I threw a tinker toy cannister away because I was consolidating two sets and didn't need both. And now I know my landlord who lives downstairs (we are in a duplex) goes through my trash, because I saw it in a clear plastic recycling bag on the sidewalk this morning. I didn't think it was recyclable because it seems to be a combination of weirdly stiffened cardboard and metal, but if it is and it doesn't end up in a landfill, that's dandy; I'm just weirded out at the thought of him opening up our trash bag. Last week I was on my period, so he would have had to wade through my bloody tampons (which I don't flush because I'm paranoid about clogging toilets) as well as the poopy diapers and slimy bread crusts. Yuck. I don't want him to harbor bad feelings about us because he felt he had to do this, and at the same time I feel angry because my privacy has been invaded. This is why I hate renting. That, and I wish my sons could run up and down the length of the apartment and bang on drums all day long without my stomach clenching in worry that the landlord (who is dour but has never said an unpleasant word to us) will be annoyed. Mini-vent over now, thanks for listening.