Recycle, Reuse, Reduce, Reveal

I tried to catch the green truck today to see if I could recycle my completely broken, duck-taped bin and get a new one. I often see extras on the back of the truck and thought I'd really like to know if they recycle the bins themselves because wouldn't that be so stupid if they didn't? Talk about irony. Anyway.

So I ran out and he had already dumped my bin and tossed it onto the driveway (hmm, cracked and tattered blue bin....hmmm), so I waited for him to round the cul-de-sac and head back my way. Arm out in a half-wave half-taxi-hailing motion I stood on the street. He started to slow and then immediately floored it and whizzed by me wafting his truck stink into my hair. And did not wave back, might I add. This is unusual, because I'm that girl who waves at the garbage man and the mail man and they ALWAYS wave back. WTF? Is the recycling man too cool to wave at me?

How rude, right? Or maybe he was just embarrassed. Because as I walked back to the garage carrying the busted recycling receptacle and cursing the unsociable dolt of a recycling truck driver, I noticed my shirt buttons were er... malfunctioning.

All of them.

Both sides of my top were flapping gaily in the wind. Lucky for me I had remembered to pull my bra down over my boobs after feeding Sam shortly before running out to horrify the man in the truck. Can you imagine? I mean. He must be gay, of course. Who doesn't stop to at least find out why the crazy broad with her top open is waving at you?

Oh well. Maybe I'll leave a note for him next week.

Dear Recycling Man,

You are welcome. Unless you're gay. In that case, so sorry. I don't like you that way, I was just feeding my baby when I heard your truck and have you seen my bin lately?

Sincerely,
Pink Bra Lady