Oh, the weather outside is frightful. BWAM!
But the fire is so delightful. BWAM! BWAM!!
In case you’ve no place to go…
“Holy, mountains of recycled boxes!” I screamed out my home office window. The trash truck was in my cul-de-sac and the only “can” on my driveway was a huge red and white inflatable one on the back end of my 7-foot friendly Santa!
“What did you say Mama?” asked my youngest who was trying to get on my lap to play computer games.
“Quick. Get down!! I’ve gotta stop that truck!” I shouted over my shoulder, sprinting for the stairs. The last thing I heard was my child teetering to the floor and dizzily crying out, “Mama?!” (I’m pretty sure by the sound of the thud; she wasn’t hurt, so I continued at a good clip.)
A bolt of scantily-clad lightning zipped past my eldest daughter, whilst grabbing a pair of sweat pants, snow boots and something that resembled a warmish jacket. I can’t be sure when I got all of my clothing on; but hopefully, it was before I arrived on the driveway — I’m not putting any money bets on it though. Also, for those with wandering minds…I don’t make a practice of writing in this type of wardrobe and no, it wasn’t in the afternoon. The morning sun was just announcing itself as I took a break from reading the paper to check my emails.
“Mom, where are we going?” asked my oldest briefly looking up from the TV. She is such the thinker. “I thought we were still on vacation.”
“Just stay here. Don’t let anyone in. Mama’s chasin’ down the garbage truck again!” SLAM! The door sucked closed which gave me an added push toward the street.
Unalarmed, my children went back to winter-la-la-land, called “Christmas holiday TV brain.” They weren’t a-feared of being left alone by this crazed woman, who was lively and quick, carrying a white sack of refuse on her back. Oh, no, they knew in a moment she must be just in the nick of time…to have her annual winter public display of the crazies! Nothing new here for these kids.
Heard around my LAST neighborhood’s ladies’ coffee…
“SHIELD YOUR CHILDREN’S EYES AND EARS – for that writer gal down the street who seems so normal the remainder of the year is back to her end-of-the-year shenanigans. And bless her ever-loving heart; it involves the trash truck service…again. Remember the winter of 2006? She actually drove her minivan down the street, cutting off the truck, and forced them to slam on the brakes! Why I nevah…”
Yes, it’s true. I chased a trash truck like a dog, with a hefty leaf-sized-bag of poo-poo diapies, only 3 weeks after giving birth to my second child by the method I like to refer to as a beautiful, yet memorable “fish gutting.” Apparently, the fancy medical types like to call it a c-section, but you say “abdomen-full-of-staples” and I say “Nurse! Can I have another Percocet?”
Back to January 2013: No one is to blame for not having the trash on the curb. Mistakes happen. I am the spouse who routinely forgets the children’s names and takes them to school on national holidays; but just this once, my brilliant hubby did NOT forget his weekly chore, but was under the impression the trash was to be picked up the following day. No finger pointing here. He’s a gem. A saint. After all he married me.
So I’m half-dressed and wielding a tuff-stuff bag of Christmas stank over my shoulder and becoming ever aware that my driveway has a steep decline when covered in an 1/8th inch of ice. I could have grabbed the wagon, the toboggan, or butt-scooted all the way down, but that would have only shaved minutes off my time and that truck was aiming for a neighborhood record.
So here’s my pretty little painting in a nutshell: wackadoodle hair, holey sweats, pajayjay top with no support (mind you), ice-running on the slippery sidewalks and street, and a’swinging my trash in the air to get my guy’s attention. And how did that work for me this year? Did he respond to my yelling of his holiday bonus I had for him? No he didn’t. He turned the corner and stamped his foot to the green metal floor boards, and probably wondered why no one left him a tip this year. I thought I would leave him a message to clear up his confusion and to form a bond with one of the most underappreciated city workers.
Dearest Mr. Trash man,
I hope you had a pleasant holiday season! With all the hustle and bustle of getting things done, it’s so nice good people like yourself are consistent and doing their jobs well, with being interrupted by outside distractions. A good work ethic is hard to come by and you, Sir, have displayed this.
Unfortunately, I made several attempts to show you my gratitude for your hard work. Just this week, I ran after your truck for several blocks trying to give you our trash for the week and a monetary gift of thanks. I know you must not have seen me, for if you had you would have stopped to wish me happy tidings.
Normally I don’t leave my children unattended for that long, but I hadn’t anticipated you not seeing me or hearing my piercing screams for such a lengthy period. Don’t you worry though… they were just fine.
Sad to say, the inflatable Santa in our front yard didn’t fare as well. Apparently beating Santa with a bag of trash isn’t recommended by the manufacturer. Who knew?!
May you have a peaceful 2013!
Sincerely,
Mrs. Hatton
©2013, Stacey Hatton. All rights reserved.
