One of the first subjects I wrote about on this blog was anthropology.
I asked you to consider what social scientists would learn about you if they happened upon your magazine rack.
Now and again we have a chance to learn about each other, as households of humans, through our recycling bins.
We know quite a bit about our neighbors—their dietary habits and how they spend their weekends—on recycling day. They also get a glimpse into who we are, that is, unless we’ve mastered the art of burying clues, as I do when necessity dictates.
Doesn’t every family stash its Little Debbie cartons or otherwise-telling proof of vice beneath the Kashi Go Lean?
What do we know about people based on what’s on their curb?
A bin brimming with dead PBR soldiers might reveal a group house of twenty-somethings, while a heavier load of Shiraz bottles and brie rinds is a sure sign of a girls’ weekend.
Walking down my street, you’d envision from this curbside container an adoring aunt who spoils her visiting nephews:
You’d also know that neighbors aren’t rushing to party with the empty nesters who left this blue bin behind.
Quick, take a look, what’s in your trash tub? Do tell: What’s buried beneath those Evian empties?
There are seven humans and two cats in a house normally occupied by two, plus various and sundry others dropping in, so we’re operating at a heightened state of energy. The glorious sounds of giggles, piano music, video games, pets being chased and balls being thrown waft through the air. I can never hear “Hey, Aunt Monica, …” enough times.
Word Nymph 