Disclaimer a.k.a. Jenga Trash a.k.a. Bowl Roll Lament a.k.a. The Doo-doo Dilemma

   Disclaimer: Fair warning- this is a rant. All names have been removed to protect the not so innocent. If you think any of this applies to you, it probably does. If you are one of my children- at one time most of this DID apply to you so just because you do or do not do these things now means NOTHING- you no longer live with me so the fact that you are now housebroken benefits me in no way. These are the things that drive my husband and myself completely crazy and will no doubt lead to our long confinement in a nuthouse somewhere where we will sit and rock and babble nonsense to ourselves. End of disclaimer.

   I don't know what it is in my house, but please tell me this is happening everywhere and I am not stuck in some kind of Trash Can Bermuda Triangle, because for some reason in my home, the taking out of the trash is equivalent to asking someone to perform brain surgery: they avoid it because it is far too complicated and it must require some kind of special training.

   Inevitably whenever I enter the kitchen I find trash practically spewing from the can. I have actually watched as some people (who for the sake of maintaining a peaceful atmosphere in the home shall remain nameless) add trash to the already full can like they are playing Jenga.  Oh look, the soda can will fit just here and if I fold this paper plate into a teeny weeny, itsy bitsy, tiny little rectangle ala the Jetson's car, I can jam it into that millimeter of open space just so. Ta da!!

   Five minutes later (the approximate time it would take to pull the bag and add a new one) the trash is lurking in the can waiting for the next poor schmuck (if you're not paying attention- that would be me- resident schmuck) to try and pull the bag, whereupon countless objects rain down around said schmuck's feet.

   Of course that's not the only thing, there's always the bowl roll lament. Toilet paper: it is the bane of my existence.

   I ask you, how HARD is it to change a roll of toilet paper? I live with people that can categorize every last component of an engine and tell you how it works and what it does. They can take it apart and put it back together again. They can run wire, repair plumbing, and carpent with the best of them. (Carpent- what carpenters do- I know it's not a word- deal with it.)They have power tools I've never heard of which require some pretty extensive maintenance. They have jigsaws (not the puzzle), chain saws and weed-eaters out the ying yang. (If you've ever added a spool of wire to a weed-eater you know what a pain that is. I'd rather buy a new one.) They watch hours of Cool Tools and How It's Made (which by the way is enough to put you into a coma) and comprehend higher mathematics and actually enjoy them (really??). They watch science shows and understand quantum physics and time space continuum crap that gives me a headache just hearing the words. Yet they can't handle the bowl roll?

   It's a simple two step process people (one that does not require a degree in engineering, I might add).

   Step one- Take off empty roll. Step two- Replace with new roll. Not hard.

   Then go find some tiny corner in the overflowing trash can to stuff it, would you?

   Now I understand the little springy thing can be challenging, (you could put an eye out with that thing if you're not careful), but sincerely, if you can work a cable remote, you can handle the toilet paper roll. Because if there's one thing I want 'On Demand' it's toilet paper. I'm a girl, I use it A LOT. I almost don't even care if you neglect to put the seat down, I can work that out just fine. But I hate, loathe and despise being trapped on the toilet calling for help and waiting for someone to a) hear me and b) take enough pity to toss me a roll. And if I'm home alone, oh boy are you gonna hear about it later. (As well as everyone else since it's in my blog…)

   A more recent thing has been what I like to call Tidbit Tossing. There are people in my home who do not like to take the last of anything. For that reason there will be one spoonful of whatever kind of food (mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, single slice of bread, half a cinnamon roll, tadpoles on toast-whatever- it doesn't matter what it is). Now naturally what's left behind isn’t enough to feed a two year old on a hunger strike, but Lord knows, we can't touch it. Not until it starts to turn an unnatural color. Then the tidbit gets tossed into the trash can-score two for the trash can- it's quickly becoming public enemy number one in my house.

   And don't even get me started on the dishwasher. Unloading it is completely out of the question, because the Men in Black have visited my home with their little memory erasing flashy thing. I know this because the same people who removed the dishes from the cupboards have suddenly had their memory banks erased and cannot possibly recall from whence they came. As far as loading it, that is also out of the question because although they excel at Jenga trash, they are incapable of finding a hole to poke a dirty dish in. They also are baffled by the load requirements- aka glasses on top, plates and pans on the bottom. Even matching them up with what is already inside is too much of a strain.

   As if the humans aren't bad enough, then there are the dogs.  These two nitwits can handle life just fine if I go out the back door and leave them inside- which makes no sense because that's where their leashes are therefore they spend a lot of time back there; you would think they would feel compelled to join me. But no, if I go out back they sit at the door and watch me quite interestedly, cocking their heads this way and that, but there is no massive freak out.  On the other hand, if I go out the front door I better look like getting in my car and driving away, because anything else out front is completely against the rules. There will be no gardening, mowing, sitting, skating, walking, whatever. I know this because whenever I dare an infraction of these rules (rules the dogs set, not me), the dogs go NUTS.

   They will race around the house like the demons of hell are chasing them, darting from window to window, barking like wild animals and tearing up everything in their paths. I come inside the house to find the comforter and pillows off my bed and on the floor, the couch pillows in the middle of the living room, the drapes opened and/or dismantled in every room of the house, and two nitwits sitting politely in the midst of this tornadic destruction, greeting me at the door with their tails thumping and their tongues hanging out of their mouths. Hey ma, watcha been doin'? We missed you.

   I can see that.

   And then there's the doo-doo dilemma. For some reason the dogs think that the back yard is their own personal bathroom (maybe because it is, but I don't care, just go with me on this one). It's like a magic trick; every time I pluck up poo, three more appear. No sooner than I discharge the doo-doo that they do do so well (nice alliteration there right? I am all about alliteration- there see? I did it again- accolades for alliteration- okay moving on), then they feel the need to let fly with some more. I've seen these two eat- I feed them for crying out loud- there is NO way they eat THAT much. And yet they can manufacture manure at a rate that would put any politician to shame.

   Okay, rant over. Time to go empty the trash, load the dishwasher, and change the roll…