For as long as I can remember, I have been addicted to ephemera (more on this later, I warn you now) which means that I have an embarrassing number of boxes, baskets, and files of old photos, postcards, schoolwork (not just The Kid’s, but mine) and so forth.
Yes, I am sentimental, but I tell myself that I am also something of an historian, or social scientist, and I will make some meaningful use of this material “someday.” But mostly I am sentimental. I had a bulletin board at my last “real” job that was covered with work-related memorabilia: thank you notes from clients and interns, office photos, etc. Those went into my work tote when I left in June of ’11, and stayed there until recently. (My little job is starting to become more “real” and the work tote is back in play.)

The contents of the tote ended up in an open cardboard box on the floor of the guest room/office/holding area.

Waldo and I like to hang out there; I cruise the internet play lexulous work at the computer or read. Waldo sprawls on the floor or keeps watch on the neighbors.
Waldo is growing up. He is much more in control of his behavior; the biting, jumping, and chewing are tapering off. He can be left unsupervised for longer times, and when he does commit a doggy crime, he seems remorseful. Mostly.

I was home alone with him this evening, and I let my guard down. We went outside a few times, I fed him and we spent some quality time on the couch. Then I got engrossed in a book. It was quiet. Too quiet. I checked on him. He was in the guest room, on the floor, happily engaged with his Kong. Back to my book I went.

We went out again, and I returned to my book. Time passed, and I told myself I was probably pressing my luck. Back to the book. (Bossypants by Tina Fey- yes, I am behind the curve, and yes, you MUST read this)

The next time I checked on my boy- think Mena Suvari and rose petals in American Beauty, only she is a shepard/hound/whatever mix dog, and the rose petals are paper shreds.

I found remnants of a paycheck from my last job, the return label from a card from my friend Teri, and pieces of a card signed by someone named Kate. That’s the one that baffled me. I knew two women with that name: a former co-worker, who never wrote me a card, to my best recollection, and the sister of the guy who dumped me on the day I met TMIM. I don’t remember getting any correspondence from her, either. It’s not like the card was simply signed- there were fragments of sentences all over the place.

I am curious, but not to the point of greeting card reconstruction. I scooped all of the soggy remnants up and into the trash they went.

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