Monday, August 3, 2009

I Hate Fridays

It's only Monday and I am already dreading Friday. I hate Fridays.

Why, you ask? Easy, I can sum it up in two words: trash trucks. Trucks, as in plural. More than one. Four to be exact. There is (1) the actual garbage truck, (2) the aluminum and glass recycling truck, (3) the cardboard recycling truck, and (4) the truck that collects grass clippings. They all come on Friday.

I hear you thinkin' to yourself, "What's the big deal? Does Teri hate to take the trash to the curb that much?" Oh, if it were just that easy, my friends.

You see, the trucks start to arrive at o'dark thirty in the morning. Not a problem for me. I am already up and the trash has been taken to the curb on Thursday night (usually by my dear, sweet husband). Nope, not a problem for me.The problem is with my daughter.
The first trash truck to arrive always wakes Molly up. This elicits a scream response followed by loud wailing tears on her part. At this point, I am forced to go running into her bedroom to help divert the crisis. Typically, I am right in the middle of a shower when said scream occurs. Joy.

Now, Molly is not screaming because the trash truck woke her from a sound slumber. She is screaming because the trash man is collecting our trash without her being present to witness it. Lifting up her bedroom window shade so that she may view the event is not acceptable. She must view the trash collection from the downstairs window. So, I grab the wailing child and dash downstairs, deposit her on the couch and proceed to open the blinds.
Remember how I said that the scream typically interrupts my shower? Well, you can probably guess what I am wearing: a towel...if I am lucky. And now I must pull open the blinds with the threat of being viewed by the trash guy. Goody.

If we are lucky enough to make it downstairs in time to watch the trash guy collect our refuse and toss it into his truck, we just may have a decent morning. If we miss this event, our morning is shot to heck. I have a crabby, sulking child until lunch time.

One would think that having four trucks come around would offer Molly four chances to see garbage being collected. She should be able to see at least one of the four. That should make her happy. Oh, no. She knows that there are four trucks and she must see each and every one in order to restore balance to her life. So I stay wrapped up in my towel (if I am lucky) for the next hour until all trucks have made their rounds.

Molly doesn't have a thing for garbage trucks. She never points them out on the road, nor does she get excited when she sees them at other locations within or outside of our neighborhood. It has something to do with the fact that the trash man is collecting our trash. I don't know how that makes it special but somehow it does. And if we are not there to see it, life ain't pretty in our household. Weird, just plain weird.

TGIF? Whatever. I hate Fridays.