Parade of misfit clutter

I confess. I had coffee with a friend this morning, but I went back to sorting/thrashing about this afternoon. I went through some letters today, a sure show-stopper because I want to sit right down in the mire and reread them. (I am easily thrown off task.) I stopped after I read the first card, a sweet note written for my high school graduation by the boy that would break my heart just a couple weeks later. When he broke up with me that summer, I held this card and kept trying to pick up on some clue, the way you do when you feel duped. I am 36 and still can't decipher any secret code that should have tipped me off. Oh well. Some things are better left behind.

Here is some of the crap I have been toting around through moves, roommates - time immemorial:



Dead flowers from formals and homecoming. I am especially horrified by the blue fan 'bouquet' from the Sandy Mt. Days (my hometown).



This is the guitar Greg gave me when I decided that I didn't want to be a groupie anymore - I wanted to be a grungy rockstar. I can't part with it or play it. Very useful.



Nothing says prom like lots of lace. I will have to elaborate more of this fine gem later.



Don't forget my graveyard of old 35 mms. And the Polaroid camera. I used it to take daily (expensive) pictures to journal with for about 2 minutes. Ah, the early 'blog' years.



And my favorite by far. This is the apron I wore when I was 20 years-old and worked for a rowdy Mexican restaurant - the kind you actually audition for. I can't sing or act, but somehow I got the job. THE APRON STILL HAS SALSA ON IT. (I still can't part with it.)

No wonder my kids don't feel compelled to clean their room.

*Some of my pictures don't seem to be rotated right. But. When I tried to fix them in Flickr, they appear to be okay. If they don't self-correct by the weekend, I promise I will whip up a nasty hex and punish them accordingly.