hope to God you didn’t eat this recently,” she scolded the empty laboratory and pushed herself to her feet. “Thank you, Egon.” She slipped his snack back into its pocket and patted it lovingly. “I needed that.”

With one hand on the hanger, as if she were holding his shoulder, she slipped his glasses into the second, further pocket. They settled into their long-lost home with a soft brush of fabric against metal and glass, but Janine’s hands didn’t return to her sides. They stayed there, one on his chest, one on his shoulder, and she stood there for a long while, breathing steadily in and out and finally, silently crying. Egon was taken care of, now. The job was done. She could let herself go.

So, why didn’t she feel like she could? Why did she still feel watched?

She hesitated, started to lean forward, hesitated again, and then buried her face in the front of Egon’s uniform, hugging the garment to her in a tight embrace. She breathed deeply, still able to catch some of his scent at the very end of her inhale. His name tag scratched against her cheek, and she let out a body-shaking, trembling sigh.

“You rest now, okay?” She pulled back and pressed a light kiss to the embroidered name, tracing the red letters with her fingers. “I…I’ll try to let our boy know.” The furrow between her eyes deepened; her touch stilled, covering his name in apology. Her eye drifted to the uniform behind Egon’s, the -TZ peeking from around his shoulder. “…But y’know how it is, gettin’ him to pick up the phone nowadays.” After a beat, she glanced back at the far wall, taking in the web of photos and flashcards mapped out in a meticulously detailed timeline. Her heart ached and bled in her chest, as she recalled the years it had taken him to assemble it, the steadfast, studious care that went into each placement and note. She caressed his hollow chest. “And…I’ll let Callie know, too. I promise, however this ends up, you’ll be with family.”

She stood there a few moments longer, letting herself wait in the silence, and finally pulled herself away. She tidied the uniform in the locker and shut the door with a soft clang. She left the lab quietly and turned off lights as she went, darkening the very same path she’d earlier forged. Her steps receded into the dark, and for a moment, the underground space was still, silent—a slumbering mausoleum.

The light above the locker flickered.

+++

Janine finished rinsing out the bowl in the sink, leaving it and the dishrag to dry on the rack, and collected her purse and keys from the front room. But as she made to leave altogether, she paused at the foot of Egon’s chair. The sun had risen quite a bit further into the sky, marking the full start of morning, and the recliner was fully bathed in its gentle, warming light. And as she stared at the weathered upholstery, ragged and torn and chewed up, still seeing the echo of him sagged within it, she felt a pull deep in her chest. The odd grate of his ankle and hip lingered in her palms; the split in his scalp and the accompanying bruise was still grisly against her fingertips.

She saw his eyes staring into hers, his face as young and untroubled as it’d ever been, felt the nightmare’s fear sweeping over her again, that horrid sense of impending and inescapable—

Janine Melnitz turned around and slowly lowered herself into Egon’s chair.

Her hands settled instinctively upon the arms, her perfectly manicured nails curling tensely around the ends and worrying them in her grip. She closed her eyes and tried as hard as she could to recall the dream, to recall why and how.

Her restlessness grew as all she continued to feel were those same frigid emotions. The very air seemed to be growing cold with her, and she struggled to hold herself still and steady.

Behind you.

Behind you, behind you, BEHIND YOU—

JANINE.

Her eyes flew open with a sharp gasp as a crushing weight clamped down across her chest and arm, followed by searing pain, and she vaulted out of the chair, not stopping until she’d stumbled across the room and into the dirtied windowsill. The sun-warmed air settled around her once more, and she took several deep, calming breaths, one hand pressed over her pounding heart. 

The echo of fear and pain didn’t quite leave.

Dread, chest pain, swift onset, no sign of ectoplasm or damage to the room…. She looked over her shoulder and, once her heart had settled, made her way back to the chair. Perhaps…perhaps it was just a heart attack. Alone and sudden and in the middle of the night with no one to help and no time to call.

“I’m so sorry, honey.” She rested her hand on the back of the chair and caressed the worn, sunken headrest. “I’ll be back. You just rest…” She smiled, small, closed-lipped, and sad. “You’ve done enough.”

