Arborg’s Garbage Night – Taking Out the Trash in Your Pajamas

We don’t have residential BFI bins.

Garbage day four? That doesn’t exist in my hometown.

We have weekly east and west garbage pick up, and semi-weekly for businesses on Main Street.

How quaint. I just drag my garbage bags to the end of the driveway, and – like magic – it’s gone by 9 a.m. Tuesday or earlier.

Years ago, Arborg had a CP rail line. According to lore, this divided the town into east and west with downtown Arborg snuggly in the middle. However, enough with the possible inaccurate history lesson.

Back to garbage day.

Or rather, night. I don’t take my garbage curbside when the birds are chirping and the sun is rising. My garbage and recycling braves the wind, rain, snow, and dark spookiness.

On Tuesday mornings, sometimes the garbage would be overlooked, and it’d sit in the basement for another week. And I came up with a great idea.

Summer of 2015, before I thought of Monday Garbage Night. Yes, I drink a lot of bottle water. Don’t judge me.

Monday Garbage night.

At first, it worked like a charm. Just drag the garbage out. Simple, right? Of course not. Life would interfere. And, shoot, it’s garbage night!

Now, there another dilemma. It’s after 10 p.m, and I’m wearing baby pink and grey plaid flannel Victoria Secret pajamas with cumbersome Olaf slippers.

Do I wait until next garbage night? Let the house smell of essence de orange peels and rotting eau de poulet? Or do I shuffle the 30 feet to the edge of the driveway.

I have no choice but to kick off the the Olafs, pop on socks and low-cut boots and tug the garbage out. Or if it’s summer, I’ll jog outside in a dorm set and sandals.

However, there are times when I won’t take out the trash. Last winter? A mountain of ice paved the path to the driveway. I thought, well, I’ll just take it slow. Sure enough, I slipped and became airborne with the garbage bags joining me in flight. I crashed onto my tailbone and left hip, and I nearly saw the undercarriage of my KIA. That night, I tossed the garbage back into the basement, and I limped upstairs to nurse my wounds with an ice pack – pouting like a five-year-old.

Surprisingly, I didn’t bruise.

I still prefer Monday Garbage Night over Tuesday Garbage Day. It’s less of a rush, especially when you’re a night owl.

During the summer, I’ll drag out the trash before my nightly walks. And during the winter, that’s me – without a jacket in -25 degrees with garbage in tow.

Unless it’s really late.

Then it’s someone in red flannel pajamas dotted with snowflakes.