Damn this is hard. Not only is it hard. I am the only one who cares.

And I don’t just mean trash. In theory, we have a plan for all types of trash, but diligence is required. I found, even after “Trash Class”, I am having to go behind everyone and either put the trash in the right spot or clean it and put it back where it was discarded.

Charlie Weighs In

“I would pay someone to sort trash all  day and make sure it was done right so we could recycle it,” is Charlie’s stance. “Why do they make it so damn inconvenient?”

I tried explaining, if we just made it a part of our routine, it would be easier but that argument went nowhere. I feel defeated.

World Powers

Speaking of defeated, the New York Times has now, on a continuous basis, started referring to world powers as “Axis” and “Allies”. I also discovered one man owns nearly every major news outlet in America and others in other countries. Makes me wonder why this isn’t considered a monopoly.

As much as I would like to grab an unattended bullhorn to inform my neighbors, I am not a crazy person. So, I will quietly continue to do the best I can with what I can control. Trash management is figured out, albeit loosely practiced. I’m ready to jump into a more pressing matter. Stocking foods we might run out of.

Railroad workers are about to go on strike. Being a former railroad wife, I know the ramifications include the grocery store shelves.

Dystopian Mom Basement

It was pretty bad.

So, in preparation of food storage, I decided to burn through my energy this weekend by cleaning the basement. Charlie helped, and by help I mean started a fight over the things I refuse to get rid of. Every single time. Like I didn’t through away a ton of shit when we moved here in the first place.

Fights Ensued

Here is a fun list of items that spark arguments:

  • An old wooden twin bed headboard and footboard (rails are outside I think). I plan on making a bench with them, if ever I find the time.
  • A duffle bag full of army gear like sleeping bags, trench shovels, and other random things.
  • Scrap wood. I love crafting with wood and have made quite a bit of holiday décor out of scraps.
  • A giant footlocker filled with medical equipment. I’ve gathered things from when I worked in the ER and when the baby was sick. I’ve gifted some to a friend when their daughter’s feeding tube equipment wasn’t ordered in time. I was happy to help. So, I will be keeping the rest, thank you.
  • A ten rack wine shelf. This is perfect for can storage and it is staying. I am not the type to have a wine collection per say, but I do have a killer cork collection, if you know what I mean.
  • Empty totes with cracks in them. They look like trash, but there is some life left in there.

Not Halloween

He knows it makes me mad to ask me to throw these things out. Probably as mad as he is every time he looks at them, but they aren’t his. They are mine. I don’t throw his things away. It’s infuriating.

Despite our marital discord, we managed to get the basement cleaned up. I really wanted to pull some of the fall décor out, but was vetoed. He did agree to move those decorations to an easily accessible spot, but we agreed to wait until after Nia’s birthday to put up Halloween. Mid-September is as good a time as any.

Now that I have the space to add some shelving for storage, I think it’s time to figure out how much food is an appropriate amount of food. The Great Depression lasted for 10 years. I think that is excessive.

My next project will be calculating how much food we actually need for a month and go from there.

Until later.

Beth Pedersen

Want to influence the story? Tell me about your best end-of-days minded trash tips or resources? What are your favorite plastic-alternative products? Have products you’d like mentioned in Beth’s journal? Send me samples—or hate mail to PO Box 336 Mars, Pa 16046.

This is a fictional character in a fictional world navigating the collapse of society. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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