Requiem of a Diaper

Garbage Count

8 days in. 23 days out.

10 bags 

4 boxes 

1 pile of old trim and paneling 

1 hot water heater.

There are a couple of issues to note.

First, this is a pretty disturbing project. It changes your perspective to know that the plastic shampoo bottle you just tossed in the garbage will now sit in your back yard saturated in macaroni noodles and coffee grounds till spring comes. I say that because last night I just threw out my empty 28 oz Alpine Xtreme mountain stream scented body wash bottle with convenient pump attached. I had to pry my fingers from its sides to drop it in the can after considering cutting the top off and sucking out the dregs with a straw for one more refreshing lather before it polluted my back yard. Luckily I had a bar of Ivory in standby to replace it, a simple and sturdy breed of soap with which came a small and easily folded box to throw away though even that made me shake my head. What a troglodyte Wendell has made of me.

But shampoo bottles are small potatoes. The real terrorist of garbage bags everywhere and threat to the life and liberty of the free world is the poopy diaper. There’s nothing else that sets my skin to crawling than dropping one of those nuclear bombs into the bag. Because I’ve enjoyed my status as simple consumer yodel till this stupid project came along I had no idea what a disposable diaper was even made of nor should any other self respecting citizen of this country. Now, after a quick google search (Queue hallelujah chorus), I have been exposed to the myriad of highly functional and state of the art features the modern diaper embodies and my kid craps in. It’s really pretty amazing and extremely disgusting. To see the whole process, if you’re the curious minded sort, click here and be amazed.

In short it’s a hydrophilic, synthetic polymer with a cute little dog inked on the front. Sweet. I’ll just call them Bag o Poo, the industrial absorbent family fun time filled to bursting with gelatinous diarrhea, rolled up into a ball and set in your backyard… for a month. There’s a process of grief here. I’ve found myself denying the poop, angered by the poop, bargaining with the poop, depressed by the poop and finally accepting the inevitable and throwing the poop out.

Through this whole development I’ve been tempted to fudge (no pun intended) and I’m already imagining alternatives to the garbage problem which I've sorely wanted to implement but we’re setting a baseline of refuse here damn it. Be strong man!

Note two. I may be wrong, paranoid or just overly suspicious but the world, as in Mother Earth, Gaia, the Global Hood, is out to get me. Normally I would be over the top excited about the first day of March bringing sixty degree days for a week and counting. Except I have bags of now rotting garbage that were supposed to stay nicely refrigerated. This is still winter or so says the calendar. I believe I could feel the temperature rise discernibly the moment I placed the first bag on the ground.

Note three. There’s a perception out there that piles of garbage in your yard is redneck.

Note four. Sara hosted a bridal shower Saturday. I believe I know why they call it throwing a party now. Three new garbage bags of paper, boxes, ribbons, and bows and the ravaged remains of two cakes, three quiche, and twenty fruit skewers. Baseline, baseline, baseline. Being a loyal husband I moved all the prior trash into my shop during the party in case some innocent women were to glimpse our landfill. All except the hot water heater. That thing is heavy and though it doesn’t really count as March trash because it was already there in February and will still be there when April rolls around I’m sure, I include for aesthetic reasons.  How cool am I. I may just incorporate it into the landscaping. I can see it now – rainwater tank and diaper garden. A true piece of Avant Wendellian art. The wheels are turning my friends. You will see some changes around the Trees house. I swear by the stink of my backyard.