Why You Should Always Bring Two Trucks to a Demolition

Posted in Cleaning, Humor, Maintenance, Men, Nature, Storytelling by Shelley Sackier

“I’m going to get rid of that hot tub,” I said to no one in particular about 500 times in the last two years.

Okay, that’s not true. I’ve said it to everyone who has ever walked past the antiquated, broken down, monstrous piece of rotomolded plastic that surely had people wondering if I was going to invite them to a bubbling bacterium filled night from the 70s.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Never happened ever.

I hate hot tubs. Hate them.

They make my skin crawl both figuratively and literally. I am just not a jacuzzi natured nut. I’m not much of a pool person either. More of a “if you’re hot, go stand under the garden hose” kind of a girl. I don’t even own a bathtub, so why was there a giant tank of promised tranquil times in my front yard taking up valuable real estate where other valuable, contributing items like tomato plants, a patch of grass, or a host of plastic pink flamingo might live?

I’ll tell you why. Because no one wants to haul that junk away.

So, I looked at doing it myself. But there’s the tiny component that includes “disassembling” involved. My thought was this is doable, for if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life thus far, it’s that the solution to any problem is viable even if you only have access to three things:

Duct tape
WD40
YouTube

It was a great idea for about 30 seconds. At the 31^st second mark of the first video I watched on how easy it is to dismantle your old hot tub I’d changed my mind. Easy is not a word I would pick. I would instead pick words like onerous, laborious, and ignorantly ambitious.

They required power tools with gas tanks, multiple blades, and signed waivers in order to purchase. As I was far more fond of my fingers than farcical waterfowl, I picked up the phone and furthered my search for anyone willing to haul this sucker away.

After countless calls to every variety of company with the name “junk” in it, I finally settled on one who’s name I can’t recall but could aptly be named “Umm … Sure, if I Can Shove it in My Truck.” It wasn’t necessarily their enthusiasm that won me over, rather that basement price of stating they could do the work for 60% less than everyone else.

I am a penny-pinching son of a gun, and the thought of holding onto a few more pennies made me suddenly envision buying my new flock of plastic feathered friends at someplace fancy like the Garden Decor´ section at Walmart, rather than straight off the clearance shelves at the Dollar General.

But then Willie and the gang showed up with a pickup truck that would definitely always be chosen last when team captains were divvying up the choices for all the pickup truck games. Tiny red flag.

Willie put his son to work—Willie Jr—and then left to answer the phone. I heard the sound of angry steel come to life, ripping through fabric and plastic and wood and thought that could have been me. And then a minute later I heard the sound of Willie Jr cry out and thought that would have been me.

“Snake!” I heard lil Willie cry.

I came out onto the porch and looked at Willie Jr. pointing out to Willie Senior the head of a black snake who was obviously just as surprised as the two of them and shared the same expression.

“Don’t kill him. That’s Hortense. He’s just a garden snake,” I said.

“Hortense? Is he a biter?” Willie Jr. asked.

“Only if you’re a rat,” I answered.

“Well, you have the face of a rat, Willie, so I’d watch out if I were you,” his sister said.

The sound of Willie Jr’s angry steel sprang to life again in answer.

That could have been me, I thought.

I brought out a pitchfork and handed it to Junior. “You ever had spaghetti? You just need to twirl that feller up onto here and then walk Hortense out to the woods where he can be safe.”

Junior was not thrilled. But he did it. And then the angry steel returned with a chorus that began to sound like it was running out of steam.

From the porch where I sat studying a library book, I heard snippets of phrases like Did you bring the extra battery? And Well, we’re gonna have to plug her in. Also, What do you mean it’s not working? Did you hit water? And finally some sort of thunk. Like a head falling to the table.

Junior and I finally found another suitable and working outlet for the angry blade brigade and the work resumed. Until …

“Snake!”

I came out onto the deck again. “That’s Hildegard. She’s probably wondering where Hortense is.”

And she’s probably wondering what the hell is happening to her house, I thought looking around with despair. Plastic, insulation, fiberglass, foam, and wood were scattered everywhere. Good lord, it looked like my attic went on a binge and vomited onto the lawn.

“How’s it goin?” I asked, noting it had been over three hours of work thus far. Three hours for five people against one hot tub. The YouTube video has one guy, one crowbar, and fifteen minutes, seven of them spent explaining to the camera what he was doing.

