At any rate, if for some reason I do not make it all the way to fully conscious after my own charming prince lays one on me, then there is still an alarm clock set to spring me into action at 7:30. Most mornings I do not use the alarm clock because I drift awake just as he is bolting the door at 7:15. This morning I was cozy, snuggly and warm, fully relishing in the last five minutes of my all too important sleep and waiting for my smooch. Then the garbage man showed up.
We live in a building with twenty four separate apartments, three floors that receive daylight and one subterranean level. Our apartment is on the second floor and my bedroom window has the scenic vista of the parking lot in the back of the building. The driveway entrance to get into our lot is shared by the almost identical building next door. Our landlord likes to share lots of things with the owner of the building next door. I think someone once told her that “sharing is caring” or something because we also share the parking lot itself as well as a few angled spaces that run the length of the driveway. Not to mention the plow guy in the winter and the all important dumpster and recycle bins.
The dumpster and bins are located at the far back side of the parking lot and are a straight shot from the entrance of the driveway. I suppose this works out pretty nice for the trash collectors as they simply back in with their little bleepers blaring, pick up the dumpster by scraping metal across metal, shake it as if gravity does not exist for trash, slam it down on the asphalt, pick it back up, shake, slam and repeat at least six more times.
Now I have no issue with the oversized, smelly, metal eye sore being completely emptied because after the stint last fall where “someone was on vacation” and our bin was not emptied for close to a month, I actually thought the raccoons were going to build little huts and start paying rent to live next to the thing. My issue is the part where they arrived at 7:10 AM to perform their little heavy metal concert.
Just after their bin was slammed down for the last time and the still beeping truck began pulling out of the driveway, Matt came into the bedroom. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: Hey on your way to the bike path please hunt down that garbage man and pop a cap in his ass would ya?
Matt: Yeah they were kinda loud huh?
Me: Kinda loud and seven AM are not a good fit for me. In fact it’s not a good fit for flipping anyone.
Matt: I can hear him still heading down the street; I’ll chase him down for ya and send a camera phone picture of him lying in a big pool of blood.
Me: Well that might be a little extreme, and graphic. Be safe babe.
As I tossed the covers off, upset with my loss of the five most precious moments of slumber, it occurred to me that I could do a few different things with this simmering emotion of gobeldy gook I had ready to rise up inside.
I could call up the Arlington DPW and scream at them that if they had made it to my house by that hour who knows where else they had already been, waking up the other neighbors. I could find out where they live, stalk them for a few weeks, determine what time they get up in the morning then five minutes before they are due to rise start banging the lids of two metal trash cans together outside their bedroom window. I could do nothing but then let the evilness swirl around inside my head until I snap on some innocent person later. Or I could take it in, recognize it and use my blog as the best place to vent out my frustration through my own charming wordsmithing.
So that is what I decided to do. Besides, Matt has my back on this one.
I’m still waiting for my picture.