The Stink of Defeat

The garbage guys got us again.

Our garbage truck usually comes to pick up our trash around mid-morning every Friday, which is very convenient when you forget to put the trash out on Thursday night, or when thunderstorms are predicted for trash night and you don’t want your garbage blowing down the street while you sleep, or for those times when you and your husband are in a waiting match to see which of you will take out the garbage and bedtime comes and both of you win.  Unfortunately, about 10% of the time our garbage guys will show up around five in the morning, so if it was one of those forgetful, windy, or lazy nights, you have actually lost the Garbage Showdown and are stuck with rotting chicken scraps and maggoty cantaloupe rinds for a bonus week.

Last Thursday night I completely forgot it was Thursday night.  Dave told me (later) that because rain was predicted, he had decided to keep the garbage inside until morning (although I think he may have been engaged in a one-sided garbage showdown with me, but won’t admit to this).   At the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., when the world still  lies in sweet darkness and the new day is being sleepily ignored, Dave was already awake and down in the basement working out.  He’s crazy like that.  I heard the sounds of a garbage truck, realized that I had forgotten it was Thursday night and that it was now Friday morning, and started to panic.  Although I knew the approaching truck was probably one of the competing sanitation trucks and almost certainly not ours, I still dragged myself out of bed and went to the window to check. 

It was not my garbage truck.  Phew.

However, I now had several decisions to make. 

a) go back to sleep, our garbage guys will arrive mid-morning like they always do.

b) go back to sleep, but wake up every time an airplane flies overhead or a neighbor’s car approaches for fear that the sound is my garbage truck approaching.

c) head outside wearing only a t-shirt and short robe, no bra, to deliver garbage/recycling to the curb, which is not a bad choice in the current semi-darkness.

d) put on a bra, get dressed, and drag the garbage to the curb, thereby completely waking myself up for the day, but feel complete satisfaction as I will no longer need to worry about the garbage/recycling.

e)  go get Dave to do it.

I opted for Plan E.  I headed down to the basement with hopes of reminding him that lifting garbage bags is also quite a good workout for the pecs, but unfortunately I found that the basement lights were off, which meant that instead of exercising, Dave had apparently fallen back asleep on the sofa down there.  I didn’t have the heart to wake him up, so I opted for plan B.

For the next hour I alternated between  falling asleep, to startling awake to the sound of a competing recycling truck, to falling asleep, to jumping out of bed at the sound of the neighbor heading to work, to falling asleep, etc., all because I was too lazy to take the garbage to the darn curb.  Just as I had finally decided to just do it, I heard the growl of an approaching truck.  A peek out of my window told me that my garbage guys had decided to make their rounds early today, and I would definitely need to throw on a bra and get dressed, otherwise I would have an audience for my Walk of Trash Shame to the end of the driveway. 

Quickly, I got threw on a bra and pajama pants, headed downstairs, and grabbed the bag of things from the fridge I hadn’t wanted rotting in the garbage can all week (chicken scraps, etc.) and headed out to the garage to grab the overflowing can and deliver my trash to the gentlemen at the end of my driveway. 

I missed the truck by about 10 seconds, its taillights mocking me as it left my street.  I almost considered chasing it. [Go ahead and take a moment to picture me running down the street in my Christmas panda pajama pants with crazy bedhead desperately yelling “STOOOOOOPPPPP!”, waking my neighbors, their faces all peering out of their windows at me, each smug in their own ability to get their garbage to the curb on time, while one gawker possibly records the moment for a YouTube video that becomes a viral hit by the end of the day].  So no.  I did not chase the garbage truck.

And now the garage smells like the stench of rotting chicken scraps and maggoty cantaloupe rinds, the madly buzzing flies are facing off West Side Story-style (most likely brandishing tiny little switchblades over the territorial right to the fetid leftovers and guinea pig poops), and I have 5 more days of whiny children complaining every time we have to go into the garage to get in the car, and I swear I will never forget a Thursday night or willingly engage in a garbage showdown again.  Ever.