“Nearly done,” I heard Willie Senior offer up. Behind him, Junior was wrestling with Hildegard who was determined to stay in her home come hell or high water … or high-powered chain saws. Maybe she had babies to protect.

Poor Junior. That could have been me.

An hour later, as the sun was setting, I brought out a tray of glasses and a bottle of bourbon. “Good work, lads and lasses,” I said, seeing nothing but a concrete slab where the hot tub used to be.

“The truck is full up. Can’t fit anymore into it,” Willie Senior said, pointing toward it.

I saw half the hot tub, or what used to be the hot tub, shoved into the back and spilling out the sides. The other half was in several large piles on the lawn and driveway.

“We’ll come back for the rest tomorrow,” he said.

“And the check for payment of services?” I asked, suddenly realizing that question now took the place of whatever last sentence was in first place for Stupidest thing I’ve ever asked. My sluggish brain now foresaw being stuck with a driveway full of junk while I chased down a handyman who’d never return my calls.

Willie Sr. smiled and winked. “We’ll come back for it tomorrow.” He hitched a thumb again toward his truck. “Can’t fit anymore into it.”

Well, there you have it, I thought to myself, a man who owns a garbage company is a valuable treasure of honesty himself.

Maybe instead of the flock of flamingos, I’ll erect a statue of Willie.

~Shelley

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Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all gossiped about down in the pub. Or check out last month’s post and catch up.

24Apr2021

Galapagods and Goddesses

Posted in beauty, Humor, Nature, Parenting, Science, Spirits, travel, Whisky by Shelley Sackier

“So what are you most excited about, Mom? The giant tortoises? The penguins? The Blue-footed Boobies?”

That last one always makes every one laugh—until you see a picture of the bird, in which case you’re trying to figure out how to slyly shove one of those cutey patooties into your suitcase to return home with.

“The distillery,” I answered truthfully.

I heard the distinct sound of a hand suctioning itself onto a forehead. It would be a familiar thump as well over the next couple of weeks, as we were nearing the end of Chloe’s “Countdown to the Galapagos” calendar—the trip of a lifetime my daughter had gifted me.

Weeks earlier she had surprised me on a Zoom call.

“I’ve checked with your work—all is thumbs up, and all the animals will be looked after. I’m taking you to the Galapagos Islands.”

“What?” I was stunned. “Why?”

“Firstly, you’re welcome. And secondly, as a thank you.”

I chose to ignore the firstly bit and moved on to the latter half of her explanation. “Thank you for what?”

“You know, the whole thanks for raising, clothing, caring, feeding bit, plus all the extra effort helping me get to where I am so that I could accomplish what I have.”

She was referring to her ever so awesome job and lifelong dream of sending shit up into space. “You are welcome. I knew those math flash cards were going to pay off one day.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “You were there with the support and encouragement and shoulder—”

“Don’t forget ice cream.”

“Yes, and ice cream too,” she added.

“Why the Galapagos?”

She smiled with glee through the screen. “Well, I may never be able to take you to Mars to study what we’re hoping to discover there—possibly some origin of life, so I’m taking you to where Charles Darwin first studied it on our little planet.”

Obviously, Chloe knew exactly how the poetic parallel would fill me with admiration, and it neatly explained why she had mailed me a beautiful copy of On the Origin of Species just a few days before phoning.

And so, every day for the next two weeks I received some version of the text ELEVEN MORE DAYS TILL GALAPAGOS, MOTHER!!! And I would send her back a picture of one of the animals I could not wait to lay eyes on.

This, of course, after researching whether any of the islands had some form of working distillery upon them, and after discovering one did, announcing that this was where we had to go first.

“We are leaving work behind, Madre—no computers, no spreadsheets, and no liquor apart from that which any charming South American bartender hands you in a glass, got it?”

“But this is not work, Chloe. This is learning. This is research. And as we are going to be spending hours wandering through the ample exhibition halls, gardens, library, and living labs of the Charles Darwin Research Station, we surely will wish to further our research on other aspects of the islands’ elements as well, right?”

“Discovering how some old geezer is distilling sugarcane will likely disappoint you. It’s not going to be like you’re in Scotland, and as you’re hunting through castles and stone circles you accidentally stumble upon some ancient, perfect, long silent but suddenly brought back to life prized distillery.”

I huffed. “I will not be disappointed, Chloe. Clearly, there is an artist waiting to be appreciated—and likely frustrated that Charles Darwin is constantly overshadowing his work. I aim to aid his need for recognition.”

