I got a call from my apartment complex. It seems that something fishy (pardon the pun) occured last night with my trash. It started off innocently enough, with me coming home from my first full day at the new job - still shivering.
It seemed last night that my nipples were staging a revolution for the indiginity of being hard for six straight hours. When I've lived in extremely cold climates, I wouldn't see my skin for days, sometimes weeks. I would just add or take off layers to suit my body's preference for 'awake' and 'asleep' time. No such luck at the office, especially when you walk outside to 100+ degree heat. I almost passed out in the lobby when I reached the front door on the way out to the parking garage. Today, I'm still wrapped in the accountant's old sweater as I type this, giving my boobies a welcome siesta.
Well, as I came home, I changed, listened to the six voicemails that I had on my cell phone, once I found it from under the pile of Zac's toys in the living room. I went for a walk/run, Zac fell asleep, domestic bliss was had everywhere. Deepseadiver J. came over at 8:30pm and we hung out, marveling at Zac's ability to play late into the night after a brief evening nap. He pooped twice after his bath (Z. not J.) and I decided that it was time to take the mountain of dirty diapers out to the dumpster.
Since J. and I communicated over the internet for two months before actually meeting, he knows that I tend to be a little sensitive about guests in my home who create more work for me. I believe that I also had told him that if I wanted someone to take up residence on my couch and not help me with any of the housework, I would fly the FOB town to Houston. With that in mind, he grabbed his shoes and happily marched out to the scary dumpster in the unlit portion of the parking lot.
This morning I got a call from the apartment manager, that insists on pronouncing my name wrong in the most annoying Southern accent I've ever heard, saying that they were issuing me a written violation for disposing my trash in the laundry room.
My trash was found where? How do you know that it was mine?
"Well, maaaa'am, the maintenance man opened the bags and found four pieces of mail with your name AND apartment number. The mail has FOOD and PIECES OF HAIR on it (at which point I vomitted a little in mouth thinking about that and felt sorry for the maintenance man) so we know that the trash is YOURS!"
Yikes. I have no idea how my trash ended up there.
I couldn't even find the laundry room if I needed to use it. I have a washer and dryer in my apartment and I can almost guarantee that J. didn't put it there. He gets lost just trying to find my apartment. Branching out to other areas of the complex, at night, isn't really his style, especially to dispose of poopy diapers and leftover shrimp gumbo.
I've heard of identity theives, but trash thieves? That's a new low.
Edited: Turns out J. did place the two bags of trash in the trash can next to a Coke machine after walking around in circles for ten minutes. If he had gone further into the room with the Coke machine, he would have seen that there were coin operated washers and dryers. He didn't want to admit to me that he couldn't find the scary dumpster so he disposed of the trash in what he thought was a public garbage can.
Management at my apartment complex made it sound like I had dumped the entire contents of both bags and redecorated the laundry room with Pampers. I actually think the whole story is very, very funny. The metaphor, "The path to Hell is paved with good intentions," seems fitting here.