Waste Management

Allow me to rant for a moment.

I have made it known that there is hardly anything that my Rockstar does that is worth bitching about. Though he occassionally tunes me out to watch NASCAR or football, this ape-like behavior is to be expected of the lesser sex, and so I do not begrudge him for it. There is but one thing that causes me to become absolutely irate with him- the trash can.

It is safe to say that the majority of the world’s populace owns a trash can. Where else could people place the debris that accumulates from everyday life? While I prefer the household garbage holder to be hidden out of plain view, I would not be opposed to an appropriate-sized trash can to be prevelant in our kitchen. Appropriate-sized, you ask? I say appropriate-sized because my Rockstar deems it necessary to have an 18-gallon plastic trash bin in the middle of our scullery. No, I do not condone the use of an industrial-sized  outdoor garbage can indoors unless an entire platoon is present.

When I moved in, my first attempt at ridding our household of said garbage can was immediately shot down. My Rockstar replied to my pleas of domesticity with, “I’m not going to drag a tiny bag of trash down to the dumpster every day.” I assured him that if we were to purchase a normal-sized can, I myself would be glad to carry out the garbage. More recently, I announced that it would be much easier on his back if we had a smaller trash can, for then he would not be forced to heave a 40 lb. bag of rubbish into the dumpster provided to us outside. He proclaimed that the 20 gallon can was staying.

While cleaning the kitchen today, I lifted the lid of the garbage can to throw away an item, and was met with a blast of viscious, naseau-inducing odors. One of the downfall of having a continent-sized garbage can is that in-frequent changing of the bag results in putrid smells of the previous week’s leftovers, kleenexs, paper, and other assorted waste ripening. Irritated, I struggled to lift the gargantuan bag from the can, which I’m sure resembled a school-yard nerd wrestling with a sumo wrestler. As I dragged the over-weighted bag down to the dumpster, I looked around for a benevolent passer-by, hoping they would be so kind to hold the dumpster lid open for me while I attempted to lift the bag in. No such luck. Instead, I spent 20 minutes trying to grow 4 inches so that I would be tall enough to lift the dumpster lid high enough to wedge the trash bag underneath it, meanwhile, trying to muster the gumption to lift 7 days worth of garbage over my head.

I’m going to buy a new garbage can tomorrow, and my Rockstar can just suck it.

I Hope You Don’t Dance

After my drunken post about giving a lap dance last night, (Yeah, sorry about that) I have decided that I must come clean.

I am Sparklebumps, and I cannot dance.

Though the desire to dance runs strongly through my veins, I cannot, under any circumstances, compel my feet to move in time with music. On the contrary, any time I have been coerced onto a dance floor, my feet become oddly rooted to the spot where I am standing, and no amount of goading or pushing from onlookers can coerce my body to frolic or covort. This becomes achingly more apparent every time I go to a wedding, where I am dragged out and encouraged to dance. My stoic non-movement has actually caused other dancers to pause in bewilderment, which only adds to my mortification. But I refuse to be one of those people who attempt to dance when they have no business doing so. Resembling an epileptic is not for me.

I believe my lack of talent on the dance floor stems from the fact that I was brought up Baptist, and dancing is considered the elusive 8th deadly sin. Despite the mention of dancing in the Bible (ahem, Baptists), the church and school I went to strictly forbade it. Just thinking of ALL those familys with 7 kids who will grow up to be as dance-deficient as I saddens me…

When observing people dancing, I am utterly fascinated, paying special attention to their feet and the way they move them. I am a firm believer that you can learn something just by watching someone do it. Unfortuneately, I would need to spend every spare moment of the rest of my life watching people dance to acquire this talent.

That is not to say that I lack natural rythm; no, in fact, I have, on occassion, been asked if I used to be a stripper. I do not find this offensive as some would, simply because if I can move my body in a way that looks good naked, it matters not if I don’t look good kicking my feet up to that annoying song Celebration. However, it is safe to say that I shall not be showing off my stripper-esque moves at the next family wedding.

I am quite certain that when Lee Ann Womack sang I Hope You Dance, she wanted to add the lyrics, “Except you, Sparklebumps.”

P.S. Oddly enough, I get a very very high score when dancing to Honkytonk Bedonkedonk on that Wii game…