“You aim to be poisoned, likely by a large dose of methanol, is my guess.”

But my sweet, generous, overly and uncomfortably educated child was wrong. Meeting Adriano Cabrera of El Trapiche was one of the most memorable moments ever. Maybe because having seen some of the world’s most impressive and flush-with-cash companies, with their shiny copper pots, their massive barrel-filled warehouses, and their gleaming tasting rooms, experiencing Adriano’s barebones setup was the refreshing, reaffirming chapter I needed to slip in to my ‘book of life.’ It brought back the this process is magic feeling that can sometimes be buried beneath all the new glamour whisky making tours now provide to consumers.

Not one of the countless distilleries I’ve visited ever employed animals as part of the workforce, and yet Adriano had harnessed not just a braying donkey to run the press that squeezes the liquid out of the cane sugar, but every bit of flora and fauna he had available to utilize.

All throughout the facility—and by facility, I mean a long, open air shack—he was growing plants indigenous to his island of Santa Cruz. Whether it was the sugar cane, the coffee bushes, or cacao beans, the surrounding landscape was filled with flowering plants.

Those flowering plants brought birds, butterflies, and bees to pollinate them, and those thriving plants introduced an abundance of wild, ambient yeasts. Those indigenous yeasts then fermented that sugar cane juice, which attracted a good handful of insects looking to score a solid buzz on their buzziness and ended up dying for the cause. And still flying with the theme that Adriano was capturing flavor everywhere, surely there’s got to be a scientist who would agree with me that those insects added a bit of nuttiness to the mash, or that their natural fats and mineral-rich exoskeletons left some “flavorprint” behind.

It doesn’t matter. I have empirical evidence. My tongue was the judge.

Once that mash trickled downhill via garden hose to the antiquated, blackened oil drum that was his makeshift still, flames licking and embracing its bottom half as it heated and fractionated the fermented juice within, the magic was nearly done.

Adriano’s method of testing his alcohol’s proof was to use a scuffed-up glass hydrometer, but more to my amusement, was his flamboyant technique of simply throwing a cupful of distillate right onto the still’s flames.

If it goes boom, we bottle, could be a motto he might consider putting onto the label.

Of course, the proof is in the pudding as well, which to me—any small, albeit worrisome, overdose of methanol aside—was a nip worth sipping and a risk worth taking.

As I see it, the El Trapiche distillery succeeded in distilling the entire experience of The Galapagos Islands’ essence of origins into liquid form. The smells, the taste, the sights, the sounds. The true flavor of all its endemic species.

Charles Darwin would have been proud.

~Shelley

Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all gossiped about down in the pub. Or check out last month’s post and catch up.

27Mar2021

Will Goldfish be More Clever than our Children?

Posted in authors, Books, Communication, Education, Humor, Parenting, School, Storytelling, Technology, Teens, writing by Shelley Sackier

Because of the nature of my work, I often find myself in the company of children and teenagers. If one intends to write for young adults, or those peeking over the wall into young adulthood to see what the fuss is all about, one finds benefit by listening to them, conversing with them, and generally just taking a softly tipped stick and poking about in territories you might not normally be invited into.

Curiously, that same ‘nature of my work’ is growing more challenging as it does not fit into the current timeframe of many young adults’ attention span—a trajectory of current evolution where now every fleeting second of focus counts and best be saturated with impactfullness.

Where I used to describe the concept of story to young readers as a richly developed plot with engaging dialogue, a diverse set of problems that might tangle complexly at first but unravel beautifully in the end, and a few solid examples of struggle, failure, perseverance, and finally success, now my definition has been forced to change. Currently, I define story as “Once upon a time there was a guy, he had a problem, he figured it out, the end.”

Much more TikTok, much less time-honored tale.

Short-form episodes are now the norm. One can see information streamed about nearly anything and those sessions require a mere 15 seconds of focus. The problem is, is that a recent study determined that the average human attention span has fallen from 12 seconds in 2000 to a whopping eight seconds today.

Goldfish have a better chance of making it to the end of that video as they are believed to have an attention span of at least nine seconds.

Somehow, our youths are being encouraged and pushed to find satisfaction with a story that lasts less time than we expect them to be standing in front of a running sink, washing their hands. I grapple with this especially hard when I realize that oftentimes just one of the myriad sentences I shove into a paragraph far exceeds the newly allotted timeframe many kids will devote to scanning words across a page. And how does one cram a beginning, a middle, and an end into a curt and clipped few moments?

