This past weekend my husband John and I traveled the 3.5 hours back to Nashville to get my home ready for renters. I’ve been living in this old farmhouse in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains since Christmas, and I was excited to actually be surrounded by familiarity for a day or two.
We had left quite a bit of junk and Saturday morning we piled up John’s truck and he headed out for the dump. You can imagine my confusion when he pulled back into the driveway with the truck still fully loaded 30 minutes later.
I went out onto the porch and confronted him as he walked up the pathway to the house.
Me: What the hell?
John: Um…I can’t go back there. Is there another dump in this county?
Evidently John had gone to my “waste management convenience center” and the gentleman in the booth questioned his driver’s license. As if we actually drove over three hours with a truckload of shit to dump in HIS dump, out of our jurisdiction. John gently explained the situation and the dude told him to leave and return with some sort of proof of my residence in my county, ie: bills, driver’s license, whatever. Johnny replied, “Really? Well, I guess this is really an INCONVENIENCE center then, isn’t it”?
Evidently the Dump Guard did not find this funny. At all. I found it hilarious. Who gets thrown out of a Dump?
My husband. Awesome.