Hot Garbage

What I am about to say is not about my social beliefs or feminism. It’s more about OCD. I needed to say that before I say this… taking out the trash is man’s work. I don’t have a garden, nor will I ever own a pottery wheel. I thoroughly detest having filthy hands. I refuse to grow out my fingernails because of the disgusting, bacterial contaminated shit that gets under them. The very thought of getting dirty launches my gut into my throat. Sure, maybe that does speak volumes about the state of my sanity. However, to those who know me, this is not news. My husband did not marry me for my willingness to touch waste. So, when I do tackle the monumental task of removing the full trash bag from the trash can inside and transporting it to the dumpster outside, I kind-of expect to be thrown a goddamned parade.

I almost never ask my husband to do anything around the house. I’ve pretty much got that covered. Plus, he has the gift of sight. He can see what needs to be done. Typically, he doesn’t need to be told anyway. He’s totally willing to help… except when it comes to the garbage and recycling. If I don’t specifically ask someone to remove the bag when it is full, my hubby and my son will cram their waste into that can until it is threatening to vomit hot garbage all over the kitchen. I hate to nag, so it gets to that point more often than I should publicly admit. I am also starting to think that the recyclables are invisible until I point out that the heap is nearing counter height. Only then does anyone but me seem to notice that repugnant grime is reaching critical mass.

This morning, the kitchen smelled like burning death. Initially I was just going to leave it until my husband got up, but I was consumed by the stench. Plus, he has a rare day off from work. I decided to grant him a reprieve and just take care of it myself. Sometimes a vacuum effect causes the bag to get stuck, making it a real challenge to hoist the trash out of the can. Not today. Today that sucker slid right out. I should have been wary but I was too busy being pleased… until I realized why. Seems there’s not much of a vacuum effect when there is a large vertical tear in the bag.  This one spanned from the very bottom corner all the way to 3/4 up the side of the bag. The minute that sack was liberated, 4 day old refuse began spewing free of its confines.

I’ll spare you the details of the moist, oozing hell that I had to touch with my now forever unclean hands. It’s not that I don’t want to gross you out. It’s just that we haven’t reached the worst of it yet, and I am already grossed out myself. For God’s sake, swampy garbage bread disintegrated in my fingers. I cried a little.

I finally managed to cage the steaming heap of trash can discharge. I transported it outside, gagging and convulsing along the way. The dumpster is almost as tall as I am, so holding the lid open while hoisting a rather heavy bag into it is awkward, to say the least. I managed to heave my swill bag up and in successfully. However, the weight of that percolating rubbish jarred the lid free from my hand the moment it hit the bottom of the dumpster.

Before I tell you what happened next, I should mention… it rained here for 4 days straight. There is water everywhere…

That lid slammed closed with what seemed to be the force of an Oldsmobile falling off of a bridge and crashing into a swamp 30 feet below. The water on top of the lid, the water under the lid, pure, vile garbage water, sprayed clear to my neighbor’s yard. You know what was standing between the dumpster and the neighbor’s yard? ME. I took the vast majority of that disease polluted wave of scum water directly to the face. Oh yes, I GOT DUMPSTER WATER IN MY MOUTH.

So, from now on, unless I’m ferried down Main Street as the Grand Marshall of the Garbage Day parade, sporting a sash & crown, sitting atop a streamer adorned float, while princess waving to my adoring masses, I am never, ever taking out the trash again.


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Chaos, a Hairball, & an Unwanted Surprise

If I post any poetry today, it’ll be later. I was awake for around 30 minutes when already this day had me by the figurative balls. I considered throwing in the towel and going back to bed when I realized that, 1: I can’t do anything to fix it from my bedroom, and 2: My morning would actually be funny to outsiders who have NOT had to wash their feet twice already today. So here you go. I hope you get a chuckle at my expense…

Did you know that a fresh hairball can and will squish up between your toes? I mean sure, yeah, you would expect this if you stepped into a pile of straight cat puke, but a hairball? Not that I think about it often, but I would have imagined that the hair would act as a screen from it getting past the bottoms of your feet. I would have been wrong. As an added bonus, the fun doesn’t end once you’ve cleaned between your swampy toes – you still have to remove the cat hair from the drain.

The worst part about it? I saw the hairball. Now I haven’t slept well in 3 nights. I’m accustomed to falling into a coma-like state. I sleep hard… usually. I don’t know why this week has been an exception, but even in my groggy frame of mind, emerging from my bedroom for the first time today, I saw the hairball on the stairs. I walked past it to fetch cleaning supplies and take care of it. Unfortunately, as I was bent over rummaging through the cupboard of cleaning supplies, I smelled something faint, but awful. I thought it was coming from within that cupboard. Great, something else I have to clean, I bitched to myself. I grabbed what I needed from the kitchen and headed back toward Mount Hairball. However, the smell didn’t fade as I moved away. It stayed exactly the same. I gathered my robe in my hands, put it close to my face and inhaled deeply. I wish that I had noticed the small, dried Chihuahua turd stuck to my robe, touching the side of my right hand, BEFORE I jammed that stink into my face. I already had a paper towel handy so I removed the poo (while gagging on the stench and imagining that vile bacterial creepy crawlies were invading my hand)  and fled to my room to change my clothes.

