There I am, making my latte in a morning haze when it hits me like a forgotten middle school lunch: the trash needs to go out! I have an anxious flashback of my husband (the family trash man) warning me that it hadn’t been out for a few weeks and the bags were piling up. It HAD to go out this week or the squirrels would think we’d opened an all-you-can-eat buffet. I lean over the counter, trying not to spill the milk I’m steaming as I strain to see if the cans have been put out. They haven’t.

At this point I’m nearly frantic. Hubs was in such a hurry to get to his morning workout that he must’ve forgotten! I silently beg my milk to steam faster and then rush to put on a coat, worrying that the trash truck has already come and gone. Without thinking I heave one of the heavy, dirty cans onto my hip (no time for girliness here) and slip-slide my way down the icy concrete walk to hurl it by the driveway. It thuds down and I head back for can number two, giving a quick glance at the neighbor’s drive to see if their cans have already been emptied. But there aren’t any cans in front of the neighbor’s house…did Betsy not have any trash this week?! Wait—there aren’t any cans in front of anyone’s house on the street. I look around in confusion and then it hits me: it’s Tuesday. Wednesday is trash day. Tuesday is Scott’s gym day. THAT’s why he didn’t put the trash out.

Just how quickly one can go from being the wife that saved the day to the wife that doesn’t remember what day it is at all. xo

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