It's been over two months now, and those bastard garbage men still haven't picked up my garbage.

Actually, that's not true. They picked it up one week, for some unknown reason. Perhaps the planets were finally aligned properly, maybe the garbage guys had just gotten laid, maybe lady luck was shining upon me that day.

That was about five weeks ago.

The result: About ten bags of stinky decomposing garbage. Luckily, it's been cold enough that the smell hasn't been too offensive, and hasn't attracted, you know, BEARS (side note, I had a dream last night about bears.. that I kept running into baby bears as I was walking down a road, and was freaking out because I knew the momma bear was somewhere).

Anyway.

I decided that this week was the week. I asked around to see who I could possibly call about this problem, and the best answer I got was "Well, gee, I think Jo-Bob goes around in his truck. You could ask him". Useless.

I was going to take matters into my own hands. My garbage is stored in a large wooden bin on the side of my house. I thought, initially, that maybe the garbage men didn't see the bin, and that was why they kept passing me by. However, after a few weeks of leaving the bin door open (so they could see the bags) and even positioning the bags in the bin so that they were clearly visible from the road, they were still being left behind.

So, last night, I took a few bags of this foul, rotting garbage, and made a path leading from the road, directly to the garbage bin (which held yet another 4 or 5 bags of garbage). There was no way they could miss this, I thought, smugly. Heh heh.

I went to bed, thinking that my troubles were over. I could finally sleep soundly knowing I would never have to see the rotting, half eaten cantaloupe, or the dozens of used Q-tips ever again.

If I could borrow a term from Sarah:

RAGE.

This morning, after closing and locking my back door, I stepped off my patio to see, yes, most of my bags back in their original home. Oh, and this time I had a little gift from my nemesis - the Halifax Regional Municipality Garbage Collectors.

I got a goddamn fucking TICKET.

Attached to one of the bags of contemptible, decaying garbage was a bright orange ticket. On this ticket were several boxes ticked off, each represented a most foul and heinous crime that I had committed. Even under the square marked "Other" they got creative and wrote in their own offences.

I peeled the sticker off my garbage bag, place it back in the bin, and slammed the lid down again. Were it not for the fact that my boss, and her entire family live only steps from my house, I would have sworn a stream of swears so loud it would make garbagemen blush.

I spent my usually delightful, calming walk to work fuming over my situation. Since those dicks won't take my garbage, I now have to go through these rancid bags of waste and sort them according to the mysterious code of the HRM Garbage Gods.

At first, I blamed myself. I should have researched the policies. I knew NB had a waste management program, so NS shouldn't be that different. But then I remembered, I had asked about this, and the only rule was to separate your cans, milk cartons, etc. You know, the usual. But my ticket read like some ancient code of conduct one would need the Rosetta Stone to decipher.

So, I mention this to my co-workers this morning. They had never seen or heard of someone getting a ticketThey were shocked. They've never had a problem. One of them doesn't even sort her cans.

I've decided. The garbagemen are picking on me. It's a personal vendetta. I don't know what I did, but all I know is: They pissed. Meanwhile, it's getting warmer out, and fuck knows what's growing in that garbage at this point.