Strap in kiddos, we’re talking about anthropomorphized
kitchen appliances today!
So, my hubby and I recently bought a house. We were warned before moving in of the
accoutrements we would need: Lawn
mowers, washer/dryers, the works.
But there was one piece of the puzzle we were missing to
make this house a home. A garbage
can. Call me crazy (and you will, by the
end of this post), but I wasn’t about to lovingly bathe our old garbage can in
the tub like some mangy golden retriever caked in last Thursday’s
pork-and-kraut leftovers to pack in a truck next to our furniture.
My goal: A cheap,
water-tight bin that held a trash bag full of grossness.
My husband’s goal: CHROME
BABY! AS SHINY AS THE GREASE LEFT BEHIND BY THE AFOREMENTIONED PORK AND
SAURKRAUT, BORDERED WITH BATMOBILE-BLACK TRIM, AND AS CLOSE TO A HUNDRED
DOLLARS AS WE CAN WASTE WITHOUT STUFFING TWENTIES DOWN THE THROATS OF THE
TOWNSHIP WORKERS DRIVING THE GARBAGE TRUCK!
(My husband would like to point out the garbage can we
purchased was, in fact, less than $50.)
Such is life.
However, I did agree with him on certain points. A metal garbage can—all sleek, polished, and Jetsens-y—would really class up our kitchen, because, let’s be honest, the 1980s
cabinetry and Tuscan wallpaper aren’t really doing much for the contemporary
ambiance. And so we hit up Amazon.
Funny thing about modern-living—most normal household
objects are now automated. My vacuum putts
around the living room by itself--possessed by love child of Mr. Clean and that
Pinesol Lady, my shower has a critter that automatically sprays cleaner when
I’ve fled from the tub (and sometimes before), and my iPhone can call in
airstrikes on third world nations while reminding me to pick up milk when I get
to the store. (Thanks, Siri!)
A garbage can doesn’t need to be automated. Except they are.
All of them.
The cheapest garbage can we could find needed FOUR D
Batteries to function, you know, because of the infrared technology and radiant
AI that automatically opens the lid when it senses your presence nearby. Totally unnecessary...and yet...
So, having the garbage can that opens for you is cool. Handful of potato scraps? Grab two fistfuls of slimy refuge and hover
over the garbage can. Then, with a
chorus of angels crescendo’ing in the background, the lid will open, and you
can toss away your peels without care.
And then, something strange will happen.
If you’re like me—polite to a fault and perpetually
terrified you might do something to anger the ever-present shade of your mother
imbedded in your psyche—you’ll find yourself grateful for this piece of
inanimate, obscenely overcomplicated piece of technology.
And then you’ll thank it.
You heard me.
You. Will. Thank.
The. Garbage. Can.
For. Opening.
I mean, on a basic level, everyone likes to feel gratitude
for a job well done. The difference is,
thanking a coffee-house worker for handing you a cup of joe or a bank teller
for counting out your paycheck is logical.
Thanking a garbage can for opening when you have your hands full of
shredded vegetable matter is something the author does when she has one too
many plots drilling through her skull.
But it seems natural.
And fun. Toss away that
carton?
“Oh, thank you, garbage can!”
It’s super attentive and thoughtful.
Until it starts to aggravate you. And I’m not talking
the-batteries-are-dying-and-this-is-a-pain-in-the-butt. I’m talking the lid closes before all your
potato peels are inside the can. Then,
the gratitude shifts.
“Damn it, I wasn’t done!
Open. Open up! Garbage can, OPEN UP!”
And before you know it you’re shrieking like a banshee,
stomping on the linoleum because the garbage can copped an attitude and you
have places to be in your living-room and can’t be bothered to wait the five
seconds it takes for the sensor to register your righteous indignation.
But the garbage can tries to make up for it. Occasionally, you’ll walk by and that
little-lid-that-could will rocket up, just waiting for a moment to shine. The garbage can is overzealous in its
attempts to serve you, and, like a puppy rolling around for treats, you have to
let the damn contraption down gently because you have nothing to offer the
insatiable garbage maw.
“I'm Sorry!”
“Garbage can, stop.”
“I don’t have anything!”
And soon you’re avoiding the garbage can like it’s the
creepy bearded homeless man proclaiming the return of Jesus while dressed only in
the sport’s page of last week’s newspaper.
Ah, homeownership.
Last I checked most people warned about leaking roofs and
shoddy electrical work. I’m worried
about the coming technological singularity.
I might have something still packed away that’s vaguely similar to a
leather duster for my Matrix-esque defense against the rise of the tech, but I
think I might be on my own.