Our city has, what I consider to be, an idiotic 8-day garbage cycle. Instead of your garbage being collected on the same day every week, it moves every time, so that you put your garbage out on Sunday night for Monday morning collection this week, and then Monday night for Tuesday morning the next week, and so on. I'm sure the powers that be, and plenty of ordinary people think this is just fine and dandy, but they are not so organizationally impaired as me, and it means that I am in a perpetual state of anxiety, wondering when the next collection day is. Thank God my neighbours are more organized than me, because the only way I know it's garbage day is when they put theirs out.
So, one week a month, we get no collection, and end up going over the weekend, which means 10 days between collections. When there is a holiday, that can mean up to twelve days between pick-ups. And if we miss a day, and the cycle goes over a weekend or holiday, that means that Mrs. Loudshoes loses her shit altogether. As happened last week. I meant to put out the garbage after dinner, but got doing something else, (i.e. surfing Youtube for videos about cats.) and only remembered when I heard the garbage truck bellowing and screeching outside at 7 the next morning. Even I'm not so undignified as to barrell out the door in my pajamas flinging garbage bags to the curb, like some sort of post-apocalyptic rodeo clown.
When I went to put out the garbage last night, I opened the lid in the garage to discover a heaving maggot mosh-pit in the cans. Now, I'm not a very girly-girl; I can deal with mice and snakes and frogs and all sorts of little critters with aplomb. And after years of dealing with dirty diapers that required four-hands and a sand-blaster to manage, and having abundant bodily fluids deposited on my person without apology, I'm not exactly squeamish. HOWEVER, I hate maggots. I mean, I really, really freaking hate them. They are the only thing that sends me into a spasm of repugnance that makes me freeze in the middle of the room and shriek like a little girl. (Apart from the fact that I HATE the maggots, I hate that they make me behave so ridiculously even more.)
Thank GOD the Mister was home, because he calmly dealt with the maggots and the garbage and me, in that order. I don't know what I've have done. Move, I guess. (Seriously, that's one of the most compelling reasons to stay married that I can think of: takes care of maggots. Along with: good father, makes me laugh, fixes computers, doesn't spit.)
I'm going to go find the garbage calendar and make sure I don't miss the next garbage day. Or I might have to move to another city.