I hate emptying the trash on Tuesdays.
I think it has something to do with my favorite book when I was little, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. In that book, the lead character was Claudia Kincaid (and if anyone would like to make something of the fact that my favorite book in third grade featured a female protagonist he/she can kiss my ass). Claudia ran away from home to escape the drudgery and oppression of her everyday life.
Claudia really wasn't oppressed. In fact she was quite privileged and had a nice family. But that didn't keep her from taking her younger brother (she needed his money) and running away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The museum wouldn't have been my first choice but she and her brother had quite the adventure anyway.
Book report aside, I wanted to let you know that one of Claudia's least favorite chores was gathering the trash from throughout her house. That must have stuck with me because I really don't like gathering the trash. Claudia had a prick of an older brother who would empty his pencil shavings in his basket every trash collection day just to piss Claudia off. As for me, it's the Diaper Genie I hate to deal with. I'd say pencil shavings are nothing compared to a giant snake of crap filled diapers but that's beside the point. The point is, by third grade I knew that trash duty wasn't for me.
Turns out I was wrong. I must be wrong. After all, I've been doing it for a very long time now.
It's not all bad. I admit I like knowing that I'll have at least of couple of days that I can drop a Q-Tip in our bathroom garbage without worrying about it bouncing out and hiding behind the toilet. I hate that when it happens. But that's about the only pleasure I get from Tuesday trash days. Most of the time I think about what type skin condition I'm going to develop by being exposed to the bazillions of germs, viruses and disease bearing vermin that have incubated and hatched in Allie's trash can during the week. And that's nothing compared to the kitchen trash can. It's teeming with stinky, slimy ebola-type shit I know can kill me. Kill me slowly. Kill me painfully.
I'm not saying I'm the only guy in the world who hates to take out the trash. I'm just telling you I'm pretty sure I know why I hate it so much.
Allie is four. She'd probably think trash duty was fun.
We'll begin next Tuesday. I'll start by burning my old copy of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I'll keep you posted about how the rest of her training goes.