Turkey in a Yellow Sack

“I’m happy that I have brought laughter because I have been shown by many the value of it in so many lives, in so many ways.” Lucille Ball

So here is how it went down.

There was a few more hours of frenzied panic, of measuring ovens, of searching for over-sized baking dishes. Then I could contain no more.  When in doubt, pass the buck.  There was an email sent:

Dear Mr Husband,

It would appear that I have made a slight error.  In place of the golden, delicious roast Turkey we were planning for Christmas lunch, I may have ordered a Pterodactyl.  Not sure that it is going to fit in the oven.  I know you are out running the world from Madagascar, but when you have a minute could you please fix it.

Signed, The Wife

And he did.  There is a lot to be said for having a husband that knows how to keep himself and his children safe from a marauding, hysterical female.

With that little job out of the way, it was time to move on to the next job on the list.  Rubbish. Yep, it has become the bane of my life.  I can remember living in Germany 20 years ago and being tormented by my vegetarian, eco, Greenie, bio, tree-hugging, organic, hand-woven, unwashed neighbour.  She would regularly go through our garbage bin, and selectively lay out any offending, incorrectly recycled items for the rest of the street to view.  I developed such an animosity toward her, that I often dreamt of sneaking down to her apartment and cutting the tassels off her undyed, hand-spun, hand-knitted beanie… for no other reason than it was just plain ugly and made her look like she was walking the earth with a dead squirrel on her head.

IMG_6889

Sorting your garbage is almost a full time job in Germany.  Normally I wouldn’t make such a fuss, but after taking delivery of 160 boxes packed full of plastic and paper, well, quite frankly, I have recycling coming out the waazoo.  In addition, each delivery of white goods has included a substantial amount of polystyrene, which needs to be broken down and put into  a ‘Gelbe Sac’.  By the time I had used up all the yellow bags, the cellar was looking like a birthing centre for that creature that had its arse kicked by Sigourney Weaver in Alien.  But finally it was my turn to put them all out for collection.  I waited until after dark, in fear that the reaction from the neighbours would be more than I could take after the Turkey drama.  Then I stood nervously at the kitchen window waiting for the ‘truck’ to arrive… and at 6:54am this morning, it did.  Arrive that is… then it just kept driving… right on by my house…

PANIC!!! What the hell!  I pulled my coat over my PJ’s and dived through the door, ready to give chase to the incompetents.  As I turned through the front gate and started to sprint down the road in hot pursuit, I tripped over something.  A Yellow Sac… and not one of mine.  The blinking lights of the garbage truck turned the corner and I looked up the street to see that, in fact, ALL the Yellow Sacs were still there.  Hmmm… oops… “Oh Hi Mr-Neighbour- leaving-for-work & your lovely Mrs-Neighbour-who-likes-to-watch-through-the-net-curtains—Yep, just out for a little jog, yep… have a nice day too!”.

Twenty minutes later another truck arrived and dutifully collected all the pods yellow sacs.  The birthing centre is now closed for the holidays, and the people across the street were heard whispering something about ‘Lucille Ball” as I passed them by today.

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