We were going to go to the cottage last weekend but then I had this dream about squatters and I couldn't face them so we didn't go. I wanted to make a Productive Weekend to compensate, so we stayed home and did Important Things like figure out why my pretty iPod hates me and I closed out all the 2008 paperwork.
And I cleaned out the closet. I am ratty girl who works in her ratty jammies and that's how it is. But sometimes I start thinking maybe all my clothes don't have to be so ripped punk rock and I go on a rampage. Such it was this weekend. And when I had a bag full of horrific nasties I gave them to Squire to take down to the trash.
Wow, this is kind of harder to tell than I thought. Okay so the way trash goes here is you obviously take your plastic, glass, and paper to the recycling. Then you put IN the trash can the things that are trash. You put NEXT TO or ON TOP OF the trash can the things that are trash for you but might be treasures for others. I have a certain amount of pleasure in running stuff down to the NEXT TO trash and then waiting to see how long it takes to disappear. In particular outgrown clothes are fun to watch: when you have a kid, they outgrow shoes at an amazing rate, and since I don't feel like dealing with second-hand stores we just put the shoes by the trash and pouf! Gone!
But these clothes were not for anybody but the trash man. I mean: who wants toeless socks? So Squire went down to the trash cans but they were full. So he came back up with the bag of clothes. And I said: just stuff it on top. But he misunderstood, I guess, and so he placed the bag on top of the trash can.
And this morning I woke up to watch the trash men take things away and there were my rip torn underpants all draped all over. Like somebody went through this bag of old socks, torn sweats, and nasty old underpants and draped them out nicely for the next customer.
I don't even know if I can show my face in the neighborhood again. That is all.