Taking out the Trash

Did I fail to mention that I am the primary garbage-taker-outer in our household? I only make note of it now to give hope to all those who fear they may never change nor grasp a hold of a new skill or habit.

My entire existence I have loathed taking out the trash. In fact, I loathe it now. Have you ever read the Shel Silverstein poem about the girl who insisted she would not take the garbage out until it finally piled up and threatened to take over her life? I know that I had many roommates, mission companions, Playmill friends, etc., who were certain I would meet a similar demise. But never fear dear friends, I have turned over a new leaf, and with my trusty children as my accomplices, I now take the trash out regularly.

Taking out the trash in our neighborhood is a big project, because one doesn't just take it curbside. We have to pile it all in the car and take it four miles up the road to what they call the transfer station. This is a fancy name for a cluster of dumpsters and recycling bins. We wait in line to dump our stuff into these tall dumpsters. Once I overlooked the physics of the whole dumping process and I lifted my enormous trash can up and tried to dump it so I wouldn't have to empty it stinky bag by stinky bag. My garbage ended up weighing more than I did (no small miracle), which jerked me off my feet and almost into the dumpster with all the trash. Luckily my flip flop caught the bottom of the dumpster and I was able to escape with only a smashed toenail.

Because I knew that there would be some of you who would not believe that I was involved in such trashy activities without documentation, I took some pictures of us loading the car to take the trash to the transfer station. Seeing is believing mom! I am finally taking the garbage out!!