Recycling in hell

I'm a total sweetie.

I went to take all my accumulated recycling to the center to recycle, as I'm all planet conscious - so, okay, I've not gone since Easter, and there's quite a bit of it, and I rather tend to have all my cooking/cereal boxes nested inside each other like nesting dolls - but that really old guy that works there?

He's a real tool.

Our town pays him, to sit out there, and do stuff. Breaking up boxes leaps to mind here. So when I take my third load out of the car, into the ungodly heated day and he comes up to snipe at me about not breaking them down appropriately? I was polite. Well. Sort of. I mean, it did flash through my head to tell him that this was his job and he's paid by my taxes to do this. But I restrained. I replied something along the lines of gee, I'd no idea. (add big innocent blue eyes)

When I went to take the bottles and cans no one else was going to recycle, and he yelled at me, I sort of calmly, in my nicest I'm Going To Eviscerate You Voice, said that Henry, who usually works on Tuesday, let's my son take them all the time. He's saving up for something big you know. Teaching kids about the value of a dollar they had to work hard for - yep, our Henry's behind that work ethic all the way.

Asshole today? Nope. It's his coffee fund. Well. I'd had it in mind to go get the man an iced coffee, with cream and sugar on the side, as it's such a hot day out, and I'd felt rather badly that he was out there, alone, with no one to talk to - but no more. I dropped my non-cash earning bottles with particular force, tossed in some totally not broken down boxes on the top of the pile so he'd have to climb to get them, threw my paper haphazardly into the front of the dumpster, because really, his attitude totally inflated my Petty Bone.

I'd had Pucker with me, but she's not terribly threatening, even in the dark, so she was totally useless to me in this situation.

A few calm, air-conditioned breaths later, I arrived at the grocery store to recycle the glass, plastics, and cans. As an elderly man was tottering up behind me, in a sweater no less, I was worried he might possibly stoke out on his way to getting enough cash together to go buy the dog food he may be living on, as his 401(k) most likely tanked. I'm so gracious, I do the bottles and the plastic, noting of that of the two can eater machines one is full, wait until he's finished, and glide into place to drop in my cans.

Two cans in?

The machine is full.

In case you can't tell? My dander's way up. I go inside to tell the service personnel that it's full - let's just say, I wasn't serviced. After yelling down the aisle of cashiers only to find the most recent hire who's selected to do this hideous job was out on break. I could come back in a hour, or like, you know.

To top it all off, I went into a store I won't mention (Hope Depot) in a cutie little skirt, white tank, showing a hint of cleavage (the amount I managed to siphon into the bra from around my lower thigh area) to ask for help. I wanted some molding cut, miter cornered, so I could finish off the Yankees bathroom I'd started, before the party. H's friends will love it. Except the Red Sox fans....but since I did this for him, I don't care what his friends think.

And........... back to me:

The guy whom I also out of kindness I won't name (Chris, with the funky goatee thing going on - dude? it's so not working for ya) told me that they, like, don't do that.

And I'm all, heeeeellllllooooo - this is Home Depot, You Can Do It, We Can Help - remember? I can do it, I need some help. Here's the help I need - miter cut these molding pieces to these lengths. See? I nail it up, after you HELP me cut it.

That didn't go over well at all.

He also called me ma'am. Not, miss, or honey - not that I enjoy being called honey by someone I don't know, but basically having the appraisal from head to toe, and ending up with being call ma'am, and no help whatsoever?

Might as well put me out to pasture to rot. Christ. I pull out the stops: heaving bust, over-mascaraed blue eyes batting charmingly - and what do I get?

A bath with no molding, yelled at by some old bat, and a car full of fucking cans that still need to be recycled.