trashy, dirty things

Taking out the trash in the castle is an event. A spectacle, really. We have two huge dumpster like containers for trash-trash, and three blue wheel-y type deals for recyclables that sit outside of our house, but behind the iron gates. Every Tuesday night, the trash needs to be carried from the kitchen to the outside containers and the containers need to be pushed outside of the gate and onto the curb for Wednesday morning pick up.

Easy, right?

Well, the week that I moved in, nobody carried the trash outside from the kitchen. Banana peels and wine bottles littered the hardware floor and my bare feet skimmed sauce-ridden containers and juice that had leaked out of the garbage.

Ever since that week, I decided that I would be the trash-taker-outer. You already know I suffer from OCD. Ever since that week, my feet have been clothed in slippers and, if the air conditioner decides to work, socks. Garbage juice between the toes makes me want to vomit. I mean, that's worse than watching my mother give birth to Lacey and Gavin. And that was bad.

So me, with my big-beasty-eye-popping muscles, heaved four extra large disgusting bags of trash outside and into their proper containers. Flies swarmed and I'm pretty sure laid eggs all in my hair. But I pushed on - I would wash my hair 18 times when I got back inside - I pulled all five containers down to the curb and stuck my hands on my hips in satisfaction.

After going back inside, three of the five guys were sitting on the couch in the living room, eating salad and watching Real Housewives of Orange County. The front door is directly in front of the living room, mind you.

I was so close to standing in the doorway and saying, "Really? My boyfriend would have gotten up off the couch and not only opened the door for me, but he would have told me to sit down while he carried everything outside. And he would have been watching NCIS, girls."

But I didn't. I took out four gigantic trash bags, and shook them out in the dining room as hard as I could, taking my time, making sure I could reach to the bottom. Then I proceeded to place the bags in each trash barrel and banged the barrels against the floor.

Yes, I am just that passive aggressive. But does it work? No. The boys don't move. They are engrossed in incredibly melodramatic dialogue, and boobs, and lettuce.

This is their train of thought, I'm sure:

Aeriale: Guys, the trash is overflowing.
Guys: What? Leave it there. Boobs are on TV.
Aeriale: Okay, I've got it, but really, can someone at least open the door?
Guys: Boobs?
Aeriale: Door? Please?
Guys: Yum, this lettuce is almost as good as the whey protein I mix up everyday in my manly shake. Grrrr, boobs!
Aeriale: Yeah, okay, we are going to get fined, yo. Like, money is going to come out of our security deposits in August and then you won't be able to buy your gigantic jugs of whey protein and then your muscles will shrink to the size of clementines and then you'll cry yourselves to sleep. So, trash? Anyone?
Guys: Yeah, yeah, screw the security deposit, little girl. Now hush, Leanne just got slapped by Jennifer. Who's boobs do you like better?

......

So the following Tuesday rolls around, and the trash is overflowing. But! Laura is in the kitchen with me, and I am just peeved enough to recruit her assistance. She complies and we do the routine. But this time, something growls as we throw the filled bags into the bins. We search everywhere, because we are just that stupid. Who searches for the growling unknown? Then, it clicks. A cat! Then I search even harder because I am a bleeding heart - I want to find the kitty! And there it is, Laura points, up in the tree above our heads. After fifteen minutes of coaxing and cooing it, the furball jumps down and runs away.

So much for the help-the-homeless-pets-of-DC campaign I was going for...

Two Tuesdays ago, the trash was piling up and I searched the kitchen and found Lipy - she was extremely hesitant to help me. I pleaded with dog eyes. She succumbed. We made it to the front gate with the big, beasty barrels until she screams. She points to the sidewalk and frowns.

Blood. Fresh blood, that is splattered all across the brick in front of our gate. I lean in to examine it. Lipy screams and tells me I am going to contract HIV. It is definitely fresh blood - it immediately reminded me of the time Michelle and I were in Morocco in the Sahara and she got the worst nosebleed of her life and we had no tissues, just sand, so it went everywhere....

Sorry to share your personal life, M. But for real, the blood looked like a horrific nose bleed. Or someone could have just gotten stabbed in front of our gate. Stabbing sounds like a better, more dangerous story so let's go with that. I did not contract HIV from staring at the blood, contrary to popular belief.

This past Tuesday, I recruited Enid to help me with the trash run. She gladly came out and we hauled the trash like pros. This time, there was no cat in a tree, and no blood as far as we could tell....but we did run into two big guys at the corner of our house, selling pot. They looked up at us and wrinkled their eyebrows, as if we were the suspicious ones.

Enid tried not to laugh. They were lighting up right next to our allotted space on the street. We maneuvered around the guys and watched as the one clearly handed the other a roll of bills. Enid and I got back in the house and busted up laughing.

Where are we living, we asked each other. She's from Minnesota. People don't toke up on the street corners. I'm from rural Pennsylvania, and the worst thing we come across are high school boys running around with their heart-ridden boxers hanging out of their shorts.

Needless to say, the guys in the living room are missing out - they may see boobs on television every Tuesday, but surely, the experiences right outside of our front door are so much more entertaining.