Yang

I came home from work this afternoon with dishes up the yang.  How much is a yang, you might ask?  If you can’t count the number of something using both hands, this is a yang.  As you can probably guess, there were more than 10 dishes in the sink.  How is it, nobody notices this “yang” but me?  Could it be the people in my house think we are playing a game of dish Jenga to see how many plates can be stacked before they all crash to the floor?  I guarantee I would lose this game of dish Jenga and would have to watch all the dishes crash to the floor.  Of course I would be talking to these dishes as they are in pieces on the floor, just like I do the Tupperware, and asking the dishes, “really?”  I don’t know why I talk to the dishes; I mean talking to the dishes is like talking to my 19-year old.

Not only did I come home to a yang of dishes, but it is also garbage night.  You guessed it, a yang of garbage.  My son has lived in this house the same amount of years as me and STILL has to have an essay written to him regarding taking out the garbage.  If no essay has been written, no garbage is taken out.  Noticing my son was not home and not wanting to have to deal with hauling the trash out in the morning, I pulled the yang of garbage cans out to the street.  Huffing and puffing along the way, because the men in my house seem to think it is ok to put 60 lbs of garbage in each container, I trudge to the curb.  Sure, why not overstuff the cans?  They aren’t the ones dragging it to the street.  The part I really love is when you go over the bump in the driveway and the 60 lbs of garbage topples out of the can.  Now starts the garbage ballet dance.  I am sure you have done this: bend, swoop, pick, and toss.  If you really want to get fancy, add a plie in there for good measure.

One of these days when I come home from work, I am actually going to do something that I want to do.  Oh who am I kidding, I will be looking at the yang of dishes tomorrow and doing the garbage dance again next week.