Janine closed and locked the door behind her as she left, hurrying down the porch and across the front yard. She needed to get to the mortuary, had to call Callie and let her know her father died, had to try and get Raymond on the phone and get him to listen to her for more than half a second after she got out the name Egon. She didn’t have high hopes on that last count. Maybe she’d just fly back to New York and make the rounds in person; it was a lot harder to hang up on a conversation face to face. She could start with Winston, they’d always kept a good rapport over the years; then, she’d call on Dana, break the news to her so they could tell Peter together. Maybe, with the three of them at her back, she could go to Ray and let him know gently—

—PAY ATTENTION—

Janine startled and faced the house, heart skipping a beat and lodging in her throat. It hadn’t been a voice, so much as an intent. The overwhelming sensation of being watched, of something demanding her focus, had rattled through her. She scanned every window, the porch, the front door, trying to find the source.

She found nothing. There was only her and the house and a lifetime of memory on empty plains.

She backed away, looking over the rest of the property with that sense of eeriness cloying now to her skin. Still, she felt as if the farmhouse watched her, haunted her, and she turned and hurried to her car, pulling out her keys and unlocking the door as quickly as she could. As she started the engine and turned into the driveway, she finally let herself truly process what and who she’d lost. And finally, finally, her tears came in full. She bowed her head and sobbed loudly and without restraint as she made her way down the driveway to the waiting highway.

Behind her, unnoticed in her outpouring grief, all the lights in the house began to flicker.

"I bet you like to read a lot, too.“ “Print is dead.”

“Some people think I’m too intellectual, but I think it’s a fabulous way to spend your spare time, I also play racquetball. Do you have any hobbies?“ “I collect spores, molds, and fungus.”

“Y’know, you’re a real humanitarian.” “I don’t think he’s human.”

That smile, the way it crinkled his eyes, his awkward laugh, his endless snacking but never eating meals, the way he focused to the point of losing all sense of time.

She pushed her glasses to the top of her head and scrubbed her eyes as she continued to break apart. The flickering of the lights grew more frantic and persistent, as if the power were only just beginning to flow properly through the old wires.

Finding him asleep at his microscope more times than she could count; bringing him coffee; helping him tease the ectoplasm out of his hair alongside a grimacing, empathetic Ray; running up to him and throwing her arms around him outside Dana’s apartment, hearing him say her name with a smile on his face as he saw her coming, kissing him on the cheek, feeling him embrace her in turn, feeling him reach for her hand and take it to pull her after him into Ecto—

The flickering steadied into constant light that, after a moment, began to grow brighter and brighter. The barn and the shed illuminated as well, flaring to sudden life.

“I shouldn’t take it; we might not be coming back.” “Take it anyway. I’ve got another one at home.”

She was Janine Melnitz, and while she might have never been a Ghostbuster—not in the same way the boys had been, Peter’s teasing had been right on that count over all those years—she was the most important part of their bizarre, codependent mechanism. She was the Keeper: of knowledge, the schedule, their health, their safety. She was the one who threw down with the human element so they could keep sparring against the supernatural. And she’d been prepared from the first day she realized what this job truly was, what this calling entailed, to do this for all of them. To tidy the endings of their lives, to grant them some degree of order, comfort, and peace. She’d just hoped and yearned that Egon Spengler would be the last and not the first.

The house’s electrical current hit a fever pitch, the bulbs glowing far beyond  their capacity, as bright as if they were brand new and not a decade old at the least—

“Janine, die in what sense?” “In the physical sense.” “I don’t care. I see us as tiny parts of a vast organism, like two bacteria living on a rotting speck of dust floating in an infinite void.”

—the blinding, frenetic light shattered into darkness as the breaker overloaded. The property returned to abandoned, lonely stillness. Janine pulled onto the highway, headed for town.

“That’s so romantic.”

The house stood alone.

[cowboysandpilots]

“Why are your eyes so red?”

(This feels like it isn't really finished but it was getting kinda long for a drabble. 😅)

It was a question that Sam never thought Dean would ask. He had thought he cleaned up his face and waited long enough before coming out into the common areas this morning. He thought they didn't look too red but Dean could always see him better than he saw himself. Sam should've known.

“They're not red.” Sam frowns like he hasn't noticed.

Dean scoffs. “Yes they are. Don't lie to me Sammy.”

Sam still tries to keep up the appearance that he has no idea what Dean is talking about. “If you think that my eyes are red then that's on you Dean. I’m telling you I don't see it.” He tries to avoid looking directly at Dean by walking over to fill the coffee cup on the counter that was waiting for him as always.

Dean wasn't having any of it. He got up, standing directly in front of his brother. “Look at me Sam.” Dean demanded. Well, Sam could never say no to Dean so he does exactly that which makes Dean sigh. “I know what you look like when you've been crying man.”

