Call me Indy!

Indiana Jones and I have much in common, really, not just that we both like whips. Archeologist sift through literally mounds searching for artifacts worthwhile of preservation. Countless hours of toil for few rewards. Likewise I labor.

My work begins after the female and male minors head off to be institutionalized. This site is secured by two thirty pound balls of fury and fur. Tree trimming services, cable salespeople and even the postal service cannot cross the threshold of my work site. At first my work begins in detailing the destruction brought by the night prior.

Cans, socks, shoes, bones, and snugly blankets for watching television are littered throughout the lower level. Objects such as these can be easily classified. Exclusive of the writings they leave behind the work is rather mystifying.

School bulletins, fund raising forms, cub scout print outs, homework, mail, endless pages of little girl art work. Improperly removing an item from the collection can be catastrophic and result in the wailing of many a soul. Sifting, translating, referring to outside experts. When it begins feel fruitless I think, what would Indy do? Must beat them at their own game. AH! Tie hefty bags to their waist and insist that all material be carried on their body from the time they get home until they go to bed.