Dumpster Diving

 I'm a big believer in the idea that people should suffer a little bit along the way to success so they know what it's like to have to live in a crappy apartment, to not be able to afford dinner out every night or to drive a beater car for a while.

It builds character and can inspire a person to appreciate what it takes to provide a nice living space, a cool car and an ability to enjoy life a bit.

That said, when we thought Alison's summer sublease might have come with a side of bed bugs, I was ready to put her up in a hotel until we could get her better accommodation for her 10-week-internship. She protested, said she thought the problem was take care of and stopped me six or times from dragging her mattress out to the dumpster.

We instead spend the equivalent of a college student's semester budget for booze on a zippered pouch and bed-bug killing pillow cases, environmentally hazardous bug spray and electronic gadgets that claim to deter all kinds of creepy-crawlies.

It's not a horrible apartment, but her roommates are not going to win any prizes for cleanliness. Most don't do their dishes, which is causing the redhead some issues because she likes to cook and doesn't like cleaning up after herself, let alone others. (She does it; it's just not the best part of her time in the kitchen.)

Anyway, after a long weekend in Maine where it rained every dang day, I drove her back to her crappy apartment. We had the top down and she included some of my favorite country tunes on her playlist that we blasted on the highway. It was a great trip up that went too fast.

We made a stop at the grocery, and I had just dragged her laundry basket to her room when I heard her call out: "Uh, Mom."

I go out to find her pointing to the kitchen counter where half a watermelon sat fermenting. Seriously. I had noted the melon on my way back to her room and had thought it was strange to leave a cut watermelon on the counter instead of the fridge. I assumed one of her roommates was home and had just had a snack.

No. Well, yes. But apparently said snack was several days prior. I didn't even know watermelon would ferment, but this thing was bubbly, and there was a puddle of viscous fluid beneath it. 

"Do you have bleach in this place?" I asked, grabbing the paper towels. "And get your food off this counter."

We gingerly got the leaky melon into one of the grocery bags we'd just brought in but it required a double-bagging. 

"Where's the dumpster?" I asked. "I'll just take it out."

Nope. Even the two bagger didn't contain the fluid. The kitchen trash was right there and nearly full. I dropped the melon into the receptacle, tied the bag and and started to pull it out of the container while Ali doused the counter with Scrubbing Bubbles from the bathroom.

I don't know what was in that trash can, but it was so heavy that I couldn't get the bag out of it. "I'll just take the can and dump it from there," I said.

Nope. The dang trash can was leaking, too. What it was leaking, I cannot say. It couldn't have been the melon -- that was at the top of the thing. I bleached my leg and sandal and held the damn trash can away from me, struggling to get it out of the apartment. Remember I said it was heavy, right?

I drag it down the outside hall and stair and across the parking lot to the dumpster. I hoist it up and tip it in only to have the whole trash can go with it as the plastic bag inside still wasn't budging from the holder.

I climbed up the side of the dumpster. There was only one other bag in there, and while our bag was starting to create a puddle, it was relatively clean. You know, for a dumpster. 

I started to climb in and realized two things: 1. There wasn't a clear way out, and 2. I am a short, old lady with an arthritic hip. 

I reached for my phone to call Ali to help and discovered I was phoneless. Momentarily panicking because I thought I'd somehow tossed it in the dumpster. I go back to the apartment, find my phone and do a happy dance in my head. The apartment is reeking of bleach, but free of leaky produce. I tell the redhead that we have to go back out to the dumpster.

"Uh, why?" she asked. I tell her. She gives me an eye roll. "Let's just leave it all out there," said the girl who wouldn't let me toss a mattress that could have harbored bed bugs.

"Come on," I say. "I'll get it. You just have to help me get in and out."

We get there, and it's clear to at least one of us that I am not the woman for this job. 

"You're going to have to get in there," I said.

"You said you would go in there," she says.

"It's not even full," I said. "Just don't step in the gunk there."

She reminds me that at the grocery there was a toddler throwing a fit because when her mom refused her some ice cream treats. It was a full-on fit including "I hate you, Mom" then "I want Mommy" when the dad hauled her away.

"I understand that kid at Meijer now," she said. "You are the worst mother."

She climbs up and in, pulls the trash bag out of the trash can and lifts it up to me. I can just grasp its edge, and I pull it out. I step on an outside ledge and peer down at her. 

"Come on out," I say.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she says.

"Throw up in the dumpster," I advise.

"I think I hate you," she said.

Dude. It was HER apartment that produced the need to get to the dumpster. I was taking none of the blame. I don't think she actually hoarked, but get back up to the apartment and get knocked back a bit by the bleach fumes. 

She took the trash can out to the balcony and started filling it with bleach-laced water and discovered the holes in the bottom of the thing. We don't think the downstairs neighbors were home. 

I advised her to just let it dry out out there. She said it was probably OK if I left. She hugged me and told me she loved me before I left. I'm pretty sure she meant it.

I still smell like bleach.

This is us in Maine the day before with Nicodemus. Our trip had its own dumpster moments, but I'd risk my life by staying in the worst hotel in Vacationland and spending the weekend watching it rain again if it meant playing Chinese checkers with the Reed/Cowan/Chase family and getting to spend time with Gary. But that's another story.