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After last night’s high-stakes wildlife drama — also known as “successfully trapping the wrong cat” — I completely forgot today was trash pickup day.
By the time I remembered, I was already burrito-wrapped in my blankie, and my brain made the executive decision: “Future Me can handle this.” So I planned to take the trash out when I got up.
Then, at exactly 5:56 a.m., my eyes snapped open like I’d been activated by a government satellite. TRASH DAY.
I launched out of bed, wrestled myself into jeans with the grace of a panicked raccoon, and crept toward the back door, trying to move silently so as not to disturb the sleeping lioness from her royal beauty sleep.
Because nothing says “good morning” like sprinting outside half-awake, dressed like a hostage negotiator, dragging trash cans to the curb before the garbage truck decides your household is on vacation or that we have become hoarders!
