On Tuesday, the husband sent me an email at work “just so I wouldn’t be surprised when I got home.” Hmm. And so I “wouldn’t worry about his taking up IV drug use.” Uhhh….
It’s a good thing he warned me, ’cause I definitely wouldn’t have been prepared for the huge box of syringes in the living room.
He found them in the recycling bin out back. Oh, don’t worry! They’re all “packaged and safe” and “it’s only till we figure out what to do with them.” It’s just that it seems like a waste to throw “perfectly good medical supplies” in a bin. Can you hear the muffled screams at my desk?
I never figured the guy who visibly grimaces each time I bring another box of books from my parent’s house would be the randomly acquisitive type. Granted, I bring home a lot of boxes of books… and costume stuff, and craft projects, and cool dishes, and shoes, and department store mannequins (I have two)… but we’re getting off track. The point is, his collections have a small footprint (a box of comic books, a contained assortment of awesome hats, a shelf of gaming books) his aesthetic is comfortably minimal, and his side of the closet is pared down seasonally.
So why does his collector gene have to kick in in the alley behind our apartment? At the recycling bin?
Ok, ok, I know it’s all tied in with the Good Samaritan gene that also wants to find a needle exchange or some “appropriate way to dispose of medical waste,” but… it’s medical waste! And I’m sorry, but nothing should ever ever be collected from an alley recycling bin. Sheesh.
I just hope the maintenance guy doesn’t finally come to re-caulk the bathtub before we get the box out of here. Can we be evicted for harboring fugitive syringes? Shudder.