It’s amazing how much crap and treasure I’ve been finding. A twenty year old electric bill? Did I keep that on purpose? More likely, I couldn’t recall how long I should hold onto old, paid bills and just tossed it into a box.
How long, now that we’re in this electronic age, should I hold onto bills, statements and such? Here’s the skinny from The Consumerist. Def worth a read.
I used to be fabulous at all this paperwork Scheiße. I had a brilliantly arranged filing cabinet. For that matter, all my photos were, more or less, fixed into albums which were catalogued by date and/or event.
When was I this awesome? Before The Amazing Bob started shacking up. I am in NO WAY blaming him for the demise of my organizational habits. Oh my no. Dunno what happened but perhaps I just felt overwhelmed by all of life’s big, fat changes. That and maybe, without discussing this with TAB — I figured he’d take the Filing Helm.
Mostly, yes he did but, not to put too fine a point on this, neither TAB or I are systematizing zealots.
I’ve found pics from WAY back when I shot genuine, honest-to-Bast film and had to spend actual buckeroos to have them developed and printed. Considering my snap happy demeanor, digital cameras are a wicked boon to my bank account.
In any case — now? I’ve got multiple bags of old bills and statements (most of which can be tossed) and a motley collection of boxes filled with old photos, postcards and letters.
At right is Lydia and Steve’s building near Amsterdam and 79th or thereabouts. It was a fifth floor walk up and NONE of the floors were level — a real interesting challenge for balance nerve lacking me.
At left is me dancing at my pal Cynthia’s sister’s wedding. Gotta say, my dance partner looks less than overjoyed here, n'est-ce pas? Was it due to having his visage recorded/his soul stolen for all time? Had I just laughed at his Texas Two Step skills? I don’t recall the dude’s name though I DO remember that he made a rather caustic quip to another Irishman at the table. Dancing Boy was from Cork, the other fella was from Belfast and evoked a decidedly posh BBC English accent. Upon introduction, DB sneeringly replied “Oh, I’m from the Free State.”
The wedding was here in Boston where more than a few Bostonians — born in the U.S. of parents born in the U.S. — all sage and sad refer to the Troubles as “Our Troubles,” whether they’ve ever so much as set foot on the Emerald Isle or no. Fearing big acrimony, I jumped in and changed the subject — maybe that’s when I suggested DB and I hit the dance floor?
Here’s Oni grilling on the roof of our East Cambridge digs. There wasn’t a formal roof deck. For that matter, our sleazebag landlord had a cheap lock to keep us from the experiencing the glories of grilled asparagus, flower pot gardening and sunning ourselves in the shadow of the nearby prison. The nerve!
And this is me in my old closet of a studio in Somerville.
You know, at this rate I may NEVAH get through all these piles of pics and paperwork.
‘scuse me, gotta go redd up.