One of the things I liked about New York was that there was some sort of trash pick-up almost everyday. Two regular garbage days, one recycling day, one day where you could throw out just about anything from an old couch to a dying toaster oven. Also, on that day, you could drive around and take stuff from other people's piles before it was removed by the able-bodied trash removers.
In our new town here garbage comes once a week, on the highly inconvenient day of Wednesday. It is virtually impossible to remember to take out the trash on a Tuesday night. Before the move, the garbage came Monday morning, which makes oodles of sense. Remembering to take the trash out Sunday night was pretty easy. A Wednesday pick up is just not intuitive. We've done okay so far. This morning was a little close.
Upon hearing the garbage truck right outside my house I dashed outside, waved and screamed at the top of my lungs, the driver relented, nodded and I hauled the garbage can to the curb, watched it mechanically wooshed up to the top of the large vehicle, contents dumped in and placed back before me.
I promptly returned it to it's place.
I have now officially labeled myself as that crazy woman who runs out in her pj's to yell loudly at garbage men.