Talkin' Trash

Taking out the trash to me used to mean wheeling the trash can to the curb on the right day. But here, where we live the simple life (simple, my ass--I'd like to have a few words with whoever came up with that phrase) far from the reach of such things as municipal services, Saturday means one thing: It's Dump Day.

Before we hop in the pick-up truck to go to the dump, we must gather the trash. We do this by category, because the town likes us to do all the work for them and separate all the different kinds of trash before we get to the dump. So there's newspapers,cardboard boxes, plastic and glass to recycle, and the real trash. And God forbid you just throw the real trash in any old bag you may have around. No, it must be in a clear plastic bag, so they can see what you're throwing in the compactor. In our case this week, that meant they had a lovely view of the intact deer leg, hoof and all, I had taken from the dogs and put in the trash. Hey, they wanted to see.

We usually only have one bag of real trash. At $2 a bag, we have a good incentive to make as little real trash as possible. So we chuck all the junk in the back of the pick-up and drive the 5 miles or so to the dump. I always thought a dump would be just a huge mound of trash, with bears pawing through the refuse, like in "The Great Outdoors." Remember that? When John Candy puts candy bars on the hood of his car to entice the bears closer and then they get on his car and he drives off with them on the hood? Ha!

Wait, let's get back on track. So the dump is actually kind of boring, all neat and with separate dumpsters for everything. That picture you see of it required me to climb on the ramp leading to the scrap metal dumpster, in full view of everyone at the dump. When A. went into the dump man's little hut to pay, the dump man pointed and laughed at me and asked (not unreasonably) what I was taking pictures of the dump for. And what does my loving husband say to him? "Oh, she's just crazy like that sometimes." Wait, what? That's the best he could come up with? So now the dump man thinks I'm crazy. Not that I should care what the dump man thinks, but now every Saturday, I'll know he's just sitting in his little hut judging me. Bastard.

So, yeah. That's what I do every Saturday morning. And did I really just write a whole post about trash? Yes, indeed I did. Aren't you glad you came by today?