Thursday is what Grey and I like to call, “Trashmas Eve.” Actually, we stole the term from our friends Ingrid and Jud, who gave this catchy little nickname to the night before garbage day. And since tonight is this week’s Trashmas Eve, I thought it fitting for me to give a nod to the men that haul away my refuse every week, rain or shine.
Last week, I think our garbage men were trying to send us a message. Just like every Trashmas Eve since we moved here, Grey stuck out our ratty old garbage cans filled to the brim with junk. However, the following day, as he went to retrieve the cans, he realized they were nowhere to be found. There was a lid in our driveway, but nothing else. Did they blow into a neighbor’s yard? Nope. Did the waste management folks put them away for us? Nope. In fact, what we came to realize is, they threw them away. Yep. Instead of emptying the contents of the can and putting the receptacle back on the curb, the garbage men just chucked the entire thing (two cans in fact!) into the dump truck and peaced out with the whole kit and caboodle.
I’ll admit, our cans were looking a little worse for the wear. We didn’t actually buy them new, but I believe we instead just stole a few extra from Grey’s parents’ house. We’re ghetto like that and, even though we’re 33 and 32, still feel the need to mooch off our parents for random items like trash cans.
But however much I appreciate our diligent garbage men, I kind of wonder if these small town trash collectors are just a tad judgmental. I mean, isn’t it my decision to decide when we buy a new waste bin? Apparently not. However, I can’t complain because I am genuinely grateful for their hard work. Having a toddler gives us some seriously nasty trash. The food waste alone is utterly disgusting. So, whether our trash men stole my cans or not, I salute them.