Trash

I love trash. I should say, I love to find unusable, unwanted clutter and throw it in the trash. There's a certain pleasure in cleaning off a counter enough to actually get out the Windex and polish the counter. Or clean up all that junk mail and recycle it, of course, enough to polish the piano or the coffee table. That's when you discover the color of the counter (grey) or that the wood on that coffee table is really pretty.

I also love to push the wheelie trash cans out to the curb, full to the brim. (Or ask my very strong son to do the pushing.) I've been known to go looking for more clutter if that trash can is not full . . . there's always more. The kitchen, for instance, always has a soda can or box or even the Sunday paper spread out all over the counters. Does it breed or are there little trash fairies that leave all that stuff everywhere?

Today is post trash day, the wheelie cans happily empty, all the contents on the way to the recycle center or the dump. They sit awaiting my chore of finding more clutter, recyclables, or just plan junk to fill them up again. I noticed this morning over flowing trash cans in the bathrooms, the kitchen, and my bedroom trash and I'm sure my Stamp Studio has an over flowing recyclable receptacle as well. Oh the joy, the satisfaction!

It's not joy when your husband discovers you've thrown something of his away. It's enough to make him breath funny and maybe even swear with words like, "darn you, woman!" And that's a lot since not much can make the husband even a teeny bit mad. So I try and avoid throwing things of his away.

One day I noticed his dresser over flowing with receipts, tools from the garage, batteries, change, and Boy Scout papers. So I spent an hour, returning the tools, bundling the receipts with a rubber band, and filing the Boy Scout things in the box purchased just for this purpose. Then I retrieved the Pledge and gave his dresser a good dusting. I returned a few knickknacks my husband loves, like his little Buddha and his change container.

When he returned home, after a hard day at work, he trudged up the stairs and started to change into his shorts and a tshirt. I found him staring at the top of his dresser, mouth open. I asked him what was wrong, I just dusted his dresser . . . he looked at me and said, "what did you throw away??" I replied, with a very straight face, "you tell me."

You know, he couldn't tell me. I could have left him wondering for days, but I did tell him where all his things were and that only a plastic bag was thrown away. I was worried he would start guarding his treasures or putting more things in his car. His trunk is stuffed with treasures he's afraid I will throw away. I know this because I went grocery shopping in his car once and I had to put the groceries on the front seat since there was no room in the trunk.

Just to be clear, I rarely actually throw anyone else's things away. Basically I have enough of my own to go through. However, if it's an eyesore, or in a public area . . . beware, my wheelie cans are empty.