I have two motivations for writing this. First, it occurs to me that the fine people who collect my trash on Tuesday mornings must occasionally scratch their head about what they find. Second, I've talked about publishing a short anthology of both fiction and non-fiction. I wanted to let you, dear readers, know that I haven't given up writing. I've been busy trying to come up with content for you. Here's a taste of what I mean to include:
To my caring friends and neighbors at the City Sanitation Department,
It’s two days after collection day, and I feel like I owe you an explanation. Certainly, I can understand your, at best, curiosity, and at worst, worry over the contents of my most recent leavings on the curb.
First of all, the 7 empty bottles of wine and three 6 packs of craft beer were the result of several evenings spent over dinner with my neighbors. They cooked, I provided the terrible cable TV and the beverages. It just so happened that all of the dead soldiers ended up in my trash.
You know, that might not have been the best phrasing. My apologies. But really, the bloated and wrinkled copy of Sex Killers that was in the same bag? That got that way as I was reading it in the tub. I had dye on my head, sitting in a bubble bath reading while I was waiting for the color to process. My boyfriend, who I didn’t know was home at the time, came around the corner to ask me something and scared me. I dropped the book into the water and splashed around a bit trying to retrieve it. The dye on my head must have run more than I thought, because the cover ended up with a big, red blob of dye on it. Not being able to salvage the book, I threw it away.
The bandages have a perfectly reasonable explanation too. I bought a new curling iron over the weekend, and I was having a hard time getting that stupid clamshell plastic to open. I took that broken pair of scissors and (now) bent carving knife to it in a fit of frustration. (Ask my neighbors, they heard the cussing three units away.) I finally got it open, but not before I sliced my thumb pretty badly. I didn’t want to go to the ER, so I just mopped up the blood with the paper towels and threw a bandage on it. Ok, I threw like 5 bandages on it before I finally decided that I should suck it up and go to the doctor. I know it’s hard to tell that it was over the course of three days, but I swear it was.
As far as the copious amount of white powder in the trash? Again, perfectly rational explanation. I just bought a warehouse club membership and went a little goofy with my newfound bulk buying power. I bought an enormous box of cornstarch. I went to go make gravy from the pan drippings of the roast I made for dinner and dropped the whole damn container on the kitchen floor. You see, I had put it away in one of the cupboards that was over my head, and was too lazy to get the step stool. It slipped out of my hands when I was reaching up on tiptoe. Once the clouds of powder cleared, I swept it up and put it all in the trash.
The balloons were leftover from my niece’s birthday party. Blow one up. You’ll see they all say “Look who’s 3”.
I have no excuse for the discarded packaging for the “jackhammer 4000 motorized fucking machine”. That’s EXACTLY what it looks like. In my defense, a girl has needs, and it was cheaper and safer than an awful lot of terrible first dates. Judge me if you will, but I did actually make that purchase (and can’t express how glad i am that I did).
While I really appreciate your concern and vigilance, I don’t really want to explain to my employer why my name ended up in front of a judge for a suspicion of illicit activities warrant. The “wellness check” by the local beat cop was embarrassing enough. Also, I don’t know which of you did it, but the “Y’all need Jesus” pamphlet stuck in my door was a nice touch. I think I will have to respectfully decline the invitation on the grounds that the slogan for this house of worship is “we be churchin’!”. It wouldn’t be the entrance into a house of God that gave me hives, it would be the blatant abuse of the English language. God forbid you find a jumbo size bottle of Benadryl in my garbage. . .
Your well adjusted if not slightly accident prone customer,