Caught Up in A Social Security Fuss

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Caught Up in Social Security Fuss at 28

By Catherine Getches

Catherine Getches is a freelance writer in Northern California.

February 12, 2005

I confess that I usually steer clear of senior hotspots such as the post office, drugstore pharmacies,

Hallmark shops and all restaurants that serve dinner at 4 p.m. But when I needed an antibiotic for a tooth

infection, I had no choice. And that's what it took — standing in line for more than 17 minutes at the

Walgreen's pharmacy behind a woman whose wig was slightly askew, using a shopping cart as a walker

and going on about "well, I'll be darned" coincidences — for me to step back and consider what's behind

all the fuss over Social Security.

At first, I tried to keep from rolling my eyes as she went on about the No. 5 (her number in line, the

quantity of prescriptions she was picking up and the age of her grandson). But when she mentioned her

Social Security check and wanting to spoil little David, but barely making ends meet with the cost of all

her "medicines," I had a minor epiphany.

Without someone like P. Diddy and his "Vote or Die"-type campaign on Social Security reform,

thinking about it is as appealing as pondering death. What's more, most people my age don't consider

their number as anything more than a form of ID.

Even with all the fuss over Social Security of late, I admit that my initial inclination was to feel secure.

Doubly secure even, not simply because I'm 28 years old but also (irrationally) because I have

succeeded in safeguarding my original Social Security card.

I figured I could tune out recent debates over President Bush's proposed private savings accounts and

changes to Social Security. Unless you're contemplating retirement, it's pretty easy to entirely overlook

the importance of Social Security. The only reason most people even know their number by heart is

because they have to rattle it off on so many different occasions. Although the Social Security

Administration advises people to "treat your Social Security number as confidential information and

avoid giving it out unnecessarily," if you want hassle-free access to things like utilities, bank accounts,

credit cards, cable TV and your dentist, you better divulge your digits. In the end, the same key code that

gets you "Desperate Housewives" gets you a house loan.

I know this number is ultimately what distinguishes me from every other person on this planet — even if

I change my name and get a complete makeover. But judging by the woman at the pharmacy, the

number is a lot more than that. Many Americans come to a point in their life when the number on that

flimsy card is all they've got.

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Today, one in six Americans receive Social Security benefits. They are not just retirees and their

dependents but also the disabled and their dependents and survivors of deceased workers. For 20% of

65-and-older beneficiaries, it is their only source of income. By the time people who couldn't care less

now reach retirement age, that figure will jump. The last census estimates that by 2011, the 65-and-older

population will grow at a rate four to five times faster than the general population. And by 2030, the

"older generation," as the Census Bureau calls it, will comprise one of every five people. By 2050, 148

million people will be over 65, up from 36 million today, and those under 65 will dwindle to 35 million

from 255 million today.

Economists can go back and forth forever on the issue, but it takes imagining subsisting on Social

Security to really think about whether changes to the system are necessary. In the meantime, I'm trying

to digest what information I can decipher and bracing for when my generation reaches retirement age,

when lines will be even longer at the pharmacy. Let's hope those early-bird restaurants stay cheap.

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Los Angeles Times: Caught Up in Social Security Fuss at 28

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Wired Nights

Wired Nights
In the 24-Hour Universe, There's No Winding Down

By Catie Getches

Sunday, October 17, 2004; Page B01

Each October, as it begins to get dark earlier and earlier, I find myself instinctively dreading the end of day. It's a feeling left over from my teenage years, when sundown used to signal winding down and a realization that what had started with so much promise at sunrise was doomed to another quiet, boring finish. I remember school nights in the early '90s filled with nothing to do (after I finished homework, of course). My family owned just one VHS tape ("Arachnophobia"), my parents treated the TV as a device that entered sleep mode at 11 p.m. and my long battles of "no, you say goodbye first" with some high school boyfriend got old fast. But these days, instant messaging, TiVo and my cell phone make the very notion of dismay over "day's end" seem as old-fashioned as getting worked up over sliced bread.

