To my mother, there is no greater sin than throwing something out. Back when we all lived at home, it was not unusual for one of us to dispose of something--say, a half-empty bottle of shampoo--only to find it mysteriously back in its place a couple days later. Apparently to Mom, the only thing more absurd than going through our trash was the thought that four ounces of Herbal Essences might go unused.
This phenomenon was not limited to bath products, though; clothes, shoes, and all sorts of miscellaneous discarded objects would all make Lazarus-like reappearances in our rooms, usually without any spoken explanation from my mother. If we did happen to challenge her on the bizarre reappearance of an item, we would be given one of two responses: "That cost good money," or (if it was something like an "Earth Day 1990" pin), "I'm sure one of your siblings could use that."
Thanks in part to this practice of domestic Dumpster diving, my
parents' basement has become home to a lot of bizarre crap over the
past couple decades. Since I moved out of my parents' house, my mom
has taken to occasionally surprising me with boxes of random junk that
she salvaged over the years. Recently, for example, I was presented
with a Looney Toons mug containing some old keychains, my ninth grade photo
ID, and my old retainer. This little terrarium of uselessness has been
sitting in my car ever since, because while I have absolutely no use
for any of the items and refuse to bring them into my house, I am also
strangely unable to throw them out. This leaves me to wonder if it is my genetic lot in life to hang on to such things, maybe until I have a child of my own to bequeath them to. Because honestly, what future descendent of mine wouldn't want this?