Whew. Made it through another Thanksgiving of seemingly endless driving -- though it was very much worth it to see all Ben’s relatives, of which there are dozens and dozens, as opposed to the WASPy Thanksgivings of my childhood, when we considered it a crowd if attendance hit double digits (by contrast, a Delaware/Jersey Thanksgiving is considered sparsely attended if there are less than 30 people there). Anyway, a good time was had by all, especially Sarah and Becky, who zoomed around at a rate that would exhaust a cheetah for three days and never napped outside of a car -- though they were incoherent and sobbing with fatigue when we finally got home, woke them up and unloaded them into their own beds.
It’s that leftovers-in-the-fridge time of year, so the garbage cans and recycling bins were full this week, which turned my attention to recycling since my brother-in-law was tossing all manner of cans and bottles into his trash compacter. He says they have to pay extra for recycling pickup, which we did last year -- but I sort of expect that Down South as opposed to blue-state New Jersey. Plus I have to admit it’s a personal obsession of mine. When Ben tosses the catalogs and junk mail into the trash at home, I sneak over later, fish them out and put them in paper bags. Here at work, there’s no recycling bin in the lunchroom. I saw a Chef Boy-Ar-Dee ravioli can in the trash, so I rescued it, rinsed it and brought it downstairs to the big blue bin. Is it weird to recycle other people’s stuff as well as your own? Still, I can’t hold a candle to my friend and former neighbor, who lives in a town with curbside recycling pickup but that doesn’t accept plastics #3-7. So she saves her yogurt containers and whatnot, packs them in her car, dives to