Hatin' on Trash

You surely know the expression "domestic goddess." I am not that. I am the opposite of that. Somehow the phrase "domestic devil" does not seem right. Perhaps "domestic sloth." Perhaps just "lazy bastard."

I hate chores. Hate really isn't strong enough of a word. I loathe them. Despise them. Abhor them. They make me hurt at the core of my being. In general, I hate doing the same thing twice -- anything. This is especially true of mundane things. Somehow routine and monotony are like icepicks to my brain. I spend a great deal of time figuring out how to mow the lawn in a new pattern each time. So, I have few chores assigned to me, since no one likes to listen to me complain about them. But one chore that I do have -- and actually complete more often than not -- is trash.

Now, trash is the worst of the chores. This owes to the fact that trash entails both monotony and, well, trash. Almost equal to my hatred for routine is my hatred for touching "icky" things. This includes most other human beings, any surface in a public restroom, and most of the rest of the world.

So imagine my joy in combining these two wonderful things. Weirdly, I enjoy recycling. So we recycle a lot. But with three kids, we somehow manage to make more trash than Sri Lanka each week. The kitchen trash can (the most yucky one) is ALWAYS full. I just changed it like yesterday, and then went to throw away a dirty diaper (another favorite), and here it was stuffed to the rim again.

So, my annoyance boiled over, and I just wanted to hate on trash publicly for a while. Trash, you are the devil, and I only wish that I could find some way to make you suffer.