One of the most difficult tasks authors—or anyone with something to sell—must do, is create a pitch. Something that answers Why should I devote my attention (or hard-earned pennies) to you? It often involves boiling your story or your product down to its bare bones—the skeletal structure that shows all strength and no fluff.

The process for authors often happens like this:

take a 325-page book and reduce it to one page (hard)
take that one page and tighten it to one paragraph (ugh)
take that one paragraph and shrink it to one sentence (facepalm)

If you’re writing a film script, the next bit is to slash it to fit the form Blank meets Blank. Godzilla meets The Godfather, Dirty Harry meets Harry Potter, Jaws meets The Little Mermaid—or something like that. Somehow the mash-up is supposed to bring immediate clarity to anyone hearing the phrase as to the plot, struggles, and triumphs within the storyline.

But does it really?

Can one short phrase really tell us the necessary amount needed to exclaim, “I get it”? Can a fifteen second video really reveal the depth of dance, comedy, or education? Is it even possible to jampack a “How to Fold a Fitted Sheet” into 30 seconds or “The History of World War II” into a three-minute YouTube video? Will our next generation of surgeons learn how to remove our gall bladders via Instagram stories?

Personally, it takes me donkey’s years to learn anything. And it’s not because I’m slow. It’s because I’m slow and stubborn. New information that crosses my path is met with skepticism until I can research its source, decipher which end of the political spectrum it may live on, and see Anthony Fauci demonstrate it at a White House Press Conference. It took me literally decades to watch the series MASH because I believed, like the execs telling the show’s writers, that the series run would be limited because the Army isn’t really a pool for humor.

I need convincing. I need repetition. I need my children to walk through the door at holidays and declare amazement at the fact that they’ve actually time traveled into history and perhaps I should let someone in the science department know that it’s possible.

“When are you going to get a new microwave, Mother?”

“As soon as I’ve researched all the newfangled ones on the market. There’s a lot to learn and compare.”

“Have you yet learned that this antiquated piece of junk is a fire hazard?”

“DON’T TOUCH MY RADARANGE!”

But it’s more than just diving deeply into any subject to learn its function, purpose, and capability, it’s also about staying with something long enough to feel the comfort of its complexities. Typically, you cannot learn to play the piano by just watching someone else on video, and it’s downright impossible to sum up our planet’s horrific battles by declaring into a camera lens, “Humans fight. War bad”. There is nothing wrong with embracing the depth and breadth of any subject, but I feel it’s wrong to lead kids into believing any topic can be shortened into a framework of explanation that would have the writers of Cliff Notes blush at its brevity.

Our world is huge in scope and requires effortful thought to make sense of even its least complicated aspects. It’s a daunting task, and we’ll never finish it, but we certainly shouldn’t allow our children to shy away from it. History takes time to be explained. Skills take time to be acquired. Stories take time to be told.

Perhaps we can quote American author and keynote speaker Michael Altshuler more often to our children: The Bad news is time flies. The Good news is that you’re the pilot.

~Shelley

Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all gossiped about down in the pub. Or check out last month’s post and catch up.

30Jan2021

Otolaryngologists: They Sound too Good to be True

Posted in Health, Humor, Medicine, Sense of smell by Shelley Sackier

“Pardon me?”

This was phrase I was uttering with more and more frequency. Along with huh?, what?, and For Pete’s sake, speak up!

I knew something was amiss. I used to pride myself with the fact that I could hear a truck coming up my mile-long driveway before my dog could. I used to consider unplugging the refrigerator, two rooms away from my desk, because its electrical hum was hugely bothersome. I used to be able to hear a mouse pass gas at fifty paces.

But it all came to a meteorically headlong halt, upsetting my world and disrupting my work.

And by fast, I mean over the space of about 3 months. But it seriously felt like lightning speed if I don’t pay too much attention to the fact that I refused to pay too much attention to it.

This is what I told the otolaryngologist when I first went to see him—the part about sudden deafness being a near overnight happenstance. The fact that he raised one eyebrow clear up to his hairline makes me think I was less than convincing, but we’d never met before, so it’s likely he was unfamiliar with my “fiction author”-like ways of creating more tension in fairly bland scenarios.

Wording is everything.

But so is hearing, because without it, I must use my third eye—or third ear—to metaphysically conjure up the sound of those sweet words I love.

