In one corner of our kitchen, we have a receptacle for trash. It’s not the most attractive garbage can. It’s not stainless steel or poly-vinyl coated and colored a cobalt blue. It’s white and it’s plastic. And it holds our kitchen garbage quite nicely. I think it is made by Rubbermaid or Sterilite or one of the other vendors that sells to Wal-Mart. I enjoy using it. I step on the pedal, the lid opens up, and in goes my garbage. The kids have become fairly skilled at operating the push pedal. Every so often, they forget that we have a garbage can but then I remind them. And they remember for a few days.

My husband seems to have a disdain for the can. He doesn’t like to use it. He would prefer to leave items that are better suited for the garbage can on the kitchen counter. I worked today, then picked up my temporarily one-armed daughter from school. We came home and there on the counter were the following items: a badly bent and ripped Christmas themed shopping bag (12 days after Christmas), an envelope that was ripped and empty and a holographic card with a picture of a man sitting on a copier machine with his pants and underwear down around his ankles (when the card moved, the man lifted up a drink to his mouth). Did I mention I arrived at my home with my one-armed NINE year old daughter? My husband had gone back to work, not to return until 7 hours later. Who was he leaving all of this out for?

So I cursed under my breath, took the card away from my child and continued on with my day. As I will continue on with my life. I don’t expect perfection (well, maybe) but I do have one request (okay, I have more but only one for this post):