As much as Dean knows him, Sam couldn't let himself just admit to it that easily. “I haven't Dean. Why would you even care? You hate talking about feelings more than anyone I've ever met.”

Dean nods, he knows Sam is right. “I do.” He admits. “But I care about you Sammy. I want you to talk to me.” He can't believe that Sam doesn't know this, especially after all they've been through. He’d always assumed that Sam was doing fine since he never said anything but now, seeing that broken but trying to hide it, look on Sam’s face, he knew he couldn't have been more wrong. He reaches out to put a hand on his brother’s cheek with a frown. “I’m here Sammy. Talk to me. Let me fix it.” It’s barely above a whisper, he doesn't want his own voice to give him away.

Sam’s face almost immediately crumbles. “I just want to be normal Dean” He admits, own voice cracking. “I don't understand why I’m the one who got chosen for these powers. Has it brought anything good in our lives since I got them?”

Dean sighs. “Well, not right now but you never know in the future. They could help lead us to the yellow eyed demon.” Dean tries to reason even though he wasn't sure that was true and he didn't know the answer.

Sam shakes his head. “I know you feel like you have to fix this for me Dean but the truth is, I don't think you can. I just… need to get over feeling sorry for myself.” He sniffs, pulling his face away from Dean’s hand and wiping his eyes.

Dean mumbles something to himself under his breath, shaking his head. “Don’t do that Sammy. Don't be like me. You should talk about your feelings even though I don't.” If Dean can keep his brother from being anything like him then he’ll have done something right.

“That's not fair Dean.” Sam frowns. “I can’t just leave you with my problems and also yours.”

“Don't worry about me. I can take it. Helping you will help me. I want to help you. It’s my job.” Dean says it with an heir of finality that makes Sam have to look away so he won't argue.

(If you liked this and want something specific you can always commission me and if you just want to support you can send me a ko-fi. :) Otherwise, thank you so much for reading. Reblogs and likes are always appreciated. <3)

Tagging Friends <3: @wincest-now-and-forever @tintentrinkerin @jimmy-novaks @wincestismyheart @all-4-wincest @wincestpoughkeepsie @fandom-hoarder @ghost-go-roasty-mctoasty @codependent-idiots @debauchedsammy @jojobeaner @j2loverdeansam @writethelifeyouwant

[deedee-sims]

Sims Flashback Challenge

I was tagged by @mdpthatsme thank you! <3

Rules: There isn’t any rules, just snap a photo of two sims, one recent and one of the oldest you can find and post it! tag it #simsflashbackchallenge and tag @lovelysimies​ so they can see your progress! Also, tag some friends! It’s always fun to participate with a bestie!

Well, you probably already know that I’m the worst hoarder, and I have pretty much all the pictures I’ve ever taken in this game, so here’s a pretty old one (it’s not the oldest, which you can see here XD), this sim was Mark, the son of my oldest sims (who were the “founders” of my old hood) I took this questionable picture in the 12th of November in 2005 :P

And the second is just a pretty recent one of Newt Novak, from the latest Griffinmere update :)

I’m going to tag @taylors-simblr, @hexagonal-bipyramid, @poppet-sims, @jellybeanery and @kahlenas no pressure! If you were tagged already, you can do it twice, it’s fun :P

[jodybouchard9]

Bless This Mess: Are You a Hoarder or Just Disorganized?

valzhina/iStock

Do you worry that your untidy home has crossed the line from organized chaos to an anguished cry for help? You’re not alone. After a series of busy weeks that left you zero time to clean, you might start to question whether your Sharknado wreck of a home would make the cut for TLC’s reality show “Hoarders.”

According to Fugen Neziroglu, a clinical psychologist at the Bio-Behavioral Institute in Great Neck, NY, hoarding is a heavier issue than just having a messy home. It can cause—or spring from—serious emotional, physical, social, and financial issues.

So, most routinely untidy folks don’t meet the requirements for a clinical diagnosis, even if you do have a pantry bursting with potato chips and towering stacks of CDs from that Dave Matthews Band phase.

Need a reality check? If you can relate to the situations below, you’re not a hoarder—you’re just not fazed by a little clutter. And maybe you’ll glean some tips on how to deal with it.

You can clean up fast when an unexpected guest arrives

Can you easily pick up your messy piles and throw them into a closet, giving your place the appearance of tidiness? Organization guru and author of “Keep This Toss That” Jamie Novak calls this going into “scoop-and-dump mode.”