“It’s not too bad when I’m on my own and the world is quite silent, but the second any sound is a part of the landscape, I’m keenly aware I’m going profoundly deaf.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes at me.

“It’s a massive challenge to read people’s lips on any good day, but it’s near impossible to read my dog’s lips now as he’s way behind on facial grooming.”

Again, the doctor said nothing, but his own pursed lips spoke volumes. He motioned for me to lie back and turn my head so he could investigate one ear. After a muffled bit of rooting around, he grabbed one of the smallest vacuum cleaners I’ve ever seen and deftly earned his fee.

I sat up, wide-eyed and thrilled.

Sound is amazing after you’ve lost most of it. Everything is distinct, crystalized, and heightened. Likely I would welcome the hum of the fridge once I got home. But we still had one other defunct ear to attend to, and I also had questions.

“I’m actually really glad I was forced to come see an ENT, as part of what I do for work is teach people about aromas and flavors, and we spend a fair bit of time discussing my favorite part of the body—the olfactory epithelium.”

“Really?” he said, as he motioned for me to switch sides for the second ear.

“So, as I’m here, I was wondering if you could tell me what you would say are the most important things the average person would find interesting about this organ?”

He leaned down to peer into my ear and said, “That … is a wonderful question. I would definitely make sure they know—”

And then I heard nothing but the sound of the world’s tiniest Hoover.

I panicked a little, as this was my one chance to chat before being rushed out of the building so that the physician could continue seeing the long line of people fearing they’d gone deaf, all pacing the waiting room.

I tried lifting my head just a smidge, and he suddenly paused the Miracle Ear Electrolux. “Did that hurt?” he asked.

“Nope. I just missed what you’d said.

He chuckled. “I said—”

The doll-sized Dyson started back up again.

Surely, he’s doing this on purpose, I thought. Perhaps he feels his service fee should not include a month’s worth of his schooling crammed into a five-minute lecture.

He sat back and gave me a smile. “Did you get all that? There’s some marvelous science to share, for sure.”

I felt my face arrange its features into a bleak visage. “Nearly,” I tried to say convincingly.

He turned to his assistant. “Go grab the packet, please.” The doctor then turned to me as his assistant slipped out the door. “No worries. I’m having Charles bring you one of our anosmia sourcebooks. It’s a fat pamphlet full of everything I tried to tell you, plus some remarkable scratch and sniff pages that help identify whether you’ve lost your sense of smell or taste. You’ll love it. Everything you need and a ton of stuff you’ll want to share.”

I smiled, thrilled. Both because I could mostly hear now and because I was getting a free bucketload of captivating science. Scratch n Sniff! I couldn’t wait.

Charles returned and happily handed me the packet. “We’ve only got one left,” he mentioned to the doctor.

The doctor reclaimed my prize. “Pardon me,” he said apologetically. But now I was positive he was enjoying the tease. “Maybe next time, as this packet is hard to come by.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Ah!” he patted my knee as he moved swiftly toward the door. “A pun! Very good!”

And then I knew I had my sharp-eared sense back because I could hear the sound of my own eyes roll skyward.

~Shelley

Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all gossiped about down in the pub. Or check out last month’s post and catch up.

26Dec2020

One Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Singles Club

Posted in Humor, Relationships, Storytelling, Virginia by Shelley Sackier

There is one area in my life where I prove I’m a walking dichotomy. It’s the space that divides how I write, and then … everything else.

As a writer, one is usually tossed into one of two buckets. You can be defined as a plotter or a pantser. Plotter people are diligent with outlines, with creating the beginning, the middle, and the end of their story before penning any work on the manuscript, and they have a good sense of direction for the scope of the project when they first pull up that blank page and begin inserting the rest of the necessary details.

Pantser people (as in fly-by-the-seat-of) are more like archeologists who stumble upon a small protrusion of bone under foot. They then find their tools and carefully start digging, sweeping away all debris surrounding the bone until they’ve unearthed the complete animal that is their marvelous story. That story is mostly hidden from them until they’ve completed the dig. They typically have little to no idea as to the type of animal (the genre), the number of bones (characters, plot points, etc.), and whether the animal is whole (does this baby have a beginning, middle, and end or is it riddled with mind-boggling gaps?).

I’m a pantser with my writing and a plotter in life.

It is unexplainably weird.

