03 November 2009

Casa D'Pants, Episode Garbage Day!

In the Land of The Pants, there have been many exciting and wondrous changes of late -- not the least of which is that I recently began a new, full-time, work-job that takes me out of my home and into a small room with computers and co-workers. Yes, friends -- I'm a big girl now, with a steady paycheck and the quagmire of an office dynamic to wade through, forty hours a week (I work four, ten-hour days -- by choice -- instead of the more standard and common five, eight to nine hour days.) It can be grueling, especially at Hour Four of a day that began at 7 AM (with a wake-up time of 4:55 AM,) but I like the schedule; I need only "endure" two days in perpetuity to get to a day off.

Because of this schedule, Monday has become my "Friday," which means Tuesday, is my "Saturday" -- but it's also Garbage Day, here at Casa D'Pants, where our motto is, "What sort of spectacular fuck up looms on the horizon, now?!" It's really hard to stitch that onto the Family Crest (which is comprised of a confused Lemur setting itself on fire, a can of Diet Dr. Pepper and a cheeseburger -- all the things we love and cherish,) but it's better we accept that really bizarre, embarrassing and/or painful things are coming at us, rather than pretending (more like, lying to ourselves,) that we're "normal."

Last night, for various reasons, I was in no mood to wrangle the trash into the wheeled (please remember that bolded detail in the coming paragraphs,) garbage can but decided, instead, that since the Trash Dudes never show up prior to 11:30 AM, to deal with it in the morning. If this were a visual, instead of written, medium, like, say -- a movie, you would see (tastefully shot, of course, and sans nudity,) a scene of me slipping into my Tabasco Hot Sauce emblazoned boxer shorts and a largish, orange tee shirt that kind of matches same and falling into bed, with a swell of ominous music as we faded to black.

Let me take a moment here to fully describe and explain my Tabasco boxer shorts. They horrify the FOWs and shame them to tears. I am under strict orders to NEVER wear them if either FOW has a friend over. When I tell you they are "orange," I am only scratching the surface of orange. FOW #2, the more outspoken of the lot, describes them as "retina searing," while FOW #1 merely shakes his head and puts on sunglasses. On the front of them, prominently, there is an artist's rendering of a bottle of Tabasco sauce. The color and the frontal graphics aside, what the FOWs find most objectionable about these (super) comfy boxer shorts that I usually ONLY sleep in, can be found to the rear; emblazoned, across the ass, in too-large-for-the-area, flaming type, are the words, "It's getting hot in here!"

So, yeah... of course I fell in love with them when I saw them at Wal-Mart.

Let's do a quick review of pertinent details: Garbage day, wheeled garbage can, questionable taste in clothing. Got all of that?


This morning dawned bright and early, just like it always does when you are me and believe that anything occurring prior to noon is uncivilized. The brightness of day slanting through the blinds above my bed made it impossible to sleep beyond 8:15 AM, so I -- in my oversized tee shirt and boxers -- decided to make a pot of coffee and see what was shaking in the real world. The dog glanced lazily up at me from his bed when I walked past him and I would be hard-pressed to tell you whether I was more grateful to his walnut-sized brain or his grape-sized bladder, because -- remember! I would have to get dressed in something different, in order to take him outside for his morning constitutional since The Rules clearly state that I cannot be seen in public in my Tabasco boxer shorts.

Like everyone else, I don't function at 100% when I am first awake. I need at LEAST two cups of coffee (which I make in a way that a dear friend of mine calls, "a jet fuel enema,") and two or three cigarettes before I'm fully cognizant and aware of things around me. And halfway through my first cup of coffee, and midway through my second cigarette, a little thought wandered through my brain that I needed to do something about the garbage. But I glanced at the clock and told myself that I had plenty of time -- which I did, all things being equal (which, friends, they are not.)

And then Uncle Al called, so we talked for a while on the phone... and I went to Facebook... and then Skeletor wandered out and nosed at my ankle and I told him to eat and then I would take him outside, and I stood up, intent upon changing. This would be a typical morning -- nothing odd or out-of-the-ordinary -- and this should always be my first clue that something is going to go horribly, freakishly and terrifyingly awry.