If making your place look halfway presentable requires only this much effort, you’re probably more messy than deranged.

You’re happy to get rid of things you don’t need

A big difference between someone who hoards and someone who is messy is their desire to actually clean up, notes Novak.

“A cluttered house can be transformed into an organized one if the homeowner is willing to part with many of his or her things,” she says. But if the person has hoarding tendencies, cleaning up isn’t possible.

“The messiness is becoming a problem when you accumulate unnecessary items and then are simply unable to discard them,” Neziroglu adds.

You can walk into every room of your house

In a hoarder’s home, clutter tends to obstruct doors and stairs, says Heather Walker, founder of Functional Spaces Organizing in San Rafael, CA.

“In extreme instances, everyday spaces can’t be utilized for their intended purpose, such as a table for eating or a bed for sleeping,” adds Novak. And for some hoarders, there’s long-term structural damage to the home because of the amount of stuff inside (the HVAC may be permanently blocked, for example).

If you spent a couple of hours cleaning your house, it would be obvious

Despite her profession as an organizer, Walker admits that her house can get quite messy. But she can clean up quickly—the key is, every item she owns has a home.

“The catch is not to let your piles turn into chaos,” she says.

A borderline hoarder has bigger issues: “A messy person may be disorganized, but she doesn’t usually accumulate items that others would view as having no value,” notes Neziroglu. If there’s no “home” for your towers of masking tape or bins of buttons, you’re tipping toward hoarding.

You know your mother’s wedding ring holds more value than a food wrapper

“Our possessions are sentimental to us because they give a sense of identity and personal history,” notes Walker. A messy person knows full well old magazines have to be recycled. “But for people with hoarding problems, the items’ importance is greatly exaggerated.”

Many times, for a hoarder, trash is mixed in with important possessions and the homeowner is unable to discern the difference.

You’re an avid collector—and your items look great in their display cases

“A typical collection is nicely displayed, frequently referenced, and brings joy to the owner,” explains Walker. Proper collections usually warrant a specific spot, are well-maintained, and have some significant value (monetary or sentimental).

Hoarders, however, don’t own collections in the true sense of the word. They purchase or pick up things with the intention of finding some use for them, but never do. If you have a nice set of china or figurines, make a point of setting them up in style. If not, it’s time to donate the whole lot!

Putting stuff in storage doesn’t make you sweat

If you’re willing to pare down and document the important items in order to keep some of them, you’re far from a hoarder. Once you have clutter under control, photograph or write down a description of the special possessions, say both Walker and Novak.

“I usually ask my clients to think about how they would feel if they lost the item in a fire,” says Walker. If you know you’d cry, don’t get rid of it. “Just find an appropriate and safe storage space and keep the item with great intention.”

The American Psychiatric Association recognizes hoarding as a mental disorder often stemming from other psychological problems. While medications have not been found to be effective, hoarding is treatable with cognitive behavioral therapy, says Neziroglu. If you’d like to find a therapist or simply take a self-assessment questionnaire, go to iocdf.org or biobehavioralinstitute.com.

The post Bless This Mess: Are You a Hoarder or Just Disorganized? appeared first on Real Estate News & Advice | realtor.com®.

[kennethherrerablog]

Quench Your Wanderlust (And Save Some Money) by Teaching English Abroad

Maybe you’re stuck in traffic on the commute home from a job you don’t like. Or maybe you’re a fresh-out-of-college grad who is hesitant to jump into the corporate world.

Whatever your situation, you’ve probably said this at some point: Something’s got to change.

Blowing your savings on an international trip isn’t the smartest move. Taking a gap year doesn’t sound like a good fit, either. But you know you want to see the world.

If you are a native English speaker, there’s a really practical solution to this dilemma: teaching English abroad. You won’t have to forego a full year of job experience or drain your bank account to do it. In fact, you’ll boost your resume and very likely save hundreds (if not thousands) of dollars while traveling.

I personally saved up to a thousand dollars a month teaching in South Korea, and my case isn’t unique, either. Jessie Smith, an expert in teaching English abroad for the International TEFL Academy (ITA), saved a similar amount each month when she taught overseas.

It all depends on what your goals are, Raneem Taleb-Agha said. She taught English in Spain shortly after graduating from the University of California, Berkeley, and said the experience jump-started her career in writing and editing.

“This is your chance to go and see the world and experience life in another country,” she said.

