Diaper Genie…

Spring has sprung and it has been unseasonably hot. For my husband, this means, dirty, rotten, hot diaper season in the garage garbage bin, a couple of weeks early.

We don’t notice the stench of two day old poopy diapers nearly as much in the cold winter. The frost keeps the smell at bay and the maximum six day stay in the garage before the following week’s pick-up is not all that offensive.

This week, the sun has been shining through the garage windows and the humidity has created a vacuum of stink that hits you the minute you open the man door from the house into the garage.

Our original diaper genie no longer takes the bags we bought when Hanna was a newborn so we stopped using it. This didn’t prevent a babysitter from jamming diapers into an empty bucket and taking us at least a week to track down an odour almost as foul as the one in the garage right now.

The diaper genie is a sound piece of equipment that should, upon purchase, mandate the purchaser attend at the very least, a couple of night classes to learn the intricacies of the bucket. In seven years, I have yet to install a new tube of bags and sadly have to wait for Greg to put on his work gloves, boots and safety goggles, when that horrific moment leaves me standing with a sausage factory of poop-links and not an inch of plastic to tie the sleeve together.

The only thing worse than sudsy, steamy, diarrhea -filled huggies is the time I “accidentally” poured a stock pot filled with mussels onto the garage floor.

It was after the best New Year’s Eve party we had ever hosted. The time was just before 5am and before going to sleep (that’s right, no kids) I decided to empty the huge stock pot filled with Erin’s delicious mussels into the outside bin, so as not to stink up the house.

Greg is militant about his garbage pails. He always leaves one, large green bin, lid off, to the left of the man door so I can easily, often with babe in arms, chuck something out without coming face to face with it.

For some reason, on this, our party night, he decided to put the lid on the bin unbeknownst to me.

I danced my stock pot over to the door, giggling about what a fun dinner party/breakdance-fest we had hosted. I opened the door with one hand, reached out, dumped to the left and headed straight to bed.

I think the first thing I heard when I woke up was Greg yelling, “Who the hell threw mussels all over the garage last night?” and I began to panic.

When I finally put on my robe and bunny slippers, I found him scraping frozen muscles (with a delicious tomato/white wine sauce) off of the cement floor with his putty knife and cursing me.

Where was that genie when we needed him?

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