I have now checked my laptop, my Mac desktop, my old PC and two different big, portable drives, and I cannot fucking find my business resume. I also pulled out every file that I could looking for a paper version. I know this thing exists in the universe, I just have no idea which galaxy.

The fun part was finding a million old cards and letters and unsent correspondence. There was a card from someone named Margaret, who said that she thinks of me often. It sounded like she missed me. I cannot recall ever in my life being particularly close to a Margaret. I can think of a Monica, a Martha, a Mary, a Michelle, a few Julies and even a Carolina, but Margaret ain’t ringing no chimes.

In another card, a good (and memorably current) friend’s mom invited me to come back for another visit and afternoon tea. In the note, providing more proof of my waning brain capacity, she thanks me for visiting with her daughter while she was sick. The problem there, I cannot remember her EVER being sick. Sure, maybe a cold or some plantar fascia now and again, but sick and worthy of a visit. Hmmm.

(I will likely call and/or email and ask, but if you are slacking in your office and see this post (and you recognize yourself (Hint: your first initial is actually E. and that’s the letter your mom would have given if asked), please leave a comment about this alledged email I may have forgotten.)

Tying back into the background soundtrack of my mad search through paperwork, I found a baseball card for 3,000-hitter, Wade Boggs. Yeah, I was monitoring the sixth game of the Red Sox-Yankees pennant series.

I’m a shitty baseball fan, I admit. I lack the patience to sit quietly and watch an entire game, but I generally have some idea of the standings throughout a season. Then, I might actually watch largish portions of playoff games. I dunno, maybe it’s all of the running around the bleachers that watching a game to me meant to me on annual trips to Fenway as a kid. Or, maybe it’s the picture in my head of the very measured, reserved viewing of my grandfather.

My grandfather was a loyal baseball fan, who I mostly remember from when he was housebound by emphysema. As far as I know, he watched every game he could in a season or caught it on radio. Not once do I remember ever seeing him cheering or shouting or raising his voice in any way. It could have been the opera by his aspect while watching.

Of course, there were quite a few years under his belt by the time I came along and was anything like a cognitive being, so he may have been much more frisky a fan back in time. (By way of explanation on the differences in our ages, wide for a grandparent, compared to the other kids in my town. He had been a doughboy in World War I (and hated the Belgians because of it). I was a fetus when JFK was shot. I guess he was around 70 when I was born.)

We did, as children, only ever refer to him or call him by “Grandfather.” I never appreciated the formality of that appellation until I was an adult. So, maybe he was never what you would call “frisky.” But he was a Red Sox fan, and baseball is the only sport in which I remember his showing interest. In fact, he seemed pretty antagonistic and dismissive of every other sport.

Anyway, the Sox made history tonight and took the needed three straight to make it to a seventh game. It makes me a little nostalgic for last fall when M. and I snuggled on the couch and watched those playoffs. It was then I knew M. was a natural-born American tricked into birth on a different continent.

By the way, fuck this guy and his hatin’. (Hi, hbee.) Watching the Sox play is far more entertaining than most of the crapfest comedy shows you see around town.

(Just held my self back from linking to the towering temple of fecally challenged comedy. No need to underscore my bitterness. People who understand the state of the Boston/Cambridge comedy scene will understand. As for the perpetrators who wouldn’t know comedy if it smacked them in the face like a wet halibut, what can you do? Although, when I do leave town, I think there is one such perp I will gladly suggest to fuck himself. I just gotta assemble the right crowd of beer-buying well wishers to witness it. Girl’s gotta capitalize on righteous indignation every now and again and at least get some free drinks out of it.)