My animals get very excited when I first wake up. When I don’t give them immediate attention, a frenzy begins. On this morning they had waited longer than they wanted to wait. They were not thrilled when I disappeared again before doling out lovin’. So, when I came back out of my room there was a herd of cats tearing up and down the stairs. The largest of them, Julius, rammed his head square into the back of my calf causing me to stumble… directly into HIS disgusting hairball. It unfolded in slow motion. I did everything I could to avoid that landmine, but just didn’t have enough control over my body, and SPLAT.

I sternly warned them all to “get downstairs, go lay down!” and went into the bathroom to wash my hands, face and foot. I then grabbed more paper towel and made my way back to the festering pile of hairy vomit when… I stepped in pee. My “go lay down” tone literally scared the piss out of my dog. She tinkled a little on the stairs. THAT I didn’t see coming. No, that one was a warm, fresh surprise. Once again, with a paper towel already in hand, I began cleaning up my foot. I returned to the tub and for the second time in a handful of minutes, gave my right foot a bath.

AGAIN, I fetched paper towel and headed toward Hairball Hill. With that attempt, I actually got it cleaned up, the pee too. I hadn’t even had coffee yet when this fiasco began, so I thought I’d sit for a second to collect myself. I found the little hellions all sleeping soundly, occupying nearly every inch of seating in my living room. That blanket covered thing in the picture, that’s my new couch. I don’t remember what it looks like though. The animals like it even more than I do, so the blankets have been there since 5 minutes after the couch arrived.

Anyway, I went and made coffee instead and decided to share my ordeal with you all. Now that I have, I could really use a shower…


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SFoxWriting’s Alphabet Challenge ~ “N”

I stood beneath the attic door and drew a breath of determination. I was securely armed with a mask and gloves. I wielded both a broom and a bucket as weapons. Still I hesitated. In all of the years I’d lived in this house, I’d never entered the attic, much less cleaned it. Alas, the man coming tomorrow needed to get into that space. I had no choice but to survey the horrors that lie in wait for him. I felt compelled to clear the attic of spiders and cobwebs, rid it of dust and, heaven forbid, dead rodents, for his sake.

As I mustered the courage to climb the ladder I told myself, “It’s a fair exchange. Frigid air pours from the ceiling into our bedrooms year round. I will clean the attic. He will fix that goddamn hole.”

“What the hell?” My bucket and broom crashed to the floor below. Shock claimed me as I entered what should have been the space directly beneath my roof. It turned out, however, to be a broad corridor turned closet. It was unfinished, so racks, shelves and mirrors were mounted directly upon the skeleton of my home. Vintage garments, fine accessories, classic coats and a myriad of shoes decorated nearly every empty spot in this room. Not only that, but the space was pristine, untouched for decades and completely immaculate. It was eerie and magnificent at the same time. My thoughts swirled as my brain struggled to make sense of my surroundings.

“Of course,” I laughed, “the old man built all sorts of private rooms in the basement. His wife must have kept her secrets up here.” It made sense. The house was over a hundred years old. The couple that lived and died here previously was eccentric to say the least. Still I was in awe of the cache that had been kept hidden from me, just yards from where I lay my head at night. I removed my mask and gloves and began taking inventory of my newly found treasures.

“It is freezing in here,” I whispered through chattering teeth. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I shouldn’t be there. Quite honestly, a smarter woman probably would have left immediately.

“So many discoveries remain. Just a few more minutes…”, I thought. Upon a hook, at the other end of this glorious wardrobe, I spotted a coat hanging all alone, the showcase piece in a collection of old apparel. Stupidly, I smiled as though it was fate. “Perfect, I’ll throw that on while I poke around a while longer,” I decided.

I admired my find. It was in flawless condition and of remarkable quality too. The lining was a delicate silk, splendidly still in tact. Not a defect could be found on the textured ivory exterior. The deep brown fur collar was still as soft and sleek as I imagined it was when it was new. However, as I donned my new threads, something felt peculiar. It was as though I was resting fear squarely upon my shoulders. I literally caught my breath as a cold wall of air moved through me. Before I could muster the sense enough to run, light through a horizontal crack between the wall and the floor caught my attention.

“This must be where that cold air is coming from,” I deducted as I examined the gap closely. After some investigation I realized this was not a crack but the outline of a hidden doorway. My good sense lost the war with my intense curiosity at this point.  With a little effort I managed to pry it open just enough to reveal a poorly lit, narrow passage between the walls. I poked my head inside for a preview of the next phase of my adventure. Icy air slapped my face like a bitter winter blast.

Still wearing that cloak of horror, I shuffled slowly within the restricted confines of my freezing space. Inside the blackness, fissures of light filtered in softly but provided little immediate insight into my environment. It took several moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark. As the scene around me unfolded, panic rose in my chest. Man made catacombs extended throughout my house. Anyone aware of their existence could have easily navigated my home completely undetected. All at once my gut screamed, “run away now!” while my brain insisted, “you must proceed.”