As I crossed the threshold into my bedroom ("The Den of Mayhem, Madness and Apathy,") I heard it -- the unmistakable rumblings of a large truck with sweaty men swinging off of it like single-minded trash monkeys. And my only thought was this:


Like a tornado, once you hear the garbage man coming, it's too late. But since the jury is still out as to whether I am an "optimist" or an "idiot," I did a quick calculation and figured, "What's the big deal if I drag the trash out quickly, even if I am wearing boxer shorts of the same color as road construction signs?!" But here's where I really sealed my fate:

I thought, "It will be okay."

IF you are ever in the same, shared-oxygen space with me, and you hear me utter that phrase, or you even suspect I've thought it, nail one of my god-damned feet to the floor so I cannot proceed into whatever bound-to-end-in-hot-tears-of-angry-recrimination plan I've hatched. Please -- I beg of you!

I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the sack of trash from our main garbage can. I practically pulled the refrigerator door off of its hinges and somehow managed to punch one of the shelves in an effort to grab the bucket of long-gone-to-waste KFC out. I was immune to the pain, however, as I continued furiously stuffing both spoiled -- and perfectly good, I've since discovered -- food into the gaping mouth of the Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sack, which was beginning to sag and bloat from my unthinking frenzy of, "I've got to get this to the curb -- NOW!"

That bag, along with wheels, a questionable taste in clothing and my epic procrastination, is also a major player in this drama, so remember it too, okay? That garbage bag -- and this is really not an exaggeration -- was weighing in close to my own body weight.

So, I had the hyper-full Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sack in one hand, I grabbed the pizza boxes with the other one, and yelled, "FOW #1! Take the dog out, please!" and made a mad dash toward the stairs to the first floor. Momentum (or maybe inertia, I don't know from science,) meant I took the steps a little more quickly than a 40 year old, pack a day smoker should, but I've never been one to let facts and gravity get in my way. I made it down the next flight of stairs, barely stopping to react when I crashed into the wall outside of FOW#2's bedroom, and threw open the door to the garage. I, well... hefted the Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sack into the wheeled garbage can, and pressed the button to engage the garage door proper almost simultaneously. The pizza boxes remained in my right hand, and I grabbed the rim of the wheeled trash can with my left and took off full-tilt boogie toward the slowly opening garage door, wondering if I was going to need to counter and duck or not... and just as I realized, no -- I would be able to clear the door and not decapitate myself into a bloody mess of questionable sleeping attire, it happened.

The lip of my garage played hell on a gum-fiddle with the wheels of my garbage can and time seemed to stretch out infinitely as I had the strongest, "OH SHIT!" Premonition of my life. But, remember! I'm not one to let irrefutable and immutable laws of nature stand in my way; oh, no -- not I!

I honestly figured I could counter the rocking and pitching movements of the can which was now nipping at my heels and "stepping" on the back of my flip-flops (add those to the Pertinent Details List too, please.) As to why I figured that, having lived inside this body for all these years and knowing my luck, is a mystery, but again -- I have a strangely sunny outlook sometimes. I glanced to see where the garbage truck was at on my street, and truly, I think that was really where it all went to hell.

Because at the exact moment that I was about to savor the triumph of having beaten the clock, the god damned wheeled garbage slammed into my "It's Getting Hot In Here" ass and the force of it caused me to let go of both the can and the pizza boxes and do this amazingly graceful (which is completely uncharacteristic of me,) jumping-flip thing, wherein my tee shirt was blocking my view... but the garbage men were treated to a boob flash extraordinaire.

And as I was miraculously landing on my actual, own two feet, and my tee shirt was settling back into a PG-position, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the trash can airborne, and all of the garbage bags exploding open as they hit the surface of the driveway.

Then the garbage truck slowed to a stop and the "swinging garbage dudes" descended from their perches and gave me a round of applause (the driver actually whistled, waved and gave me a thumbs up,) and helped me clean up the garbage, which was a very nice gesture. I, of course, thanked them profusely (because I'm hyper polite when I'm humiliated,) and I started to walk back, up my driveway, and into my house... which is when I saw FOW #1 and the dog on the sidewalk in front of the house, both of them glaring at me.

I will never hear the end of this.

No comments: