Here's where the story begins:
My boyfriend doesn't have a garbage disposal. OK, that's not the end of the world, although it's an extreme inconvenience to someone who has had one her whole life. However, if you've read my most famous blog – Beefcake Blonde – you'll know that the lack of disposal is actually a good thing for this ditzy diva.
What makes this situation difficult is the fact my boyfriend doesn't eat leftovers. In fact, the only time I have ever seen him eat anything from the fridge that wasn't freshly cooked was the time he finished off his pasta from a fancy restaurant we visited the night before. Hardly, "leftover" material, if you ask me.
So containers and bowls full of my DELICIOUS food sit on the shelves inside the fridge until I can either devour it all myself or it starts to mold. Most of the time, it's the latter.
The problem is, as much as that lasagna continues to decompose, I can't throw it out until the trashcan is full.
Why? Well, let me drop some knowledge.
First off, I really can't stand the smell of rotting trash. I mean, who can? But since the boyfriend lives near the woods, there's no way a bag can sit outside without attracting every raccoon within a five-mile radius. Get a trashcan with a locking lid, you say? Believe me, I've suggested it. You know how men are…
Second, how could I waste a 13-gallon Hefty on a couple stinky spoonfuls of an old dinner? You see, I'm trying as hard as I can to "mind the bottom line" – probably just so I have more cash for my next shopping excursion – and throwing a quarter-full trash bag away isn't on my agenda.
So recently, when Jason pulled the bag out of the can, I jumped away from the sink, bubbles and dirty dishwater slopping on the floor, halting him in his tracks.
"Don't take that anywhere! I have leftovers to throw in it!"
Here I was, dumping Tupperware upon Tupperware of white chicken chili, lasagna, chicken Parmesan, cheesy potatoes, sour cream, and whatever else you can think of into this bag. Luckily, it was so full, it stood on it's own… or so I thought.
As I was dumping the chili (of course it was the chili!), the bag toppled. And this was no slight slump. It was as if forces unbeknownst to me picked up the sack and shot put it across the room. Literally, trash blew up from the inside out.
Everything, including that smelly, rotting, disgusting, wet chicken chili, spread out across the linoleum… and it reeked. Seriously, I'm talking, landfill proportions of stink.
As I straightened up, face toward the ceiling, I let out a scream that I'm sure only The Peke could decipher. Jason looked up from his chicken wings a few yards away and casually asked, "What happened?"
Clearly, he could see… and smell… what had just gone down. I composed myself, trying to keep my cool as I watched the sludge slowly spread out on the tile. The farther it spread, the more infuriating it became.
As Jason went to stand, I put my hand up and sternly commanded, "Sit." For once, The Peke listened… but not my boyfriend. He came over to the mess and attempted to help pick up the bag, to which I responded. "Don't… touch… the… bag. "
We locked eyes for a second, and I'm pretty sure he saw his life flash before his two baby blues, because he backed away, very slowly, never turning his back on the banshee that was surely ready to erupt from his normally oh-so-loving girlfriend.
On Sunday, as I walked through the front door of the house, Jason proudly announced that he, my knight in shining armor, had purchased a new trashcan.
"It has a lid!" he beamed.
My hero! No more stink, no more looking at unsightly rotting food, and no more dumping raw sewage onto the floor!
That was, until Monday night, when I popped a napkin through the swinging lid, and the smell of those rotting pork chop bones and garlic and herb marinade assaulted my olfactory glands.
"Hey honey…why don't we get an outdoor trash can with a lid?"
Published: February 27, 2012