Tonight was trash night.
I hate trash night.
It requires me to wrestle my two, very over-stuffed recycling bins out of my very, not-at-all-roomy shed, schlep them through my house (because that's more convenient than walking them AROUND the building), and then fighting the warped lids on them and then dragging them to the side of the road. Then, I get to start the schlepping process all over again with the garbage can. It's a good time.
It's always at times like these that I lament the fact that I don't have a husband. "This would be his job," I whine.
But then I hear my mother in my head saying, "Ummm. Need I remind you who does the trash collecting in my house!? ME! That's who."
Then there's Carrie, who called me tonight to vent. "I knew you would listen to me and just let me vent."
"Oh sure, dude, whatever. Vent away."
"Well, Tom's on vacation. So, last night, I reminded him that we have 10 diapers left, and that he'd need to go to the store and get some more today. He was all 'Okay. Sure'. Then I suggested that while he was at the store, he might want to pick up some grocery for dinner tonight, since they really didn't have anything left in the house."
Fast-forward to Carrie getting in the car to drive home, when she found out that ...
a.) Tom didn't get any diapers
b.) No groceries were procured from the aforementioned grocery
c.) No dinner was planned, let alone prepared.
Yeah, and I want one these why?
Perhaps, I'm better off just getting a puppy ...