Being born into this world a male, there are certain rights that I was handed without doing a thing. Watching the Super Bowl uninterrupted, eating nachos as a meal and being allowed to call any movie with Bette Midler or Barbra Streisand in it a "chick flick" are only a few of the privileges men can enjoy.

With this enjoyment, however, comes a certain responsibility as well. One such example of this "man responsibility" occurs weekly - taking out the trash accumulated by me and my lovely family (including one cat that will not relieve herself on any of the five acres we own.)

Please also remember that I have two kids wearing diapers (dirty and stinky), and we eat a lot of takeout due to hectic schedules. This makes my job a tougher task than for most of my male counterparts.

When you factor in my 200 plus foot driveway that is unlit, I would place my Tuesday night shuffle to the end of the road up against an Iron Man tri-athlete's task of swimming, running and biking all day.

With the recent string of snowy and frigid weather, I have been tempted to either steal Santa's reindeer each week - since they only work one day a year anyway - or purchase an Iditarod dog sled team to move my mountains of rubbish to the curb.

That's why there was no happier man than me this past Tuesday when warm, sunny days melted the snow and I was actually able to take the garbage out in a light jacket rather than stuffing myself into a burly Gore-Tex coat like a sausage. Sure, my feet got wet from the melted snow and the ruts in my driveway that could rival any street maintained by the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation, but it was a small price to pay for such a thrill in February.

However, after the long haul down the driveway four times (there was plenty of trash since it was just Super Bowl Sunday), I stopped dead in my tracks, concerned that I had missed something.

Was it recycle day or not?

You can call it the first of many reminders that I am getting older, but one of the things I can never remember is whether or not it is recycle week.

The easy way to know, of course, is to see what my neighbor is doing. The tough part of that, unfortunately, is that he lives about

50

yards up the road and it's always dark outside. As a result, I usually don't have a clue if he's put his recycled items out to the curb.

One would think that, after a while, I would figure out a system that reminds me of when to put out that green little nemesis. But remember, I am a man and I don't learn from my mistakes. Consequently, every Tuesday I am hit with the great dilemma of whether or not I need to make that extra trip to the curb.

I've tried different memory techniques such as noticing when my wife has a meeting to go to or when my poker buddies and I get together, but that only seems to make me more confused. Besides, in either of the previous situations, I am usually too tired to get the trash out, let alone remember to take out the recycled items.

Finally, this past week, an idea occurred to me and I decided to place the recycles at the curb, figuring that since it was pleasant outside, the extra trip would be nice. If the garbage company left my recycles, I would leave them at the curb for a week, knowing I would be on the right schedule next week.

You can imagine my dismay when my wife came pulling into the garage on Wednesday, toting the full recycle bin with her.

"Here, this was still outside. Recycles must be next week."

I shuddered, knowing my feeble attempt at beating the system had just been foiled again. After trying to explain what I was hoping to accomplish, she merely shook her head in disgust and muttered, "It must be a guy thing."

If she only knew.