My husband cleaned out the garage the other day, a task that was beyond odious and for which he has my undying affection. He sorted through the junk (well, sort of, mostly, kinda) and at the end of it all, had a big pile of trash. He called me into the garage so I could look at the pile of trash and see if any of it was actually NOT trash. That can be a dangerous game, really, depending on what kind of mood I'm in. Sometimes I'm in a really chuck-happy mood, and anything I haven't used that day goes in the garbage. Other days, however, I look at something I have completely forgotten I own and think, ooooh, but I really NEED that, and I stick it away somewhere where it sits forgotten again until I sort things out and finally decide that after years of nonuse we can THROW IT AWAY ALREADY, SISTER!!!
Anyway, lucky for all of us DH and I were both in chuck-it happy moods, and I happily declared all of the pile trash, rescuing only a tube of sunscreen and a tube of baby lotion.
Then DH picked up something that looked familiar and said, "Um, I think we need to keep this. I don't know how it got in here, but don't you need it?"
It was my 24 hour urine collection jug.
Oh well, I suppose I do need that, seeing as my yearly 24 hour collection lab work/full work up is coming up next month. It's 4 months late, pushed back because of the birth of my daughter, but it cannot be ignored.
I nodded to my husband, and dutifully took the jug, despite all urges to chuck it and run. I suppose it could be considered a sign of how my subconcious feels about getting poked and tested and ultrasounded (I love how blogging gives you license to use completely made up words) that the collection jug somehow migrated to the trash pile of the garage.
I stuck it in the deep recesses of the front hall closet. Subconcious messaging indeed.