The Fairy-Garbage Mother
The other day, as I pulled the over-stuffed kitchen garbage can out of its place, preparing to empty it, I turned to my Better Half and said, "there isn't enough insurance in the world to cover me." He looked up from his paper, nodded vaguely and began a commentary about the latest news item he had been reading. I wondered if the walls heard me. Or, perhaps the Fairy-Garbage Mother.
Actually, I sometimes wonder how the garbage can becomes filled, anyway. I certainly did not fill it up. Yet no one else in my house seems capable of identifying garbage for what it is -- and putting it in its place. It must be some strange talent that only I possess -- the "Ability To Identify Garbage". I am truly blessed.
I can walk around the house at any given hour of the day and pick up no less than 10 items that, without a doubt, belong in the garbage. Everything from scrunched-up paper from my son's latest homework assignment, gum and candy wrappers, new-purchase wrappers of every description, clothing tags, broken toys, shoes that no longer fit, left-over bits of mystery items from my daughter's latest craft project. . . the list is endless. Yet I am the only one who recognizes the fate of these items. Aren't I special?
Just this morning I walked into my daughter's room and found enough stuff to fill a garbage pail several times over. I keep saying, idiotically, "This IS GARBAGE. Throw it OUT!," as if, by explaining this to her, she will somehow acquire my special talent, perhaps through osmosis, because the glazed look in her eye tells me she doesn't understand the words. After cleaning up after her on a daily basis for almost 10 years (her first year she was amazingly neat and well organized), I have almost given up.
Entering my son's room is nearly as bad. But he's sneakier about it. He puts his garbage in his dresser and desk drawers, knowing I won't go through them. If I do, I'm accused of invading his privacy. And they've both learned the wonders of hiding things under the bed and inside their closets. Yet they seem to miss the essential point.
Men are not much better. Though they tend to acquire less clutter, they make up for it with the element of surprise. After all, you don't expect them to have trouble with garbage. Why, Garbage is practically Man's middle name! It is the only thing a woman can count on a man doing around the house, right? But, unless the garbage is neatly tied up in a black or white plastic bag, even they have trouble recognizing it.
If it looks like a stack of out-dated catalogs, they don't seem to realize it is really garbage; if it resembles old cans of paint, a stack of odd pieces of wood, or shoes and shirts that would be rejected by Good Will, they manage to completely overlook the fact that this, indeed, is nothing other than GARBAGE!
Yet, when the evidence is presented, everyone looks at me as if they believe there really IS a Fairy-Garbage Mother that exists merely to spirit away all the refuse in the house. According to them, she swhooshes through the house, magically collecting every half-empty party-favor bag, clippings from a cut-and-paste project that has since done its time on the refrigerator and been retired, plus countless other art projects, old homework and tests, a few give-away toys that have broken, along with the endless assortment of wrappers, both food and merchandise, that all find their way into the can in the kitchen.
They cling to this belief in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable: admitting they have to throw out their own trash. . . . hmmm. Does that make me a Fairy-Garbage Mother enabler?--mo
Actually, I sometimes wonder how the garbage can becomes filled, anyway. I certainly did not fill it up. Yet no one else in my house seems capable of identifying garbage for what it is -- and putting it in its place. It must be some strange talent that only I possess -- the "Ability To Identify Garbage". I am truly blessed.
I can walk around the house at any given hour of the day and pick up no less than 10 items that, without a doubt, belong in the garbage. Everything from scrunched-up paper from my son's latest homework assignment, gum and candy wrappers, new-purchase wrappers of every description, clothing tags, broken toys, shoes that no longer fit, left-over bits of mystery items from my daughter's latest craft project. . . the list is endless. Yet I am the only one who recognizes the fate of these items. Aren't I special?
Just this morning I walked into my daughter's room and found enough stuff to fill a garbage pail several times over. I keep saying, idiotically, "This IS GARBAGE. Throw it OUT!," as if, by explaining this to her, she will somehow acquire my special talent, perhaps through osmosis, because the glazed look in her eye tells me she doesn't understand the words. After cleaning up after her on a daily basis for almost 10 years (her first year she was amazingly neat and well organized), I have almost given up.
Entering my son's room is nearly as bad. But he's sneakier about it. He puts his garbage in his dresser and desk drawers, knowing I won't go through them. If I do, I'm accused of invading his privacy. And they've both learned the wonders of hiding things under the bed and inside their closets. Yet they seem to miss the essential point.
Men are not much better. Though they tend to acquire less clutter, they make up for it with the element of surprise. After all, you don't expect them to have trouble with garbage. Why, Garbage is practically Man's middle name! It is the only thing a woman can count on a man doing around the house, right? But, unless the garbage is neatly tied up in a black or white plastic bag, even they have trouble recognizing it.
If it looks like a stack of out-dated catalogs, they don't seem to realize it is really garbage; if it resembles old cans of paint, a stack of odd pieces of wood, or shoes and shirts that would be rejected by Good Will, they manage to completely overlook the fact that this, indeed, is nothing other than GARBAGE!
Yet, when the evidence is presented, everyone looks at me as if they believe there really IS a Fairy-Garbage Mother that exists merely to spirit away all the refuse in the house. According to them, she swhooshes through the house, magically collecting every half-empty party-favor bag, clippings from a cut-and-paste project that has since done its time on the refrigerator and been retired, plus countless other art projects, old homework and tests, a few give-away toys that have broken, along with the endless assortment of wrappers, both food and merchandise, that all find their way into the can in the kitchen.
They cling to this belief in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable: admitting they have to throw out their own trash. . . . hmmm. Does that make me a Fairy-Garbage Mother enabler?--mo
posted by Marige | 6/06/2006 10:18:00 AM
