You probably haven’t missed me, but I’ve missed you. Yep, it’s your old pal, the Bag.
I’ve had almost two years of quiet contemplation in the garage. I know, it sounds like a lot. But in the world of nylon gym bags, that’s nothing. A blip in a long, long 600-denier polyester life. Guaranteed.
In case you’re wondering what I’ve been up to: writing my memoirs. I’ve got an agent and everything, who promises me things will really happen if I can just come up with a decent title. So I’m trying these on for size:
- Holding It All In
- The Things I Carried
- The Longer The Arm, The Shorter The Handle
- In It For The Long Haul: From Little League To Rock’s Big Leagues (I know, that one needs work)
That’s a few anyways. As you can see, I’ve really been working hard.
I kept starting to write an update, but figured everyone was so busy with all that’s going on in the world, they didn’t need to hear a grumpy old bag venting, or an annoyingly upbeat bag talking about how good life is, so I’ve kept quiet. But this thing happened the other day, and I need to tell somebody.
Okay, so I heard a lot of excitement from the house. There were houseguests coming and going, regular summer stuff. But this sense of anticipation, I could feel it. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought maybe those two lovebirds were going to have a new addition to the family, but I do believe that ship has sailed (for her anyway) and I don’t have them down as pet lovers, what with all the traveling.
Every day, she’d be out there looking for the UPS man. And she kept talking about how their lives were about to change for the better. I was all ears, sitting here in the dark with the recycling and old wood.
Finally I saw a box the size of a small child delivered, and heard some whooping and hollering. “It’s here!” she cried. She even did a dance around the breezeway, which was frankly embarrassing. I mean, have some dignity lady. But this was clearly a big deal to her, so I let it go.
Then – nothing. It was quiet in the house. No wild banjo picking, so there went that theory. No didjeridoo lowing in the night (“all I can say is – didjeriDON’T” I’ve heard him joke in a fake English accent, so figured that was a long shot).
I’d kind of given up hope of finding anything out when the garage door opened and somebody flung a cardboard box into the pile of recycling. I waited until it was all quiet and then crept over to take a look at the box that had held this new whatever that was rocking their world.
It’s a garbage can.
A kitchen bin. Stainless steel, with a foot pedal.
This is depressing.
I know they’re in there, taking turns popping trash into the bin.
“Remember when you used to be all about the music?” I want to shout.
But I was looking back over her old diary entries, and it seems we’ve been here before. “Ma Poubelle Nouvelle” she wrote, in 2011. My New Trashcan. It’s a touching read, about how things just weren’t right for the two of them in France, and the garbage can in the kitchen proved it.
In two weeks they’ll have been here five years. And they chose me not long after to help them along on the journey. They’ve been building a new life for themselves and this trashcan upgrade is some weird totem. I guess I should be a little more accepting.
Maybe even work all this bin business into my memoir?
It’s going to be a winner. They might even make it into a movie.