How to Teach English Abroad

If you were born in an English-speaking country, consider yourself lucky. English is the world’s business language, and many countries are scrambling to learn it. That means jobs teaching English are in high demand.

There are a plethora of teaching programs, countries, certifications and jobs to choose from. Below are some of the biggest considerations and steps you can take before booking those plane tickets.

Standard Requirements to Teach English Overseas

When you think of teaching, you might think it requires a bachelor’s or even a master’s degree in the field. That’s because degrees are needed for typical grade school teaching jobs inside the U.S. But because the demand is so high for English teachers abroad, a degree isn’t always needed.

Of course, the requirements vary for each individual job listing, but it’s fairly easy for most U.S. citizens to get into the industry.

To meet basic requirements for international teaching jobs, you must:

Be a native English speaker.

Be at least 18 years old.

Have a high school diploma.

If you prefer to teach in Western Europe, chances are you will need a bachelor’s degree. (Two notable exceptions are Spain and Italy.)

“If you don’t have a four-year degree,” Taleb-Agha said, “I would recommend looking particularly at Southeast Asia or Latin America.”

Even though several countries don’t require a related degree or previous teaching experience, it’s very important to make sure you have the necessary teaching skills for the job.

“Be someone who is going to put in the work, time and effort to give the children a good experience,” Taleb-Agha said. “At the end of the day, their education is most important.”

That’s where certifications come in. And there are a ton of them.

Find the Right TEFL Certification Program

When searching for English teaching programs, you will come across a lot of acronyms, namely TEFL and TESOL. TEFL stands for “Teaching English as a Foreign Language.” TESOL means “Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages.”

The terms are often interchangeable, but you’re more likely to see TEFL associated with certifications.This certification is all about practical English-teaching and classroom-management skills.

You can find certification programs, completed mostly online, at universities or through providers like ITA, who offer certification courses and job assistance in the destination country.

The University of Cambridge’s English teaching certification is referred to as the CELTA, short for Certificate in English Language Teaching to Adults.

Though it costs more than most TEFL certifications, the CELTA is widely recognized internationally.

“CELTA is the global gold standard,” said Peter Novak, country manager for the U.S. and Canada at Cambridge Assessment English, a nonprofit English-language certification department at the University of Cambridge. “You can hop into any language school and start teaching the next day — and start teaching confidently.”

Not all situations require a certificate from the University of Cambridge, but it certainly won’t hurt. In many cases, it will boost your salary. At the very least, make sure the TEFL program includes a practicum component where you are in a classroom teaching real students.

Both Novak and Smith noted that there are a lot of less-than-reputable, bargain-bin programs, which aren’t accredited.

According to Smith, legitimate TEFL certifications should consist of:

100 hours of coursework.

In-person teaching practicum with a non-English speaker, up to 20 hours.

Curriculum accredited by Accrediting Council for Continuing Education & Training, College of Teachers or Training Qualifications UK, or through a university.

Courses taught by a credentialed professor or instructor of TESOL.

Smith said to be wary of Groupo TEFL certifications taught by “TEFL coaches” instead of professors. Any too-good-to-be-true pricing is also a red flag.

“A true university-level TEFL class could not possibly run under $1,000” or so, Smith said. Sometimes, “you’ll see the words ‘self-accredited,’ which — needless to say — means just about nothing.”

Choose the Country That’s Best for You

Ask yourself what type of experience you want.

Do you want to save a lot of money? Break even financially? Travel to a particular region? Learn a certain language?

“It’s important to keep an open mind,” Taleb-Agha said. “Consider destinations that you never thought you were interested in. Go somewhere even if you don’t speak the language.”

It’s also important to consider the requirements of most jobs in the country. Your qualifications are important to determine which country to teach in.

Smith broke it down into a few categories:

For experienced teachers or master’s degree holders, try the United Arab Emirates. She said the pay is high and they really “roll out the red carpet for teachers.”

Fresh out of college? Taiwan, Vietnam or South Korea are great Asian options. Germany and the Czech Republic are top European destinations as well.

For less experienced teachers, there are plenty of options in Latin America and a couple in Western Europe, like Spain and Italy.

Novak said it may be a little harder to break into the English teaching industry in Northern European countries.

“English is so highly integrated in their societies,” he said, noting that they still require English teachers, just at a very advanced level.

And as with all international travel, make sure to check out the U.S. State Department’s travel advisory scale. Countries are rated on a scale of one to four — the higher the worse. A four rating simply reads, “Do not travel.” Pretty self-explanatory there.

