Do Not Roll

The global news scene is both grim and deflating. In disconcerting times such as these, it is often soothing to look back, to resurrect old memories, and to reflect upon those times. Below I offer a revised post from my archives. I hope you find it entertaining or distracting. In either case, please take care!

Do Not Roll 

Did you realize that there are warnings and instructions embossed onto the lids of the oversized garbage and recycling containers in frequent use at our homes?

I hope that you have noticed these cautionary notices and alerted your family. Possibly you hosted a family meeting and directed your children and spouse to heed the directives: No Hot Ashes, Arrows Toward the Street, and Do Not Roll With Lid Open. Then again, you could be like me, a person whose husband usually wheels out the trash and recyclables, and who never once thought to mention the dangers inherent with the containers. Unless of course, your spouse hasn’t noticed the garbage cans embossed lettering either.

On a warm spring day a few years back, I shoved the blue garbage containers back into their place against the garage. I needed to get the car out and the garbage men had come and gone leaving the cans helter-skelter. In stowing them, I noticed a putrid odor emanating from the bins. I lifted the lids.

Inside, old food and wrappers had crusted to the bottom–no doubt casualties from an improperly tied kitchen bag or two. I will admit to having intermittent bouts of cleaning mania, putting me somewhere on the spectrum. The foul odor signaled that the situation needed to be addressed right away. I pushed the containers over to the house, turned them on their sides, angled the lids open, and fetched the garden hose. First, I sprayed the nasty debris loose and stuffed it into a plastic bag (yes, I wore gloves!). Once the containers were upright, I squirted Dawn into the bottoms, added several inches of water, and let them soak for a bit.

While I was immersed in this Felix Unger cleaning frenzy, my husband came home for lunch. He quizzed me, made no effort to hide his amusement with the seriousness with which I addressed my task, and then he went inside to make a sandwich. He took a seat at the kitchen table in full view of the driveway and my cleaning efforts. 

Free of the disgusting, clingy trash and smelling as sweet as my prized lilac bushes, I deemed it time to return the containers to their final resting spot by the garage. I hoisted them from the concrete drive. Since moisture still clung to the insides, I decided that the lids should remain open to promote a full airing out. I didn’t want my squeaky-clean garbage bins taking on mold or mildew after I’d gone to so much trouble. I determined that I should leave the lids dangling open and let the sun bake the innards dry. 

I returned the first can to its corner by the fence without incident. In thinking about what happened next, perhaps it was the successful effort of returning Bin #1 to its resting place that caused me to handle the second garbage can with nonchalance. Or it’s entirely possible that I was distracted, contemplating what else might need a sprucing up while I was in the “cleaning zone.” Of course, the remaining can may have been more unwieldy, its hinges loosened from years of daily use. 

Whatever. In mid-stride, with my eyes focused on crossing the finish line, the wicked garbage lid flipped up, smacked me in the face, and sent me careening to the pavement.  

I lay there for a few seconds wondering if I’d broken my neck. Very slowly, I lifted my right hand and touched a few fingers to my face. My right cheekbone, the area just under my eye, smarted from the beating handed me by the hard plastic lid. Sharp pain emanated from my temple. I rolled over on my side and gingerly wiggled limbs and digits. Flashes of white light striated my vision.

From the periphery, I made out my husband’s silhouette in the kitchen window. I assumed his wild gestures meant, “What the heck happened?” 

By the time my spouse towered over me, I was sitting up, testing my neck and back with gentle movements.  

“I think I’m okay, except for the cheekbone,” I said.

 It didn’t take much urging to convince me to go to the ER for X-rays. The outcome was no broken bones, just a spectacular shiner forming. 

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 junk in the bottom. If the garbage collectors leave the lids open, I give the containers a wide berth. Since that incident, I have coached my family and friends about the faintly embossed warning labels on the containers: Do not roll with the lids open.

As far as the two other warnings etched onto the lids, I must admit that I never thought about putting hot ash in the containers. I intend to abide by that one, and you should, too. Burning plastic is very toxic. As far as the last notice: Face the cans with arrows towards the street, you are on your own with that one. I suspect that it means your trash will not be picked up if the rule is violated. 

Of this I am certain: you are inviting unknown evils into your life when you disrespect the rules of the garbage can world.

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