Halting Spanglish will no longer serve the purpose

I really must learn to speak Spanish beyond the halting courtesies and shy attempts at ordering food.

I have (had) a nasty, thorny, overgrown, vicious, soul-sucking plant in the back of the house that was just OUT OF CONTROL and no interest in cutting it down myself. So I approached Mario the Wonder Gardener and asked how much he would charge to make it go away. (Mario normally just does mow, blow and go for too much money and I don't have the heart to get rid of him. It's an uneasy relationship but somehow I have a long-held affection for this guy.)

Through a scintillating blend of my Spanglish, HIS Spanglish, and a whole lot of hand gestures, we established a price I could live with. And then we got to the hard part--disposing of the evil plant's rotting corpse, which is no small matter, and certainly not a pleasant one. The end result, or so I thought, was that we would save me about $150 by having him NOT take it all to the dump that day, and gradually, week by week, he would put SOME of the plant's mortal remains in my trash cans for the regular weekly pickup.

I did everything I could to convey "black barrel ONLY; never azul." He nodded and smiled--Mario ALWAYS nods and smiles. I nodded and smiled. I usually nod and smile. I thought we were done. 

Evidence strongly suggests that Mario and I have vastly different ideas about what constitutes "gradually, week by week."

ALL of the trash cans are full--well, slightly beyond full. I can't throw away so much as a gum wrapper, with trash pickup still two days away.

And I have every confidence that I'm going to get in trouble with the trash-disposal company when they realize that some of what's in the "recycle" bin isn't technically recyclable. Well, it IS, in a cosmic-composting sense, but it certainly isn't the spotless, hand-dried plastic water bottle they envisioned when they said "recycle."

Really must learn Spanish, and NOW.