Yesterday I cleaned out my freezer. There was meat in there from as far back as 2010. I would have cleaned it long before this, but I wanted to do it no more than a day before garbage day, and I only ever thought of it right after garbage day.
The garbage goes out on Tuesday night for Wednesday morning pickup. Yesterday, putting groceries away after a trip to the store, it occurred to me that it was Tuesday. Such is the state of my life that I was actually excited by the realization that I could knock this project out and check it off my list. I threw stuff away until I had one and a half tall-kitchen-can bags of frozen meat and vegetables. I quickly discovered I couldn't lift the one full bag, so I repacked everything into three bags and lugged them to the can outside.
It was too early to take the can to the curb. In this neighborhood we all take our trash cans out after dark, so nobody has to look at the ugly blue hulks, lined up like sentries, in the light of day.
So. Yesterday afternoon I knew it was Tuesday. By nightfall, I had forgotten it was. I never fail to take the garbage out; you might know I'd do it this time.
It was ten o'clock this morning before I remembered the three bags of meat that are thawing rapidly no more than 25 feet from my front door. The temperature is supposed to reach into the 70s and 80s every day this week, warm enough that I'm pretty sure the meat will begin to rot by this afternoon and to smell at least by tomorrow.
I wonder how long it will take for the buzzards to get a whiff of it. I wonder how many buzzards it takes to lift the lid off a garbage can. Is that even in their skill set? I would estimate that there is at least six armadillos' worth of old ground beef, stew meat, chicken and fish inside that can. How many buzzards do you think that would feed? If they all show up at once, will we be able to back our cars out of the carport around them? Will we even dare to open our doors if that many food-frenzied buzzards are hanging around?
On the other hand, what if the buzzards don't come near the house? What if they just circle overhead, menacingly, and wait until next week, after I've held my breath, stifled my gag reflex, and pushed the reeking can all the way to the end of the driveway? Will the garbage truck driver not notice the flock of ghastly black birds and the cartoon-like, wavy lines of foul odor emanating from my trash can? Will he not see this as evidence of foul play? Will he not call his supervisor, who will then contact the authorities, so that traffic will be tied up on our busy, two-lane road for hours while white-suited, crime scene investigators rip apart my garbage bags in search of human body parts?
I'd haul it all away today by myself, but a) I have no idea where to take it, and b) I'm not about to put those by-now-nasty bags in my car.
This is not good, people.