Last weekend, the bags were distributed. This weekend, bags of food were picked up.
Just like last year, I had J for the pick up weekend. A year ago, we got a small area, two or three courts of townhouses, and we only got about six or eight bags. People lamented the economy.
This year, because of fewer people available to do pick up, we got a much larger area, several times that of last year. And despite the economy, we got over 50 bags. These two were happy, busy boys, except...
Starting out, we'd been confused by newspapers that looked like Scout bags on the elevated stoops. So many leaves made it confusing, too. At one point early on, I spotted a bag with the ears/handles straight up and J hopped up on the porch to get it.
He rushed over. He paused. He picked it up and poked. He came back down the stairs, then seized in terror, ran back to the door to deposit the bag from whence it came.
Simultaneous to that, I realized what the bag was: a stinky diaper so bad that they'd put it outside.
J, aka Mr. Clean Hands, was mortified to have any residuals on his hands, but I had no wipes. So my hair, my clothes, and my hands received all the diaper cooties.
I am still laughing.
Thanks to Mel for helping me out with an occasion to share this shite-filled story.