recycled :: the trashcan

My subtle hints directed at my husband earlier tonight concerning the sad state of our trash situation prompted me to recycle this post from a previous blog of mine which I no longer maintain.

He has since remedied our trash situation, which is one more of many reasons I'm glad I married him.


P.S. I had to recycle a second post that I referenced in this one, so enjoy x2.

I've found, in all my amassed years of experience, that perhaps the most perplexing element of adulthood is taking out the trash.

Of course, pretty much every household chore is a vicious cycle of doing and undoing (e.g., bane of my existence, laundry is thy name), but there is absolutely nothing satisfying about emptying a trashcan. Clean laundry at least smells nice. Clean dishes are sparkly. A made-up bed makes a room look nicer (and we all know it bounces better).

An empty trashcan offers no reward.

Taking the trash out has never made me feel better.

And so I avoid it at all costs for as long as possible.

And here's the conclusion that I've reached about trash removal in general:

Everybody in the world hates taking the trash out. Everybody in the world believes that if they avoid it at all costs for as long as possible that their husband/wife/child/person who cleans out their home following their demise will finally take it out without being prompted to do so. Therefore, everybody in the world continues to cram garbage into the current bag until one of two things happen.

1. They have to throw away an empty milk jug and there's no way it's going to fit no matter how much they deflate, fold, contort, or melt it and are therefore forced to remove the garbage themselves.

2. The bag rips.

Situation #1 usually takes place in a huffy fit of violence since it is obviously the fault of any other adult in the house that the garbage has gotten to such a state. In most cases and with most trashcans, a bag that full is next to impossible to remove and results in sad stories like this one.

If situation #2 occurs... someone is probably going to die.


So what is the solution to this conundrum? There will always be trash. I can't afford a maid and I'm the only adult home for most of the day.

Practice "the three R's" a little bit more often?

Get a bigger trashcan?

Get multiple trashcans?

Leave when the trashcan gets full?

I'm sure practical, no-nonsense people like my grandmother and my father-in-law would tell me to just empty the darn thing before it got so full, but I have a better idea.

No. I have a plan. We'll call it "a plan."

I will ask Ye Olde Hubby very nicely to take the trash out. Then, I will cough and clear my throat loudly to get his attention as I jam trash into my full trashcan. Then, I will open the trashcan and discreetly fan the fumes toward him. As a last result, I will set the trashcan on his nightstand.

I will patiently bide my time.

And then in two or three years, my firstborn will be big enough to take the trash out and my husband and I will begin to reap the rewards of bearing offspring.

A truly joyful little nugget of parenthood second only to when he's big enough to mow the yard.

AdiĆ³s, amigos and amigo-ettes.

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