Now I won’t bore you with the details

In an effort to offset the general atmosphere of do-goodery that has been happening on the blog this month, allow me to expand upon what was originally intended to be a throw-away joke from the last post but is now going to be turned into a its own feature because it’s about time you know that my active fight against nature is blooming into an all-out war worthy of a Narnia movie except one in which I would win no matter how many mice and goat-men try to get all up in my business.

If there’s one thing I love more than run-on sentences, hot rich men who want to buy me things, and puppies combined, it’s throwing recyclables and organics in the trash. Now, for those of you who don’t live in a world of inconvenience for the sake of theoretically saving the polar bears or future generations or the South Pacific region and other things that think they’re so important, here in Halifax we have to separate the bejesus out of our garbage before we can throw anything away.

There’s paper, plastics, cardboards, organics, batteries, mechanics, various human remains and about 72 other categories of things that apparently require my special attention on a daily basis. And if I were to put together a list of things that I don’t care to think about? Stuff I am throwing out of my house in hopes of never seeing it again would be right up there at the top alongside girlparts. But like I’ve said before, I really do try to do my part most days.

When I’m under supervision or at risk of judgement, I will gladly go through the motions – cleaning out tubs of hummus, rinsing out bottles of Malbec, putting newspapers in plastic bags and putting those plastic-bagged newspapers in other plastic bags because if there was some sort of traumatic global phenomenon going around ravaging people’s paper recycling THAT EXTRA PLASTIC BAG WILL TOTALLY SAVE THE DAY. But once a month or so (coinciding with when the newf goes out to get his hair cut), all I want to do is drink half a bottle of wine, pull the garbage can up next to the fridge, and throw away all the skeazy stuff in all its fully-packaged glory. And for a while, that was going just fine.

Now I won’t bore you with the details, but certain circumstances a week or two ago led me to have half a package of phyllo pastry that wouldn’t be put to use because once you end up making 32 infuriatingly thin layers of it, you’re well convinced that it should never be allowed near you nor any of your loved ones ever again because it is essentially Satan’s toilet paper. So, one thing led to another and the package went into the garbage bag, the garbage bag went into the trash can, and the trash can went out in the backyard where it was sexually assaulted by what I can only assume was a herd of Canadian Lions. Add some rain to the mix overnight, and you have a perfect phyllo cast of my entire backyard. That I then had to explain to the newf. By saying that phyllo pastry is not biodegradable. But totally edible for some reason. And it’s not my fault this happened. It was SCIENCE. And NATURE.

Since then, our garbage has been ripped open by birds and a Discovery Channel Special worth of other animals, each time putting my secret habit at dangerous risk of being discovered by my more socially-conscious spouse which only leads me to believe that the animals are onto me, and are hellbent on taking me down.

It’s time to pick sides, friends. You’re either with me, or scrubbing crusty old sauces out of bottles with openings too small to accommodate any sort of cleaning device beyond your own pinky finger that will then smell like honey mustard for the rest of the day. Do you really want to smell like a hot dog? Thought not. Grab a black bag and get tossing.