Dumpster Diving – aka garbage

When I was a teenager working at Abby’s Pizza Inn I once had to–well, to be fair, I didn’t have to, nor did I want to, but I felt obligated to–dig through a giant trash bin full of half chewed pizza, beer-soaked napkins, and other non-desirable and aromatic items looking for some kid’s $500 retainer. I don’t know if retainers actually cost $500 to replace, but that was the generally agreed-upon amount all our parents used to warn us it would cost them if we lost or, as was most often the case, threw away our retainers.

I found it.

The parents were grateful.

The kid was mortified, but probably grateful deep down, too.


I keep a wicker trash basket against the wall, right next to my headboard. The trouble with such a location is that it’s not unheard of for me to knock valuable–such as my Breathe, and Serenity essential oils, among other things–off the shelves of the headboard and into the trash in the middle of the night. Along with the occasional pen, travel-size lotion bottle, or other such bedside essentials.

Those I will go after. At least when I either hear them fall or they turn up missing. They are easily cleaned once retrieved. And I’m washing my hands dozens of times a day anyway, so what’s one more time?

One time, however, I accidentally–and inexplicably–knocked the last two cookies of my most favorite Walkers shortbread my friend Sam shipped over from England into the trash.

I thought long and hard about how badly I wanted to retrieve those, but, maturely, left them be in the pile of used Puff’s Plus with Lotion tissues.


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[Day 166 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]