What the?

My landlords pretty much remind me of George Costanza's parents on Seinfeld.  Although I suppose that might sound a little harsh.  An 87 year old woman and her 58 year old son, they can sometimes be...pleasant.  When they aren't violently screaming at each other at the top of their lungs, that is.

And then there was the time they put up that sign in the hallway that read "On the stairs: No running, luggage, or wheels.  Unless with care.  Owner."  This demand appeared to be written in crayon.  Seriously, I endured less nagging when I was a moody teenager living with my parents!  Our landlords had already instructed us not to slam the toilet seat (how to pee), not to be too loud when tenderizing chicken with a meat mallet (how to prepare poultry), and now they were telling us how to walk? 

Enough was enough, these control freaks had finally gone too far!  Fuming, I ripped down the note and threw it away.  I think about three minutes elapsed before my Catholic guilt prompted me to pull the sign out of the garbage and tape it up again.  The sign is still there today, a stained and slightly wrinkled reminder of my short-lived rebellion.

My landlord's son often reminds me of Smeagol (or Gollum, depending on his mood) from The Lord of The Rings.  It's not unusual to hear him screaming at his elderly mother one minute and the next to see him all smiles, simpering in his mildest tone: "Hi Sarah." 

Hiya, Smeagol! 

These landlords take their garbage extremely seriously.  Whenever a bag is added to one of the cans, within 5 minutes, like clockwork, they are outside checking to see what was added, perhaps rummaging through the bag should the fancy strike them.  If I listen closely, sometimes I can almost hear him whispering, "Precious..."

Twice a week, usually no earlier than 10 PM, something begins that I like to call "The dance of the Garbage Cans."  Basically my 87 year old landlord slowly drags each can from the alley to the curb.  This is never a speedy process, to say the least.  The noise is enough to make a grown woman weep: scrape, scrape, scrape...

Now, I understand that garbage is a solemn thing and not to be trifled with.  My husband and I brake for recycling, we most certainly do!  We always have a ton of recycling to put out every week.  I mean, empty water jugs, Mad Dog bottles and 40 ounces of Colt 45 can really add up.  Tee hee.

But could somebody kindly explain to my landlords that not all items are authorized for recycling in NYC, even if they are made of plastic or glass?  I realize they could possibly receive a ticket for any mixed garbage, but come on, not all glass is recyclable!

Could somebody please tell Smeagol not to rummage through my garbage, pulling out objects that aren't sporting the please recycle logo in the first place?  Because surely if they were recyclable, here's a thought, I would be recycling them! 

It's a tricky concept to grasp, I realize.  Some items are meant for recycling.  Some are garbage. 

It's gotten to the point that I sometimes create two recycling bags: one "real" recycling bag, and one "fake" recycling bag containing glass and plastic that aren't actually recyclable.  I'm not sure if my decoy helps at all, but it's a try.

This whole garbage topic springs to mind because this morning, too tired for my decoy tactic, I found myself frantically hiding things within my garbage.  I took a takeout container that wasn't recyclable, triple bagged it, stuck it inside a paper bag (I could've recycled that, I know) and then bagged it again before dropping it into my little garbage can.  So, this was what my late twenties were actually boiling down to:  I was a womanchild smuggling trash within my trash.  How...trashy.

But trust me, these extreme measures are imperative.  Gone are the days when I was footloose and fancy free, chucking away my garbage safe in the blissful knowledge that nobody would be rifling through it! 

A few months ago I was enjoying a restful Saturday afternoon when Smeagol's Mother called to inform me her son had gotten injured.  There were pins in my trash.  Or pie tins.  There were either pins or pie tins in my trash.  Apparently while Smeagol was combing through my garbage he had stuck himself on a pin or a pie tin that I had recklessly placed within one of my trash bags.

In the words of my 5 year old cousin, "What the?" 

We don't even own any pins, let alone drop them into our trash bags!  We later learned that it was one of those takeout tins that had been crumpled up and thrown away.  (Pins, takeout containers, eh, what's the difference, really?) 

Here's a thought: if sifting through your tenant's garbage results in bodily harm, why not, hmmm, STOP GOING THROUGH THEIR GARBAGE?  Nah, too sensible.

It dawned on me that if they were going to hunt through my trash I should probably have a little fun with it.  After all, it's the simple things in life, right?  Where I would ordinarily clean out Kittie's litter box and double bag the poop before dropping it into my trash bag, I was now dumping it straight into my trash with vengeful, hysterical abandon, yelling, "Take THAT, Smeagol!"  If my landlord wanted to live dangerously, Kittie would assist him in this.  And you don't even want to smell that cat's shit, let alone get it on your hands. 

Once a month I try to do the same thing with tampons.

I realize this probably all sounds very disturbing.  But that's because it is.  I mean, Is this really what my life is turning into?  Cat poop as a retaliation tactic against my meddlesome landlords?  I'm sure there's a shrink out there somewhere who can help me work through this...

Comments

[Jenna]

Why doesn't he wear gloves when he goes through the trash? That's dirty.

[Marianne]

you make me laugh...

[Amy]

I'm speechless....