Refuse recepticles.

Our trash gets picked up once a week. On Tuesdays.

I leave my trash cans neatly parked to the side of the garage, in the upright position, like this:

These are my trash cans -- classy eh?

There are lots of weeds and random crap back there because it’s an alley and, well, people do weird things in alleys. Not me. But people. They also do weird things outside of alleys. For instance, I found two water bottles and an energy drink can on my front porch this morning. How they got there? People probably had a party up there while I was sleeping. Sure makes me feel safe.

Back to the trash cans. Every Tuesday night I come home, turn into the alley and hit the garage door opener button. Glad to be done with my commute for the day. I turn the corner and what do I see? My trash cans in disarray in front of the garage door. Like this:

Yeah -- that's what my trash man or woman did.

I know I’m about to sound as lazy as they come with this next statement, but it really irks me to get out of the car and move them back to where they are suppose to be. (Please note this level of frustration can and will be aggravated if rain happens to be falling.)

But, I do it. Every single week.

I can imagine that being a trash man or garbage collector would get old. Quick. And I am *certain* that I could not survive in this particular role. For starters they’d have to change the title. Stat. Because I won’t be going anywhere near a job that says “trash woman” in the posting. I’m more prone to like “Refuse Rescuer”. Sounds like I may be doing something noble with my time rather than dumping leftovers and tampon wrappers into my trash truck. I’m rescuing the refuse, people!

If they changed the title, I bet they’d double their application numbers. Just saying.

So, I know that I wouldn’t, couldn’t and shouldn’t be a “refuse rescuer” in this lifetime. Germs, dirty things, lifting heavy objects and being outside in extreme heat and cold would for sure do me in. I try my hardest not to take them for granted and appreciate that they do something I couldn’t.

If they have rage and want to throw my cans. Throw ’em.  I would. Chuck them at the cement. They’re plastic, they’ll recover. But, if I may ask ever so nicely… “Please THROW THEM in the proper direction. Into the weed pile. Not in front of my garage. Please and thank you.”

This is semi-acceptable.

The End.

Published by Megan

I'm a marketer, cook, avid bug hater, cupcake lover, hiker, klutz, and married lady living in the great state of Colorado... My name is Megan Stecker and I'm a Colorado native. That's right, born and raised. I currently live in Denver and work in Marketing. I love what I do and watching it impact my client's business. I love to cook and bake. A good glass of wine can cure what's ailing you as long as you drink it in good company. I love the outdoors. Hiking, camping, exploring... I'm in. I have two dogs, Ollie and Duke, and I treat them like a children. My husband, friends and family mean everything to me. I also, inadvertently, find myself in the midst of disaster on a regular basis.

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