Do Not Roll With Lid Open

I’m writing this to save you from harm, injury and a trip to the ER.  

There are warnings and instructions embossed onto the lids of the large garbage and recycling containers that municipalities mandate for their residents. Perhaps you have noticed these already, studied them and warned your family.  Perhaps you even had a family meeting and directed your children and wife to heed the cautions: No Hot Ashes, Arrows Toward the Street, and Do Not Roll With Lid Open. Then again you could be like me, whose husband usually wheels out the trash and recyclables, and never thought to alert you about the dangers inherent with the containers. Or maybe your spouse hasn’t noticed the embossed words of warning either.

On a warm and sunny day, I nestled the blue containers back against the fence by the garage so that I could I get my car out.  Since it was Thursday, both the recycling and the trash had been collected already. I noticed a putrid odor emanating from the bins.  Inside, old food and wrappers had crusted to the bottom, no doubt casualties from a leaky kitchen bag or two. I will admit to having intermittent bouts of cleaning mania, so I guess that puts me somewhere on the spectrum for OCD.  I pushed the containers close to the house, turned them on their sides with the lids at an angle and got out the garden hose. I sprayed the nasty debris loose and stuffed it into a plastic bag. With the containers upright I squirted Dawn into the bottoms, added several inches of water and let them soak.  In an hour so they would both be clean and smelling fresh.

In the midst of this satisfying task, my husband came home for lunch, saw what I was up to, and went inside to make a sandwich.  At the kitchen table, he sat in full view of the driveway hiding his amusement at my chore. Free of old trash and smelling as fresh as a bouquet of flowers, it was time to return the containers to their resting spot by the garage.  I hoisted them up from the concrete drive leaving the lids open since moisture still clung to the insides. My garbage bins would not smell of mold or mildew. I would leave them open and let the sun bake them dry.

The first can with its dangling lid was returned to its corner by the fence without incident.  This fact could have made me cocky as I handled the second one. Perhaps, I was thinking of something else, like what else needed a redo since I was in the mode. Or maybe the remaining can was unwieldy because it was older or the lid was loose.  Then again I could have been too rough with it as I attempted to pair it with its mate. Whatever. In mid-stride, the lid flipped up, smacked me in the face, and flattened me to the concrete.

I lay there for a few seconds wondering if I’d broken my neck. One side of my face smarted from smacking into the hard plastic lid.  Gingerly, I rolled over on my side, wiggling limbs and digits; flashes of white light striated my vision. I made out my husband’s silhouette in the kitchen window. He was gesturing.  Like what the heck did you just do?

By the time he towered over me, I was sitting, testing my neck and back.  All good, except for the slapped cheek. Certain that I’d cracked my cheekbone we headed to the ER, and x-rays proved me wrong.  Awarded with a spectacular shiner, months elapsed before I could sleep on that side of my face.

Since the battle with the blue bins, I do not touch the garbage or recycling containers, and I don’t care if they smell or collect crap in the bottom. If the garbage collectors leave the lids open, I give the containers a wide berth.  My OCD tendencies have expanded to include vigilant label reading. As far as the two other embossed warnings on the garbage bins, I never thought about putting hot ash in the trash. I will abide by this one, and I hope you do to. The last one—facing the cans with the arrows towards the street— you are on your own recognizance with that one.