Sure, the light bulb hedged daylight more than a century ago, but today's technological advancements have obliterated the usual constraints of time and even space. As a result, 24/7 has gone from extreme to routine, and the idea of an end to the day has been replaced by an "it's business hours somewhere" mentality. A Verizon commercial I heard on the radio recently says it all: Thanks to your cell phone, "You can put Father Time in a headlock and give him a great big noogie."

In case you hadn't noticed, the dead of night is suddenly alive. It's not just clubgoers, security guards and bakers who make the most of the graveyard shift; it's easier than ever to be an insomniac (or at least to intersect with one). CEOs e-mail their subordinates after midnight, my brother monitors his eBay account all night long and my mother-in-law keeps Fox cable news on to help her sleep. (Who knew that early morning stumbles to the bathroom could also be prime time for the latest on the Laci Peterson case?) In effect, technology has helped fashion a parallel universe, populated by night owls who find comfort in the glow of pixelated screens. Who can go to bed when your doppelganger is looking to make a connection? Who wants to risk missing something or matching up with someone?

All it takes is a little time alone, especially late at night, to confirm how much technology has transformed culture and how it has changed the way we relate to each other. That's because being alone is not what it used to be. These days, even momentary solitude seems like something to be avoided at all cost. And technology makes it possible: Thanks to cell phones, no one has to face that stroll down the street, the five-minute commute or the lunch line without companionship. With hands-free speed-dial, the solitude of a Stairmaster -- apparently a frightening prospect for some fitness fanatics -- is a thing of the past. (Don't scoff. I've seen it.)

Even insomniacs find camaraderie in this dual universe. "Anyone out there?" is how many denizens of eBay's Night Owl's Nest (a forum for "night crawlers and insomniacs of eBay to meet and greet other creatures of the night") often open an online conversation. On a recent night, "zombie*grrl," up late watching the National Geographic channel and popping Ambien (to help her fall asleep), wrote in to share a story about a trip to the bathroom where she, in her daze, winds up falling into the bathtub. Instead of waiting until the next day to share her embarrassment, she signs on and gets immediate recognition. Other patrons respond with an LOL (Laughing Out Loud, for those still clueless about the New Techno-English) and she, like so many others, finds a bit of solace in this "warm corner of the cyberspace world."

But the highly coveted "anywhere, anytime" access (is there a telecom company anywhere, anytime that doesn't use that line?) really means being available everywhere, all-the-time -- but more and more, it means late and later. At least that's what technology promotes: Cell phones are cheapest after 9 p.m., some video stores stay open all night and, at any given hour, there's a virtual world of people you could be connecting with in cyberspace. There's no day's end when a.m. can just as easily be p.m. -- and often is both, if you're chatting with someone overseas. And exactly what time is bedtime when cable and network TV offer news and entertainment (whatever the quality) in every time slot, all night long?

For the younger generation growing up today, "whenever, wherever" has become a way of life. Multitasking is so mainstream. Teens communicate when and where they choose -- they're firing off text messages on the fly, in the classroom or late at night when they're supposed to be sleeping. They're so wired that they make twenty-somethings like me nervous. A friend in New York recently lamented, "It's weird, there are teeny-boppers with BlackBerrys running all over the subways," he said, as if he had seen a newborn consuming Starbucks coffee instead of milk.

A recent visit from my 11-year-old niece was similarly upsetting for me. Haley arrived in San Francisco, wielding mobile phone and blue iPod mini, and fresh from watching a DVD in the SUV on the way up. When I hear "road trip," I think "Are we there yet?" and remember endless games of "20 Questions," dodging airborne drool from my dog Gus and seatbelt-constricted wrestling with my twin sister. Haley's last road trip was over before she could finish "Finding Nemo" or ask (even once) "How much longer?"

