Skip to main content

Keeping Up with the Jones'

It took us nearly 4-weeks to figure out trash day when we first moved into this house. By week three we were stalking for curbside trash cans like big game hunters in the African savannah. And still, our prey alluded us. "Where have all the trash cans gone? And isn't that a Paula Cole song from the 90's," we asked in our confusion? Eventually the trash pile began to lean against the house and prevent the gate from closing, so we used the last resort; calling the waste management company. "Friday morning," we heard, and immediately put Operation Trash Day into action.

Thursday after work, still no signs of neighborhood trash cans. "Maybe we leave them behind the gate, and the trash man gets it from there," we rationalized. "Or perhaps it all happens during the work day while we are away." But no, then our trash from previous weeks would've been retrieved. So feeling every bit the homeowner virgins that we were, we rolled those overflowing bins out for all to see. It felt as if every streetlight angled to highlight our trash; you could see curtains parting down the drive to stare and whisper. But still, the trash sat alone.

Finally, Friday morning at 5:45 a.m. we heard the tell tale crashing and crunching of the trash truck. We arose from our beds to check out the clatter, and what to our wondering eyes did appear? But a street side full of trash cans both far and near! They really do exist!

And then one-by-one, as the trash man emptied, the neighbors rushed out to put away. We had unknowingly entered some sort of neighborhood trash day competition; the neighbor whose cans are visible during waking hours is the looser. And we definitely took home the trophy that first week.

Rob's technique at the Double Bin Sprint has improved considerably over the past 3 1/2 years (Grayson and I are still in training), and we've moved up in the rankings. But every once in awhile our rebel spirit will surface and we'll leave those bins curbside clear through Saturday morning. Oh, what the Pleasantville neighbors must think!

The house down the street just posted a for sale sign. The motivation of new blood has all the neighbors carb-loading amid whispers of performance enhancing drugs. The apprehension of new competition and the anticipation of their confusion over this strange initiation puts Wistera Lane to shame.

Do you think it is too much to get "Trash Team Wagner" shirts made?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Lucie and the Problem of Evil

Lucie has suddenly started questioning things. And by things, I mean eternal things. It all started when she asked if I would read her a bedtime story from the Bible storybook. The book opens innocently enough with the story of creation. There are lions and tigers and bears, and naked people being created from dust. (At this point in the story you’d think questions would arise, but no, kids just seem to go along with it at face value. Which is exactly the reason I've had to work so hard to convince Lucie that turtleneck shirts are not actually made from the necks of turtles.) Anyways ... "Do you know why Adam and Eve are sad?" I asked, pointing at the picture of them sorrowfully leaving the garden. "I sure do, " Lucie assured me. "They are sad because they don't have any parents."  Impressive, huh? Clearly, she’d been processing and following along. "Well there is that," I prodded her, "and also they have to leave the

Motherhood - Not for the faint of heart

My picture of hell: one soggy rainy day, two healthy energetic children, three solid days of DVDs, one dog that needs to pee but refuses to get wet, and me. Alone with the carnage and contracted to get 4 hours of work done. And just to frost the cake, Lucie can take off her pooy diaper now, which delights us all, but especially the dog, to no end. These days it is sort of a toss up for who has left the pile on the carpet. Lucie? Dog? The fact that it landed on top of a princess high heel is good indication the culprit was of the two-legged, shoe-loving, Oreo-eating variety, which makes it only slightly less disgusting to remove behind a 28-ply Kleenex. Pray for sunshine.

Say This!

Picture by Grayson (our 9 year-old) Last week we reached another one of those parenting milestones. At 27+ months of age, Violet said her first real words: "Mama! Me go!"  Three little words so beautiful, so stunning and unexpected, they stopped me in my tracks. Even the other kids dropped their activities and ran out to verify that, yes, Violet had spoken. We hugged and touch-down-danced and, of course, Violet got to "go." When you have a child who is the tiniest bit developmentally delayed, small accomplishments are met with big celebration. Lucie insists on accompanying me on simple errands? I need to figure out a way to sneak out the door more efficiently; Violet suddenly says that she wants to go? Hot dog! Get the video camera and your shoes on kiddo! Therapists have been coming to the house since the first week of January, evaluating Violet's delays. At her last check in, she had about 15 simple words in her vocabulary -- about 100 words u