I recently opened the trash can in our kitchen and nearly dropped dead.
It wasn’t because it stank (let’s face it, though, it could have).
It wasn’t because there was a gross science experiment-looking thing that my husband had found in the back of the fridge and disposed of (although, knowing us, that could have happened too).
No, the reason I almost had a heart attack was because of all the packed-in trash that came flying out at me, much like what happened when you would open a metal can as a kid that was marked “peanuts,” and a bunch of springy things called “snakes” would pop out and scare the bejesus out of you.
“Hey Brad,” I called out to my husband. “Can you come here a minute?”
He came into the kitchen, saw the mess, and said, “Huh. Didn’t expect that to happen.”
Then he proceeded to cram all the trash that had rained out onto the floor back into the can.
Next, for good measure, he used most of his body weight to push it with his hands as far down as possible.
“There,” he said proudly while wiping off his hands on his pants, “and there’s still more room.”
Dear reader, my husband and I have a great relationship. We rarely argue.
Until he does something like this.
“Seriously?” I’ll say I said it, but I probably yelled it. “It’s not bad enough that trash was already flying out to attack me. But now you pushed it down so that it can build up enough pressure to do it again?”
“It won’t pop out again,” he said. “I pushed it way down this time.”
Again, dear reader, I often feel so close to my husband, it’s like the universe itself made sure that we got together.
But not when he does this.
To be fair, my husband has been doing this since we first got married. When we moved to a new home 13 years ago, he wanted a few new items in our home: a flat screen TV, a pool table, and a kitchen trash can that would be hidden.
We got the TV. Still haven’t purchased a pool table. And we went to an Amish furniture seller to buy something that looks like a nice wooden cabinet, but in actuality, is where your trash can goes.
He swore he wanted it so that the dogs couldn’t get into our trash. The thing is, that when we have people over, folks have no idea where to throw any waste because they can’t find the trash can. Oftentimes, they wind up throwing it into our recycle box, which we then have to clean out.
But I digress…
So we bought this small wooden cabinet to hide our trash in. You pull the knob, and the front of it leans down, bringing with it the trash can that we have inside.
This made my husband very happy. I don’t get it, but I’ve learned after decades of marriage that sometimes if it makes your spouse happy, it’s okay simply not to get it. So I don’t think about it much anymore.
Until, that is, the trash tries to attack me.
My husband is a normal guy. But there are a few times in which he attempts to be a Superhero, but you know, with regular household stuff. He always tries to carry every bag of groceries in on his arms in one trip from the car (and it’s not because he’s lazy—he sees it as a challenge), he tries to fit as much in a box as possible (no matter if it’s because we’re packing something or if he’s just getting the recycle together—I think this comes from playing too much Tetris as a child), and he tries to get about 75 bags worth of trash into one bag.
I walked into the kitchen one day, and my husband was standing near the kitchen trash can. What was odd about this was that his foot was in the can up to about his knee, and he was stomping it down.
He froze as I walked in, then smiled and said, “I knew I could get more room in this one!”
Perhaps I should just go buy him the stupid pool table.
Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not thinking about throwing out the whole trash can—cabinet and all, writes Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning humor book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.
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