One would think that with the freewheeling way I like a story to unveil itself, I would reflect that same sort of attitude in daily life. Except I cannot stomach the risk. Planning and organizing everything brings me the same level of calm as eating a giant blueberry muffin. When finished doing either, I just feel all is well with the world, and maybe a little bloated.

Which is why I struggled against the universe this month as it tried to make me switch hats without warning.

To set the stage, I am big on recycling. I am also a penny pincher and a teensy bit of a hoarder, but I think in healthy doses, these three can go hand in hand and not have people worrying you should be institutionalized. I’m more thrifty than anything else, saving things until I can no longer gain benefit from them. Like the four old computers and their accompanying monitors sitting in a corner and waiting for me to decide on their futures.

My county has a biannual “hazardous material and home electronics” recycling day at the dump. This would be my first visit participating in the festival, but I chose only one computer to do the test run with—as I wanted to assess the safety factor of handing over defunct equipment that had previously held all my life’s most protected information within it.

I thought it would be easy. As in, drive in, hand over, say thanks, drive off.

It was not. It actually was more like: drive in …

My county dump had opened its golden gates at 8 am. I arrived at 9. It wasn’t until 9:30 that I realized I’d possibly made an error in judgment. It wasn’t until 9:31 that I realized I’d definitely made an error in judgement.

I had a whole plan for this day—a million things to do—and those things had each been assigned a very specific time slot. Today was all about efficiency, and the fact that I was inching forward in a line I couldn’t see the front of meant someone was messing about with my day’s plot.

After half an hour of waiting in a mostly idle position and spotting one car leaving the dump every five minutes, I began to study my surroundings and not just stare at the entertaining piles of refuse divvied up into appropriate heaps. I surmised several things:

My county dump had obviously hired engineers from Disney World to create a snaking path toward the attraction we were destined for.
That snaking path was going to take each car around the entirety of the landfill, circling its footprint so that all of us could see just how wasteful a county we actually were.
The entire county had shown up to throw something away.
I left my smart phone at home.

It was now 9:45 and I had inched five cars farther along the circumference of madness mountain. I was in the middle of doing a complicated mathematical spreadsheet in my head inputting data that included the number of cars I could see in front of me, a guestimate of how many lengths of the chain of cars in front of me it might require to circumvent the entire rock of rubbish, how long it took to empty out the trunk of each car, and a little side bet on when anyone would become angry and frantic enough to get out of their car and climb the trash tower and get a look on the other side.

Two things were certain—one was that you could not turn around and leave. It was one way only. And two was that I could not do a complicated mathematical spreadsheet in my head.

I looked longingly into the backseat and wished I could make that computer come back to life.

I had mail to answer. I had a book to edit. I had a lawn to mow. And somewhere around hour two I realized I had a bladder to empty.

I spent the time watching the girl in front of me and the guy behind me get out of their cars and start chatting. I cleaned out my glove box. I listened to the only radio station without static interview a famous Indian chef about the best traditional Diwali recipes one should cook. I watched the car in front of me run out of gas and the car behind me fill it up again from red plastic containers. I watched two people hug. I wondered how many people had left their kids at home with a “be back in a sec!” statement. I watched the girl in front of me and the guy behind me share an incredibly romantic picnic on the hood of one car. I meditated in 7-minute increments, in between each eight-foot leap forward. I panicked thinking about the nearly three hours sitting in my car, the potential to run out of gas, and the desperate need to pee. I cried during the makeshift wedding involving the girl in front of me and the guy behind me. I shouted out my window that I could cook them Gulab Jamun and Paneer Tikka if they needed catering for the reception.

At 1 pm—four hours after first getting in line to safely dispose of my one old computer, I pulled up to a guy dressed entirely in plastic. I assumed he was safe from Covid, from hazardous waste, and from freezer burn if he were to be improperly refrigerated.

The guy opened my trunk and said, “Just this?”

I rested my head on the steering wheel and muttered, never again.

He closed my trunk and shouted, “I hope you made some friends!”

I slowly followed the car in front of me out of the dump’s gates, watching the new happy couple with the “Just Married” words written from the contents of old fast food ketchup packets across their back window, and listened to the tinkling of a few metal gas and oil canisters they’d tied to the backend bumper.

It was rather surreal to look back at my plotter self and watch two pantsers unfolding life as it came to them. And driving home behind the newlyweds I couldn’t help from smiling. Who would have thought the county dump serviced residents with both drop offs and pickups?

~Shelley

Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all gossiped about down in the pub. Or check out last month’s post and catch up.