Time Capsule

You may recall that, a few weeks ago, I mentioned our storage pod delivery.  The one we had packed away in late 2010 in order to empty out our basement and vie for the world record in Home Renovation Delays.  I’m still waiting on the official ruling from the Guinness Book people.  I know it’s going to be close.

And when I casually mentioned this pod, I failed to confess something important.  So I’m here to do that today.

Here’s the thing.

I assumed that my husband, to whom I jokingly refer as a hoarder on a regular basis, had stuffed the pod full of his stupid crap random possessions.

Notsomuch.  It was kind of a bunch of my stupid crap.

You see, it seems I have what P calls “a nostalgia problem.”

Yeah.  I think I’m a Memento Hoarder.  A Sentimentality Archivist.  A Memorabilia Historian.

I. Kept. A. Lot. Of. Crap.

This is probably about 30% of it.

Because I’m on the verge of a very big birthday  (it’s true, I’m turning 21 — again), what better time for a little trip down Memory Lane?  One where I mock myself publicly.  You can see just what I’ve been sorting through for the past few weeks.  Which is mainly my life in photos, greeting cards and old concert tickets.  And really bad hair.

I bet you didn’t wake up knowing today was your lucky day.

So my high school yearbook was located in Hoarderpalooza.  Now, I’m not quite self-punishing or drunk enough to show you my official high school yearbook photo, but I did find this one of myself.

How about that French braid and the boxy, oversized sweater?  And how about the clear academic rigor, concentration and focus on my face?  But the real value of this photo is capturing the guy behind me in a moment when he is clearly contemplating killing off all the annoying chatty girls with bad French braids and boxy, oversized sweaters.  This is practically forensic evidence.

And I found a bunch of notes from one of my oldest friends — someone I’m still close with today.

Oh the punk rock rebels in the suburbs!  How cool we thought we were.  This, coming from a girl in a French braid.

Good news, though: I did not fall prey to the weird guy in the yearbook photo and I made it to college.

Do you see me? I’m the one drinking a beer.

I mean, it’s obvious why nobody wants to graduate and go into the real world.  Why would we ever want to leave this behind?  This entire scene seems so foreign now, although perhaps it’s not terribly dissimilar to the pre-school lottery.  Or maybe even playgroup, on a good day.

And then I found this.  I’m too afraid to open it.

Lest you think I might have been bored in high school and college, fear not — I made a career out of attending concerts at that time. And, for reasons that remain unclear, I felt compelled to save some of these tickets.  Probably so I could pin them all up on my dorm room wall.  Or find them in a box decades later and blog about them.  See — my plan fell right into place.

If you don’t know about my U2 addiction, I’ll let the ticket stubs speak for themselves.  When I say these are just the tip of the iceberg, take my word for it.  If I showed all of them to you, I’m pretty sure I would be issued a restraining order.

Now, attending these concerts meant tailgating.  Which required a suitable automobile for these purposes.  Good thing for everyone that I was driving this beauty, which comfortably seats approximately 18 college students.

Oh yes.  The 1986 Monte Carlo.  Where you could almost be in two states at once.

{It was New Jersey in the 1990s, people.  What did you expect?}

Don’t worry, though.  Life was not all concerts and parties.  I did have some significant literary aspirations along the way.

Like this.  I thought this was the funniest thing I’d ever read when I was in middle school.

{And really, if you remember Sniglets, I’ll love you forever.  Triple bonus points if you can name the show where they originated.  Come on — don’t leave me hanging out here loving Sniglets all by myself!  Anyone?  Bueller?}

But then I got all self-important in college for a few minutes and decided I would change the world.  Unfortunately, Sniglets weren’t going to get the job done.  So I started reading stuff like this.

FYI, not recommended for beach reading.  Highly recommended for insomnia. {Who would save this book?!}

And let’s wrap this up with some antiquing.  Behold the evidence of my old age.

I believe this what they called film.  For a Kodak Disc Camera.  Remember those?  I want to just go and drop this off at the local Walgreens with a straight face, and ask the 17 year-old behind the counter when my photos will be ready.

And this was called a record.  Or, a 45.  It required a little machine that spins this circle-like object around and around, while putting a funny little needle on the surface to play music.  And if you turn it over?  There’s another song!  One that is often very good but has far less sales potential.  It’s called a B-Side.  Say it with me.

Guess what?  There were bigger versions of those bizarro vinyl circles that contained multiple songs.  Sometimes you will see them for sale on iTunes. They were called albums.  Here is a sampling of my favorite childhood albums — just before I discovered Led Zeppelin IV and my hair went sky high.

So there you have it.  A {very} small yet mortifying display of the random crap I kept in boxes over the years.  And, a written admission that I surpassed my husband’s hoarding tendencies in this particular instance.  Yes, I am making it hard for any of you to believe that, in my adult life, I am actually a ruthless purger.  An anti-hoarder, if you will.  It’s true, despite my obvious weak spot for memorabilia and personal artifacts from my past.

And this was before I had kids.  Maybe I’ll get a new pod for their mementos.