Start Your Job Hunt

You’ve done your research and picked a country. You maybe even got a TEFL or CELTA certification. Now you have to find a job.

Some TEFL providers like ITA and Teach Adventures Asia help or even guarantee you employment after you’ve completed the program. Some countries have government-run English teaching programs, like Japan’s JET program or South Korea’s EPIK program, that place you in a public school.

But most of the time, the job hunt is up to you. Forums, Facebook groups, blogs and travel websites are all fairly good ways to find work overseas.

Taleb-Agha found her teaching job in Spain on her own.

“Using Google, I found a lot of helpful blogs,” she said.

If you’re doing the research yourself, she recommends using Young Adventuress and Go Overseas, which offers program and job reviews. She also writes several helpful articles on teaching abroad for Go Overseas as a topic expert.

And once you’ve found a school, make sure to vet it properly. After all, you’re about to move across the globe to work there.

“Request to speak to another teacher on staff,” Smith advises. “That is standard operating procedure.”

If they say no, that’s your cue to keep hunting.

Adam Hardy is an editorial assistant on the Jobs Team at The Penny Hoarder. He previously worked in international education at the University of South Florida and taught English in South Korea to grade-schoolers and North Korean refugees. Read his full bio here, or say hi on Twitter @hardyjournalism.

This was originally published on The Penny Hoarder, which helps millions of readers worldwide earn and save money by sharing unique job opportunities, personal stories, freebies and more. The Inc. 5000 ranked The Penny Hoarder as the fastest-growing private media company in the U.S. in 2017.

The Penny Hoarder Promise: We provide accurate, reliable information. Here’s why you can trust us and how we make money.

Quench Your Wanderlust (And Save Some Money) by Teaching English Abroad published first on https://justinbetreviews.tumblr.com/

[1dalmatianeveryday]

6.14.23

[cowboysandpilots]

I'm tagging friends and favourite accounts because i'm the most annoying human on the planet and I crave validation even though I don't even like this. 🙃 @tintentrinkerin @jimmy-novaks @wincestismyheart @all-4-wincest @wincestpoughkeepsie @fandom-hoarder @ghost-go-roasty-mctoasty @codependent-idiots @debauchedsammy @jojobeaner @j2loverdeansam @writethelifeyouwant @stemroses

I Need to Feel Better

(Once again I kind of hate this and I wish it was longer but my shit brain ran out of motivation in the middle. 🙃)

“I need to feel better Dean.” Sam almost shouts. He wasn't expecting to be interrogated so early in the morning and by his brother no less. All he had said was that he needed to take a few days off from hunting. “Just because you never take a day off doesn't mean that other people don't need them”

“I know people need them, Sam I just don't understand why we can't take your ‘few days off’ together.” Dean huffs back.

“I didn't say we couldn't, I just didn't think that you would want too.” Sam explains. Dean never wants to take any time off and Sam really didn't want to spend his time off listening to Dean complain. He would probably try and look for a case in whatever city they ended up in and then Sam would have to help instead of actually getting any time off. It was so much easier if he could just go by himself but Sam knows enough about codependency to know that, that won't happen.

“Well I want too” Dean says stubbornly, posture straightening like he thinks Sam is going to challenge him.

“Fine.” Sam sighs. “Pack a bag. I’m ready whenever you are.” He could never say no to Dean anyway.

The first few hours of being in the impala with Dean were the same as they always are. Sam looking out the window, Dean driving and a rock song playing softly from Dean’s cassette collection. They’re always like that until a song Dean’s particularly fond of comes on and he starts singing, Sam joining in a few minutes later after some coaxing. It was always fun but Sam was never one to give in easily. He would pretend to be annoyed with Dean for as long as he could which, coincidentally, was not long at all. Dean would smirk at him and call over the music. “I knew you couldn't stay mad at me Sammy” to which Sam would roll his eyes even though he knows it’s true.

They sleep in the car that first night because Sam realized he was so focused on getting away that he didn't actually choose a place to go. Dean was the one who suggested it. They had done it plenty of times as kids and even though it was quite a bit more cramped now, it brought back a sense of nostalgia that warmed Sam’s heart. They weren't even that close. Dean was sprawled across the front seat and Sam, the back but it somehow made Sam feel a little better even though nothing had changed. He was glad that Dean had invited himself along.

(If you liked this and want something specific you can always commission me and if you just want to support you can send me a ko-fi. :) Otherwise, thank you so much for reading. Reblogs and likes are always appreciated. <3)