Valentine’s Day Flowers are for Kids; True Love is in the Rubbish Bin



Love means never having to say, “you are SO IRREEEEEETATING.”

Or at least it should near Valentine’s Day.

But the Chinese Missus felt the need to say that again the other day, for perhaps the 10,000th time since we’ve been married.

You see, it is my duty at night to take out the trash and recyclables and food scraps.

Usually it’s late at night, and the outside light has about 1.5 candlepower, so it’s useless.

So I blindly open the trash bin, drop in the evening’s rubbish, slam on the top, dump the recyclables into the wheelie bin and the vegetable scraps into the huge garden bag.

THREE things I have to get right, late at night, in the dark.  And, I should note, I am handicapped — I am a guy.

After ALL THIS, this I usually get to the top of the stairs before realizing that I left the plastic tub that holds the vege scraps on top of the downstairs freezer, or the ironing board, or who knows where.

Because I am my Mother’s son and my mind leaks.

I then dutifully trudge all the way back down the stairs, find the plastic tub, and return it to the kitchen.

Mission accomplished, at great personal peril.

No Problem

There would be no problem with this at all IF things always went as planned.

But every once in a while, the Missus decides to carry out the trash sack, especially if it has been sitting on the kitchen floor while I am in the other room watching television.

Because this simply will not due.

When the Missus goes downstairs and opens the rubbish bin, she is invariably horrified, aghast, and appalled.

Or worse.

For you see, the unthinking, uncaring, pig of a husband (that would be me), will have failed to drop, on average, from one to seven of the recent rubbish bags directly into the big, City Council rubbish bag.

Which, thanks to the Missus, will have been neatly positioned at the bottom of the big plastic rubbish bin, in perfect position for the evening rubbish bags.

She will note that, once again, I have failed to follow her very clear instructions.

I am supposed to put the evening rubbish BAGS into the big Council Rubbish Bag neatly, consistently, purposely.  Exactly as she does.

Like that is ever going to happen. (Remember, I am a guy.)

On occasion, when the uber-tidy-and-ultra-organized-fashionista Missus takes down the rubbish, opens the big bin and SEES WHO KNOWS HOW MANY SMALL TRASH BAGS PILED UNTIDILY ON TOP OF THE SQUISHED COUNCIL TRASH BAG AT THE BOTTOM.

Lawsy. Lawsy. Lawsy.

It makes the Missus crazy.

She starts going on and on and on about how inconsiderate I am.  How filthy I am.  How I don’t listen.

And how … (I quit listening about now)…  we simply have to divorce because she can no longer tolerate how IRREEEEETATING I am.

She will painstakingly tell me of how awful it was when she had to put on her gardening gloves, and with her thumb and forefinger, daintily pick up the filthy daily rubbish bags and drop PROPERLY them into the Big Council Bag.

But in my defense, none of this aggro should ever happen.

Every Tuesday night of the world, without fail, I sort through all the week’s rubbish bags and deposit them inside the Council Trash Bag that is, admittedly, all smooshed up at the bottom of the bin.

And, if I am really on my game, I drop in some Crack Puppy poops to keep away the neighbor’s kittuh.

Then I tie up the bag and drop it out front by the road.


And all is right with the world.

Or it would be if the Missus followed the plan.


So the other night, during one of these “rubbish discussions”, a particularly looooong rubbish discussion, about how IRREEETATING I am, it was so loud that the traumatized Crack Puppy dragged in her red blankie and started sucking on it.

It was then that I had a Valentine’s Vision.

That I should go to the hardware store and buy a plastic rubbish *bin that was small enough so that a Council Rubbish Bag would fit around the top.


So there was no way for some pig of a husband to put the evening trash out in an untidy manner.

I decided to spend my pocket money on the smaller rubbish bin.  And I would endeavor, until the day I die, to try and, at least where rubbish is concerned, STOP BEING SO IRREEEETATING.

So I stealthily sneaked down to the Mitre 10 MegaCentre, armed with an Official City Council Rubbish Bag.

I looked high and low to find just the right rubbish bin.

I carefully inserted the Official Council Rubbish Bag inside it to make 1,000% certain that it fit like a glove.

So that there would be no untidy slippage or Spousal Irreeeetation.

The bag DID fit perfectly.  And the Valentine’s Angels began to sing.

I was quite “chuffed” about the whole thing.

But, while this was the PERFECT Valentine’s gift for my Missus, I was somewhat bothered by what others might think.

So I visited three other stores to buy appropriate Valentine’s accoutrements:

Pink ribbon.  A lovely heart-shaped box.  And shiny red letters of love.

Because, despite being “SOOOOO IRREEEEETATING,” I am a romantic at heart.

Then I assembled the Official Valentine’s Rubbish Bin, below.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweetie.  Thanks to the bin, maybe we will last another 29 years.


trashcan this one


*The Missus LOVES it. So there.


4 Responses to “Valentine’s Day Flowers are for Kids; True Love is in the Rubbish Bin”

  1. Lillian L.. says:

    Very clever of you on all counts. Pre-approval is, of course, mandatory.

    BTW, you can be irreeetating at times, but we all love you anyhow.

    Good job, kid!

  2. hams says:

    The secret to successful “surprise” gifts is that they need pre-approval from the Missus. I learned that decades ago. You should continue to practice apologizing. It builds character.

  3. Kris says:

    You bought your wife a garbage can for Valentine’s Day?

    I do not even know what to say to that. Perhaps by “accoutrements,” you mean that the box is filled with her actual gift? Because otherwise, I fear for your life.

    Although if you are dead, I don’t have to worry about apologizing to you for things that are not even my fault but YOURS …

    Carry on.

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