The stations of the trash can

I want to start off by saying I painted a flattering picture of my husband in yesterday's post. So, when if have a few harsh things to say in today's post, everybody better pipe down. I'm lookin' at you, M.

Last week was an unbelievable week: department parties, PTA meetings, last minute holiday breakfasts with friends, school parties, errands, last minute gifts...on and on. Thursday morning, I took my kids to school at 8 AM and did not come home until 9 that night.

Look, I don't want to show off the sparkly cross I'm schlepping around or anything. (Sparkly? I'm just sayin' if I have an accessory over my shoulder, it's gonna be pretty.) because I complained mightily. I moaned and groaned, and every cashier who checked me out heard me complain about my head cold and accompanying aches and pains.

But.

This week, M has contracted the Illness. Granted, it seems to be a little more severe than mine, as it involves nausea and stomach pain.

But.

This morning, at the last possible minute, I heard the trash man pull through the neighborhood. He whizzed past our house. I, in my pink polka dot night shirt (shut up) scream "TRAAAAAAAAAAAAASH" and head out the door. I'm barefoot. It's like 60 degrees out there. My street is all rough stones, not paved smooth (we live in Alabama. Roads are for Northerners.) I'm dragging the trash can behind me.

Trash man has emptied next door neighbor's can.

I'm running across the street, jammies and bedhead blowin' in the breeze. Trash can is rumbling across that uneven street, and I'm sure every one in the neighborhood can hear it.

Trash man has emptied 2 neighbors down's can.

I race up on to the curb, situate the can properly for the automated claw thing and wave at the trash man. I self consciously situate my arms across the boob region....it's cold out there!

He empties the can and gives a little toot of his horn. The neighbors who live in the house whose curb I have requisitioned pull out of their driveway in a giant Cadillac. (Everyone in my neighborhood save 2 are elderly)

I have never met them before.

And now, I am standing on THEIR yard in my Suzy Whoo pjs with my trash can. Curl up and die.

I walk back across the circle of our street, dragging the trash can. The rumble o' shame. I come back into the house. "That was not dignified," I announce to anyone who missed it. I assume M is still in bed nursing his cold.

But.

He is not. He is in the front room watching the whole thing, bed head, Suzy Whoo, boobs, all of it. "Sometimes it's nice to take the garbage can for a walk."

I kinda hope it's ebola.