Trashed Again

She trashed me again today. These things happen. She says I have it coming. Says she’s tired of looking at my face, decides to do something about it. This is how I end up in the trash can.

American trash cans everywhere now overflow with garbage from Washington, DC. They reek with the stench of politicians ejected from comfy confines and sent home to reality. They deserve it, too. Maybe they can find plausible excuses for their repudiations. I search for reasons for my own rejection. The answer’s easy…I’m outliving my usefulness and wearing out my welcome in the house.

I’ll hand it to my wife. She has an eye and a nose for things exceeding their expiration dates. She protects our household from all contagions. Do you know how long it takes to grocery shop with a woman like this? Forever! The store loudspeaker announces “Last Call” before she leaves. Once is enough for me.

Everything is subject to her scrutiny. The butcher and fish monger endure endless interrogations about product age and origin. They see her and hide. And labels? My God, she reads every one. She searches for artificial ingredients and any lethal substances slick food purveyors slip into the food-chain. She knows chemical formulas and the truth behind arcane advertising. She should work for the FDA.

The refrigerator is her prime target. She sniffs everything that looks or feels like it’s past prime. She inspects every item for its life cycle. She’s ruthless, discarding all things suspect. She’s convinced it’s the leading cause of aberrant child behavior and Alzheimer’s. My useful life is expiring. The trash can is all that’s left.

I once made a sandwich with ‘questionable’ cheese. It looked harmless, just a few green spots which I tore off. I laid it atop some multicolored ham which wouldn’t pass her sniff test. The bread’s edges were green. She jerked the sandwich from my hand and flung it into the trash. See what I mean? Ruthless!

I know this and appreciate her concern for family safety. But she’s going too far now. I’m a model father, excellent husband and responsible provider. But her memory is suspect. She says in no uncertain terms I’m no longer necessary. Says I’m an embarrassment because of my age. I beg and plead for leniency. I list my attributes, achievements, the countless compromises and defend my reasons to remain in the house, not the least of which includes emptying the dishwasher. It falls with a thud on deaf ears.

I plead more…our history, our children, the economy, the weather, golf and everything in between. Her answer’s the same…I’m trashing you. What will people say when they visit and find I’m not in my regular place? I ask. Tough, she says. I’ll search my archives and find someone else to fill the spot. Don’t feel badly about it, she says. It’s just life. You can’t help it. Age happens.

My former youthful looks are a poor bargaining chip. It’s yesterday’s currency and buys nothing. Who’s not older? I ask. Is this any reason to trash me? She calls the children for a backup consensus. It doesn’t go well for me. She hangs up, says they agree. It’s the trash can for me. I try harder. Move me to an upstairs bedroom, or the loft, I say. I’ll remain out of sight. No, she says. We’re in agreement. You’re being trashed.

What if I have a facial re-do, botox or something cosmetic? I ask. Answer’s still No. You’ll like your new home, she says. She assures me I’ll have many friends who are also being trashed. Especially a lot of divorced men and dead-beat politicians. I’m not consoled.

How long do I have? I ask. A minute, she says. I’m puzzled by it all. I wait like a condemned man. She walks to the trash can. I sweat. Trash to trash, she says. She takes my picture and savagely rips it to shreds. Tiny bits like colored confetti fall carelessly in a slow spiral from her hand into the trash can. They take up residence with coffee grounds, soured milk, apple cores and other rotting debris. “Goodbye” is her eulogy.

I may someday recover from this harsh trashing. But men, heed this warning…think twice before you frame a CVS passport picture of yourself and put it by her side of the bed.

Bud Hearn
November 4, 2010