My Can Runneth Over

My garbage can is tiny because when I ordered it, I lived alone. Half the time it was only half filled when I put it out on Monday evenings. My recycle can, twice as big, is always full.

Then one of my offspring returned to the roost, with their little dog.  The can got fuller, but I could still get the lid closed most weeks.

Then another one of my offspring came to visit for a week for a friend’s wedding, which is turning into two weeks (her work in Bolivia is on hold as the city she’s living in has a showdown between the workers on strike and the not-having-any-of-it national government). My little house feels very full, three adults and three dogs of varying sizes.  Suddenly the garbage can is insufficient.

I usually take out the kitchen waste can once a week, but then it turned into twice a week, and now it’s more like every other day. All of those fast-food wrappers, bags, plastic plates and lids are clogging up my waste can with bad-for-the-environment trash. I think I’ve found the solution to climate change – get rid of all the fast-food and take-out restaurants.

I’m kidding, of course. It’s a free market, and there is a definite demand for fast food. Just ask my millennial children. It’s partly my fault because I’m not cooking dinner for them. I don’t eat dinner, so I don’t want to cook it, smell it, and then not eat it. It’s a chronic stomach problem, now in its 23rd year. I’ve learned to adapt, for the most part.

People fail to realize that if someone’s diet is limited for health reasons, chances are they don’t want to watch you eat a three-course meal in a restaurant while you sip your still or bubbly water. I’d rather stay home and read a book.

Our culture revolves around eating and drinking (as do most cultures).  If someone has a digestive problem or dietary issue, the appeal of those social events decreases. Yes, I want to see my friends, but on the dance floor, not across the table.  I’ll chat at a party but not while standing over the cheese dip that you’re inhaling.

I miss cheese the most. When my offspring make pizza, the smell wafts across the open floor plan to my easy chair. It’s wonderful to smell it but not great to want to eat it when I can’t.  It’s like going into Starbucks and smelling the dark roast coffee. I’ll never be able to have coffee again, so why would I want to go to Starbucks?

But I digress.

The garbage man won’t be happy this week when he sees almost an entire kitchen garbage bag sticking out of my can.  But I’m happy, happy to have my children home with me, even if they are eating yummy food nearby as I turn my head away from the kitchen and try to concentrate on my book.

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