Trash Queen

When moving back in with your parents, one expects there to be a certain amount of luxury involved with the new living situation. One would expect free food, free internet, free laundry and magically clean bathrooms. What one would not foresee however, is a tiny trash can the size of my head that is the sole trash can of the household. This trash can was ridiculous. It needed to be taken out at least 3056720 times a day and every time I bent down to throw something away I would bang my head on the above cabinet, then get blamed for said bumping of the head because I was not “careful enough.” It was tearing our family apart.


Being the talented, special, amazing and responsible adult I am, I decided to venture out on my own and buy my family a trash can. I would say though that 80% of this reasoning was due to the fact that I thought it would win points with my parents and therefore letting me take four hour naps whenever I wanted to without being yelled at. I do not appreciate being yelled at during my precious nap time. So, armed with my money that I earned at my job I ventured out into the cold, uncaring world and walked 10 minutes into town to begin my trash can adventure.



The first stop was at CVS where I found no trash can, but rather a Brita filter that we so desperately needed, for I was tired of opening the fridge to about eight half-filled water bottles that people have obviously been slobbering all over. Point one to Emma for taking the initiative to buy her family their very own Brita filter with her very own money without being asked to do so a million times. I wasn’t even asked once. Your welcome, family. And so, feeling good about myself and my Brita filter I ventured off to find the perfect trash can.






Fast forward three hours and four stores later and I was still trashcan-less. Tensions were running high as I scoured every shelf of every story I could think of that might possibly have a trash can. The desperation began to leak into the very core of my being. I began eyeing the public trash cans scattered around the block, just sitting there, begging to sit in my kitchen. My dream was quickly dashed however when I realized they were chained to the sidewalk. Why on earth would they do this? Who would steal a giant disgusting public trash can and lug it home? Where was the trust? So this plan was out of the question. Besides, I would have felt bad stealing what was most likely a homeless person’s and/or the grouch’s home.



One last stop and I was desperate. The Dollar Store. Where your dreams go to either thrive...or die.


I stalked to the back of the store, past the tired looking cashier, probably exhausted from a night of murdering people and stuffing them in dumpsters, as Dollar Store employees are wont to do. Then, hallelujah! All of my hard work and suffering has paid off! On the top of the highest shelf, in the deepest depths of the store, like a princess from a fairy tale, was an adequate sized trash can. I had never, in my life, been happier to see a container for holding garbage. It was a momentous occasion in what I am now realizing is a very sad life.


I jumped and flailed, shimmying the trash can off its perch while refusing help from anyone who dared to ask. This was my journey, a quest that I must finish alone. As I finally got the container down, I peered inside and noticed that the lid for the can was not the correct one for the item. I then promptly decided, “whatever” and lugged it to the front of the store. Who needs proper working lids anyway?


At the cash register, I triumphantly put my prize on the counter and waited for the cashier to ring me up. However, instead of a nice, quiet transaction, I got this. 

“Are you single?” Asked the middle aged, balding, (probable) serial killer. Tell him no, I thought, tell him you have a boyfriend, tell him you’re gay, tell him you are a robot incapable of love and human relationships. Saying those things out loud are for sane people though so I answered, “Yeah, I’m single.” I then waited for the typical answer, “Can I get your number?” or even a casual, “Oh yeah? What’s up?” But instead, I got….silence. That was the end of his line of questioning. I just stood there, baffled and actually slightly put out, because, oh what? Am I not good enough for you, Dollar Store cashier man? Did you suddenly change your mind in the middle of my honest answer? Are honest, single girls a turn off for you? What did I do wrong? As he rung me up though, I started to cool off, think about things rationally. Maybe, in his culture, women do not go out on their own to buy trash cans. Maybe he was confused about a lonely woman buying a garbage can, and simply wanted to clear things up for his own piece of mind. Perhaps he was so stunned that I was indeed a single woman buying a trash can for what was now no doubt in his mind, bought for some sort of sinful, orgy sex dungeon. Yes, this was clearly the answer.


Happy with my purchase, and after having traumatized a Dollar Store cashier, I hauled the awkwardly large trash can/Brita filter combo home in the hot sun. What kept me going was the thought of my parent’s appreciation and awe for what an amazing daughter they had produced. What an incredible, prodigious daughter we have raised, my mother will say. Much better than our other kids, my father will agree. I will indeed be honored first place in the ongoing race of “the Golden Child” with my two sisters. Where I justly belong. Things were finally looking up for humble ol’ Emma.


My parents were not home when I dropped off the trash can and Brita filter. They mostly likely sensed with their maternal intuition what I tremendous deed I had done for them and went out to buy me a car or cookie dough or something. So I decided it was time for one of my patented four hour naps™. By the time I woke from my well deserved nap, my parents were still not home, so I got tired of waiting and went back to my apartment where I took another nap, because the 45 minute commute was extremely draining. It had been a long day.


I waited days for my parents to call and congratulate me on my “Golden Child” award, but I heard nothing. Not a peep. Maybe they were just too excited using their new trash can and Brita filter to remember to contact me. So I decided to call my mother up to remind her of who had provided such entertainment. After 15 minutes of small talk, and no mention of the trash can, I decided enough was enough and brought it up.


“So, do you guys like the new trash can?” I asked innocently.

“Oh yeah, we got a new trash can.” Answered my mother. A duh. I know that. I bought it.

“And do you know where it came from?” I pushed.

“Uh yeah, your dad said he bought it.”


UM? EXCUSE ME??? NO. No. No, no, no. I quickly started shrieking into the phone that it was I who bought the trash can. All me. Me. No dad. ME. Mom did not seem to care about this new development. Instead, she had the unmitigated gall to complain about the trash can. Something about how the lid didn’t work or fit or whatever, I was too enraged to really get what she was talking about. I hung up infuriated, vowing to never help my family out with anything ever again. I bet Mother Teresa never had to put up with this shit.