Inferior Trash

For a while, any time Katie and I would finish a bottle of wine during the week, I'd have to hear about it on Friday from the guy who bagged the recyclables for the building. He wouldn't be judgey, exactly, just sort of insinuating, like we were these wild partiers throwing out tons of bottles when in reality we might have a small glass with dinner every night.

Since the market started, though, we've been too busy to even do that, but I've still kept up the habit I got into of bagging up my own recyclables to go out late at night after he goes home.

The only problem is I worry I'm doing it wrong, and that whatever I put out on the curb on Friday night is subject to some arcane set of rules that will cause the recycling guys to reject my trash, and so I wake up Saturday mornings and go to the window, anxious that I'll see my the clear plastic bags stuffed with either paper or glass, metal, and plastic, still there in the light of day, mocking me with their stubborn solidity.

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One year ago: Testing

Two years ago: Lighten Up

Three years ago: "Lights, Please?"

Four years ago: Here, You Throw This Away

Seven years ago: Angry God is Angry (and possibly made up)