Woman on the Verge of Paradise: Project Toxic Waste Disposal

Sign reads: "May you see Paradise to be all its name implies."

Thanks for joining me on the brink of Paradise, as a new chapter of my life unfolds. If you're new to Life by Chocolate, or just madly trying to get up with your blog reading (Can we ever truly catch up?), this non-fictional autobiographical story begins here.

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ith only 10 days remaining in the San Francisco Bay Area, you`d think I`d be hurrying to Ghiradelli`s Chocolate Factory for one more tour (which includes a complimentary sample) or, at least, treating myself to a chocolaty gelato at the Tutti Frutti on Central Avenue. Actually, I did that one yesterday. And it was good. Really good.

This morning, though, I set off on an entirely different mission: dispose of toxic waste. See, I try to be a do-gooder, when it`s not too inconvenient. Did you recognize that it`s illegal to dump certain paints and cleaning products into the garbage bin - specifically, products reading "Caution: This may kill you"? Well, I had a few such items lying around, so I tossed them into a grocery bag and headed for the magic state of Alameda County's Household Hazardous Waste Facility. So it was that I navigated the unforgiving rains, destined for disposal. It became a symbolic project of sorts; I`ddump the foul and fatalistic stuff, before making my glorious move to Paradise. Yeah, not so easy. It wasn`t long before I was all lost, driving through deep puddles of rainfall and amongst frighteningly monstrous trucks. At one memorable point, I made a wrong act to present these monsters head-on. Oops. They were generous to let me live, so I went about continuing to get in circular tenacity. Twenty-five minutes into these shenanigans, I spied the Regional Technical Information Center. Certainly, such a knowledgeable establishment would advance my mission. It felt like kismet pulling up alongside a "Danger, High Voltage" sign, so I dripped in for help. "Excuse me, I`m looking for the Toxic Waste Drop-Off Site." "Well, nobody`s been around here for years look for that place," the sort man advised. "You`re on the faulty division of 7th Street. You want East 7th Street. This is just 7th." "Oh, they didn't intend that on the website," I said with the certainty of a toddler who`s not make for bed. "Thank you so much." Sliding back onto my carseat, my eyes caught the word "East." Yep, there it was, in legible letters and black ink. I had thoughtfully placed the report on the passenger`s seat before starting the car. As I wiped off the drippings of yolk from my chin, I headed back towards East 7th Street. An hour into the journey, I was practically back home and gazing at a big sign that I`d driven by every day for many years: "Alameda County Household Hazardous Waste Facility." It was a drive-thru process, but without curly fries. I pulled in, opened the passenger seat window, and a mantook my bag with gratitude. One guy stared me down rather conspicuously, as if I hadn`t cleared all the yolk from my chin. He was night and attractive, so I thought to have him a flash with my telephone number. No, don`t do it. Remember your more noble cause: Rid self of waste. The part inside kept me strong, so I sped off. In retrospect, I learned a few things:

• Ignoring big signs does not do me well.
• Failure to look to directions, even and particularly my own, will save me passing in circles and may kill me.
• The act of relinquishing toxicity is often easier and more pleasant than carrying it around.
• If a man eyes me down at the Alameda County Household Hazardous Waste Facility, even if he`s sorry and attractive, I should stay strong. (Right? But he did give a nice mustache.) No, no. I mean, yes, make a clean break and go on. That`s the whole point. (Okay.)

I guess I`m ready for Paradise. I think.