I ignored my flight instinct. Instead I focused on the heaviest concentration of light that seeped into the darkness. I forced my feet in its direction. As I neared my reluctant destination, anxiety tightened its grip. It felt as though the topcoat of terror had shrunk a size. As I unsuccessfully fumbled with the buttons, I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched.

“Come on! No. I am being ridiculous. There is an explanation for all of this.” I tried to laugh it off but noted that the air temperature continued to drop around me. I convinced myself that I left the cape of consternation on because of the chill, and not because I just couldn’t get it off.

Suddenly an unseen force pulled me rapidly toward the glow. I could feel it tug on my overcoat but I don’t think either of my feet ever parted with the ground. It was like my environs fast forwarded around me. They didn’t stop until I was standing before a heavy door with a glass handle. I trembled in dismay as a single tear escaped my eye.

Finally, all of my senses agreed that it was time to flee. Unfortunately, it was too late. I could turn and look behind me but I could not compel my own legs to move in any direction except forward. Whatever specter had brought me there, had no intention of allowing me to leave now. Hoping to find an escape on the other side of this entrance, I reached for the handle. Trepidation gave way to tranquility as the door revealed a small set of stairs that culminated in an inviting luminescence at the top. Again I found myself advancing through no will of my own.

I turned the corner at the top of the stairs. I had to rub my eyes to be sure of what I was witnessing. I was not prepared for the impact of what awaited me there. I was astounded by the mysteries that my own home had kept hidden from me for the past decade and a half. I stood there in a full kitchen. It was likely last decorated in the late 50s, perhaps early 60s. It should have been held together by cobwebs after so much time but it was perfectly tidy. Natural light flooded the area, bouncing off polished surfaces. Most notably, there was no crisp air current; it was warm.

I made my way toward the window that I had only ever seen from the outside of my home. A panoramic view of the city sprawled out before me. It was utterly breathtaking. As I absorbed the impressive landscape, I once again tried to shed that trench coat. My efforts were short lived as the sound of canned laughter penetrated my ears.

“Is that a TV?” I wondered aloud. I crossed the room, past the antique formica table toward yet another closed door. I did not think to hesitate until I touched the knob. Ice cold.

“Well, if there has been a television set on day and night since I moved in, it’s high time I turned it off.” It didn’t occur to me that perhaps now wasn’t the time to get conservative about energy usage. Instead I threw open the door to find a very old black and white set on and in perfect working order. The monitor sat upon its speaker, which was supported by four small short wooden legs. In each corner above the screen was a knob. I hadn’t seen a TV this old since I had thumbed through a dusty photo album at my grandmother’s house.

I moved toward the television but the closer I got to it, the further away it seemed to be. It was as though this gadget took two steps backward with each step I took forward. I could feel the fear creeping in again. New movement in my peripheral vision paralyzed me. My eyes widened with dread. Slowly I turned my head in the direction of this rogue action. The empty rocking chair swayed violently back and forth.

“SHIT!” I meant to yell, but merely choked on the word instead. There was, in fact, someone else here. I was most certainly not alone.

“Go, Carrie, RUN!” I begged myself, “go NOW!” I tried to scream for help but my voice failed me.

The frock of fright contracted until I could barely breathe. I desperately ripped at the buttons and fought against its clutches. The more I struggled, the more the coat constricted. Cold air spun like a cyclone around me, pummeling my face and stealing the breath from my lungs. Objects in the room were lifted from the floor and torn from the walls. They swirled about rapidly, obliterating one another as they crashed. Collisions sent splinters like wooden nails into the twister. The wind continued to churn, turning the debris into speeding bullets that whizzed past my head.

I dropped to my knees to avoid being wasted by shrapnel. I intended to fight until I drew my last breath but that time was rapidly approaching. My invisible assailant showed no signs of mercy. The deep brown pelt around my neck began to strangle me. Using what was left of my oxygen to wail would be a waste. No one would hear me up here, even if I could force my voice to make sound.

I fell to my side. My fingernails dug into the flesh of my neck as I made a final attempt to get my hands under the pelt of my collar. I flailed hopelessly and attempted to tear it away from my neck. Hot tears stained my skin as I whimpered silently. It was no use. I was going to die.

“NO!” In my dream I refused my fate one last time. “NO!” again I howled. This time my voice was strong and true. So loud actually that it woke me from sleep with a start. I attempted to sit up in bed and regain my bearings. However, I was encased in my own bed sheets. From the tips of my toes to the base of my chin, I was wrapped like a mummy. If I hadn’t still been so utterly afraid from that vision, I might have actually laughed at myself.


As I have mentioned in earlier posts, my dream world is a vivid, memorable, ethereal, but sometimes terrifying place. My brain doesn’t stop writing stories just because I am asleep. So, for the letter “N”, I chose to write about the first I remember having in a series of haunted nightmares. I have not attempted to go into the attic since this dream, despite the fact that it does actually spill cold air into our bedroom.


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