If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
Since our move to the country, I’ve been asking my spouse to get us a County of Wellington green bin for recycling food waste. You may recall, when the green bin initiative began, I was so in love with our new household receptacle that I named it Gregoire Binister. I fed him daily and I enjoyed knowing I was doing something positive for the environment, while chastising my family for the food waste we created. It was a win-win.
Relocating meant I had to leave Gregoire Binister behind. Parting was such sweet sorrow. Don’t believe me? Ask the Carpenter. He was really tired of hearing about it. He insisted a green bin was an inanimate object, void of emotions and incapable of personal relationships and thus, I should let my attachment issues to the green bin go.
Sometimes, I feel as if the Carpenter is an inanimate object, but let’s not kick that can.
The Carpenter reassured me that country life would still include green bin collection, but more exciting, wide open spaces offered multiple composters far from the house, so all kinds of critters would turn that stuff into garden gold. Maybe we didn’t need a green bin after all, he said.
What he didn’t account for was how often he would receive a request to walk the waste out to the composter, far from the house, in all kinds of weather, because in my mind, a green bin on the porch was one thing, but asking me to lug that waste to a composter in the thick of the mosquito brush or snow drifts was totally another.
The Carpenter considers garbage and recycling his domain. Order under his control. Who am I to argue? He likes going to the transfer station, or as we still say, the dump. Solo. Nobody is allowed to ride shotgun. The dump is also his domain. Whatever (eye roll).
So, when my repeated requests for a green bin were ignored, and the raccoon had made a mess of the rodent-proof composter for the millionth time, I took matters into my own hands.
I called the County of Wellington Solid Waste Services Department, and the nice person there arranged for a green bin pick-up at my local waste transfer station.
Guys, I went to the dump alone. Solo. Like the cool kids do. I got to the booth and flashed my green bin special code. I felt like I had been admitted to a secret society. I was directed to the green bin storage shed, where an attendant loaded my new waste receptacle into my car and wished me a great day. Nice.
Minutes later, I pulled into the driveway to find the Carpenter was waiting. I popped open my hatchback and lifted the green bin out, very satisfied with myself. His face was a mix of emotions. I’d gone to the dump without him. I’d crossed the waste line. And I enjoyed it.
Not to be outdone, he bragged he was there earlier and the attendant said he deserved a gold star for breaking up all his cardboard boxes. Suck up.
Oh yeah, well I have a new green bin, I retorted.
“What did you name this one?” he asked dryly, making an unfair assumption.
I didn’t tell him, but I kicked Stefan lightly and whispered for him to keep his lid shut.