I'm kicking this new blog off right now. No backstory, no introduction, no summary.
Appreciate the routine and the little things, mental health experts say. Over and over, if you're online or watch too much cable TV.
Our apartment complex has a rubbish disposal system that's located out in the street but available only to those of us who pay our council fees and have a specific key. This allows the council to record the number of non-recyclable bags of rubbish that each key holder/household/ratepayer disposes of each year. Are you gripped yet?
Now, I'm reasonably proud of my effort as we earned a 36 euro refund last year due our ordure amount falling under their estimate for our apartment size and household members. My ugg boots have worn a regular path along the back alley to the free public recycling bins and, thanks to Coronavirus still dominating 2021 as well as 2020, my lofty aim is to earn an even higher refund this year. Yeah, that and continuing to make my own bread gives me wild-and-crazy gal status these days.
Every now and then someone just selfishly dumps a heaving bag of garbage by the locked rubbish bin. It's easy to assume that they're lazy, or refusing to pay for their share of council services or just plain ignorant. In light of 'appreciating the little things' and trying hard not to scream obscenities up at my neighbouring balconies, my belief is that the dumper has just moved in and is too damn tired to figure out what the tear drop-shaped dongle is on their new key ring. They'll figure out the rubbish process after they've put the slats on their IKEA bed base together and set up the wi-fi.
This morning was one of those mornings. A full bag, resting hopefully by the locked garbage system, beads of rain streaming off it into the gutter. I recalled seeing two different moving vans on Friday and assumed - let's be positive and pay things forward - that one of the new tenants left it there; a temporary breaking of the rubbish rules; soon to be amended when they find their bearings and feel settled in.
We're already thirty six euros ahead, my brain reminded me. Be a nice neighbour and shout them a rubbish disposal. Give their crap a quick trip down the chute. Besides, Felix was tugging on the lead, eager to be out walking despite the rain.
The key was waved over the techno receiver thingy. It flashed green, ready for a new load of rubbish. I picked up the bag which promptly split and a sticky, soggy item affixed itself to the back of my hand. It was a sanitary pad. A bloody - in both senses of the word - used sanitary pad.
Ever the lightning fast opportunist, Felix's nose immediately shoved itself into the frighteningly fragrant mush. No, Felix! NO! I peeled the pad off and furiously flung it away out of his reach, distractedly noting that it landed somewhere in the hedge opposite before having to grip onto the suspiciously greasy metal rubbish chute whilst hit with another weird dizzy spell.
Yep, my routine of maintaining a 10,000 step walking minimum for the past three months has led to a painful swelling on my left foot and strange fits of unsteadiness if I turn my head too quickly. Yes, walking. It makes my heart ache to think that I ran a marathon six years ago and now can't even take a friggin STROLL without incurring a Trumpian bone spur, albeit a genuine one.
As the unpleasant sensations generated by my inner ear canal resulted in a series of imagined somersaults and nervous sweat forming on my upper lip and chest, I had the luxury of time and discomfort to remember a few other things.
The email from my editor saying that payment for three articles written as a contracted freelancer have to be submitted via three separate invoices because their 'budget doesn't cover all three for this month.' This despite being asked to do all three by the end of January. I'd dearly like to tell the editor to go jump maskless into a retirement home aqua-aerobics class, but I need the money. I want to contribute and will, of course, humbly and politely resubmit the invoice; thank her for the opportunity to work for her and internally hate myself for the 'please pay me, please' attitude we freelancers have to adopt to beg those who enjoy a regular salary with all the associated insurances and supports to pay us for work already done.
A refund, due nearly a year ago after overseas flights were cancelled by the airline has been avidly chased down, a 'goal' set to ensure that the big guys are kept honest as we little guys get our own money back. All associated emails, dates and lists of contacts via the complaints system, twitter and phone calls have been saved, as have my communications with the bank, insisting that they check at their end as well. A bureaucratic challenge that's occupied me for NINE months, only for me to search for the refund via an entirely unrelated online account this morning and see that the refund was paid there, almost nine months ago to the day. I feel very very stupid, and very very small.
Perhaps the ponky sanitary pad was the universe's way of paying things forward?
Me being the lazy bugger I am, I would have left that bag right where it was. When I first moved to my current home (housing trust flat, one bedroom, miniscule kitchen) a neighbour older than me was putting out all the bins for our four flat building. I told her I'd do my own as it was too heavy for her, she has since moved to a nursing home, four years ago and now I have neighbours who don't bother putting their bins out at all, even when they are overfull and stinky. I did it a couple of times, but no more. They are all younger than me and can do their own bins. I've gotten a little harsher and less caring in the last few years. Brawling drunk or stoned neighbours will do that to a person.
ReplyDeleteThe people in this building are all pretty nice.....it was just the sheer bad luck of what flew out of the bag!
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