Well, that fifteen-second phone call on Sunday only served to make me feel sad for a day and guilty every time I open the fridge or sit in front of the TV or do any other normal thing that Sprout is now not allowed to do. He said he had written us letters so I rush home from work each day, ready to pounce on the mailbox or mailman, whichever holds his letter telling me not to worry, but alas, none yet. Perhaps tomorrow.
It's funny, as mid-life approaches, the things that make us happy. Trying to get my mind off of Sprout and his current arrangements, I have become obsessed with the garbage. Yes, the garbage. Today was the first day of garbage pickup with our new automated garbage trucks. The city issued all households a brand new, nifty ninety-six gallon trash can with the city seal emblazoned on one side and a twelve-digit serial number on the other side. I love my new trash can. Heck, it's large enough to hold 2 dead bodies. I named it Brownie. It's brown. But, with the new truck, comes new pickup times and I had to leave for work and missed the debut pickup by two hours. But I heard from neighbors that it was an incredible show. With only one operator instead of the usual three, and two (count them, TWO!) steering wheels, this machine is on par with the International Space Station. A huge arm swings down and picks up Brownie like a soldier returning from war picks up his five-year-old daughter (who was only four when he left) and lifts her high into the air as if to send her soaring to heaven, but never letting go. I'm sure Brownie smiled her trashy smile when it was her turn to be lifted. Unfortunately, garbage pickup with this new stud-wagon is only once a week, instead of twice, so Brownie will have to wait a week for her next thrilling pickup. She sits and waits near the back gate with bated breath resting on two back wheels, lid slightly open, awaiting gifts for her beloved.