Garbage Day
Every Monday morning the garbage truck comes. Never fails. Every Monday. Well, except holidays. But even those aren’t many, at least for the garbage truck.
It feels good to know that the garbage my family and I produce every day can be neatly bagged and hauled away on a regular basis. The banana peel from breakfast, the crumpled paper towels from wiping the dog’s muddy prints from the kitchen floor, the coffee grounds and the past-due-for-a-parent-signature progress report from the seventeen-year-old’s chemistry teacher.
Now if I would just do that with the personal garbage I carry around. The judgments, the doubts, the tapes in my head. Dig through it. Keep what I can use. Pitch what I no longer need. Stomp and burn the crap that’s old and stinks.
Phew. Where are those bags?
OH MY GOD!! I wondered where your really good emails were going - now I know! I am peeing my pants - no, really more than usual. Sandy, you are better than Erma Bombeck!! The only thing I want to know is who you were strolling on Michigan Ave with altho I think I know… Well I am so glad this is why I haven’t heard much from you lately - now I know where to find you!! Love you bunches!!