Waste Not

      After tirelessly shaking and manipulating an enormous container of a dietary supplement that had lasted for months, I’d managed to eke out a few remaining grains into the dosing cup. It represented maybe one percent of the container and barely a third of my daily dose. Just toss it out and start fresh with the new container, right?

      Wrong. I just couldn’t do it. It gets harder the older I get.

      Whether it’s a dietary supplement, a toothpaste tube or hand lotion too low for the pump to reach, I don’t give up without a fight, especially now. I’ll be damned if I’m going to buy a new item when I know there’s more usable product in there just taunting me!

      I credit—some might say blame—my own parents. Nothing ever went to waste in our household when I was growing up. Like many people who came of age during the Depression, my parents both held onto those lifelong habits. They were not alone in their thrifty practices, surrounded by family and friends with similar backgrounds.

      But today, in our modern throwaway culture, where ambitious but complicated recycling systems are far from intuitive, avoiding waste can be a daily challenge.

An insufficiently squeezed tube.

      My husband doesn’t have the patience (I call it skill) to manipulate the toothpaste tube once it gets to a certain point. He knows better than to throw it away, of course—at least not while I’m looking. So, he cowardly takes a new one for himself and passes the old one to me. He knows I’ll press and squeeze and surely get another couple of weeks out of the sucker.

      A large hand lotion container with a pump? Don’t get me started.

      When I shake the plastic bottle, I can feel a little fluid inside, but the pump is—no doubt purposely—useless. I carefully lean it upside down for the night. I may have to prop it up against something so it doesn’t slide and knock over a cup or two on the bathroom counter. If it manages to stay standing overnight, I can get another several days out of it.

      If that fails, I’ll turn to the long thin utensil I save for this very task.

      Jelly—now there’s a real waste. True, it’s tricky to get into the corners of the glass jar, but I can almost always manage a few more uses out of it after my husband has given up. If I have some soft bread, I can try to “dunk” by scraping it against the sides of the jar. Of course, the bread may break off, leaving only my bare fingers, but licking them is just another bonus.

      The real challenge is my small but pricey milky facial moisturizer with a mini-pump that’s useless almost from the start. I can see the remaining yellow liquid in the see-through bottle just daring me to throw it away.

      No way.

      If I keep it turned upside down all the time, again being sure to keep it propped up, it’s still difficult to get my finger inside the small mouth of the jar. I deftly reach my pinky in to dip in the corners near the top. If I’m patient—this calls for repeated attempts—I can get at least another week out of it.

      I don’t like to boast, but the result is sometimes a virtually clean empty jar. Ah, the satisfaction that comes with that achievement. My parents would be proud.

      By the way, it’s not even about money, though, being retired, every bit of savings helps. It has more to do with justice.

      I once wrote to Dove Bars to complain, calmly and reasonably, mind you, that the chocolate outer coating of their delicious ice cream pop had immediately fallen to the ground—in one large piece—at the first bite. It happened with two bars in the package! I think all reasonable people can agree that that shouldn’t happen.

      The folks at Dove Bar apparently agreed. They sent me a very nice apology with a coupon for a free package.

      My family (all of whom had groaned loudly when I first told them I planned to write a letter) stopped making fun of me after that.

      In my parents’ day it was about saving a dime or two. Now I like to think of it as striking a blow for the little guy.