To board an airplane, Haley still needs adult accompaniment to the gate and a notarized letter from her parents. But she can break through plenty of other barriers by herself. She can send text messages from San Francisco to her home in New York, she carries her own 1,000-song soundtrack with her wherever she goes, and between the DVD library at home (more than 500 movies) and IM-ing friends, nighttime entertainment (parents permitting) is rich with possibilities.

I wonder how all this new techie bling will transform Haley, and how things will be different when she's my age. When I was 11, a sacred staple of classroom behavior was passing notes. Based on observing Haley's day-and-night interconnectedness, the very idea of using paper to communicate might cause Haley to "FOCL" (Falling Off Chair Laughing).

At any given time, late at night, far or near, messages filled with such eloquence as "RUOK," "CUL8R," and "DEGT" (Don't Even Go There), are zapped back and forth and then lost forever. "Doesn't she want to save that?" I thought. Feeling like the nostalgia police, I wanted to show her what I've saved from my youth: boxes (and boxes) of everything written to me -- notes passed in the second grade, love letters from boyfriends I'd scarcely remember otherwise, graduation cards. If messages are created only to be purged, what would Haley do when she needs to produce irrefutable documentation of who broke up with whom in the sixth grade?

In this age of broken boundaries and unbroken days, nearly every interaction is informed by some sort of technological device. I found my last job on Craigslist, where I met a woman who found her husband-to-be on Match.com. A high-school friend recently e-mailed to say she met someone on Friendster who knows me from college.

So it seems as if it should be easier for everyone to connect, late at night or whenever. But the more technology we turn on, the more relationships we have to manage simultaneously -- and the more likely we are to ask our best friends if they can hold. I have programmable phone lists and speed dial at my fingertips, and yet I feel more disconnected than ever -- somehow, it's easier than ever to be two places at once but nearly impossible to, as my mom says, just "be here now." Yet being in two places at once has become strangely familiar: You don't just go out to lunch with a friend anymore. You go out to lunch with the friend and the friend's cell phone book. Everyone has gotten used to having another self to answer for (though only some people have Madonna for their ring tone).

So, of course, there's even technology to help you avoid people: Phone companies like Nokia, Sony Ericsson, Virgin Mobile and Cingular now offer software to help you exit a situation or create a false alibi. Cingular's "Escape-a-Date" offers fake "rescue" calls -- a prearranged service that walks you through what to say before suddenly dropping a date gone sour. And Soundercover adds a recorded background to "help you sound where you're supposed to be."

It's not that I disdain the benefits of the parallel universe. I exchange e-mails and voice mail with friends, and I'm glad to have been able to meet new puppies, kittens and babies in my inbox that I've never met in the flesh.

At the same time, it's almost impossible to avoid the draw of the linked-up lifestyle. Many employees feel the need to be "reachable at all times." And more and more companies require it. In the era of the borderless office, the workday never really ends. Sarah Foelske, an art director in New York, says she feels "like I have to be constantly connected" and often leaves work after 10 p.m. "only to go home and turn on the Internet." As a result she says, "E-mail and being online makes you feel lonelier in a way, trying to be connected all the time."

It's so common now to correspond by e-mail alone, it's easy to go for days without actually interacting with a real live human. As a twin, accustomed to sharing everything from birth to the same high-pitched laugh with my sister, I used to hate being alone. I remember asking my Mom if she got sad when my Dad left on business trips. "I do miss him," she would say. "But I really like having alone time, it's nice to be by yourself." I think I turned around before I mouthed, "What a loser."

If I used to dread day's end, now I dread the endless day. The more connected I am, the more I wish I could turn back the clock (and not just one hour). Now that I can get a call anytime, anywhere, I find myself screening my calls whenever, wherever. Who wants to waste even a few minutes on the phone to chat with someone who's only filling time while going from one place to another? These days, I have no problem saying goodbye first. And staying up late so I can get my real twin on the cell phone is no substitute for having her in a real headlock and hearing her LOL when I give her a great big noogie.

Author's e-mail:

getchesc@yahoo.com

Catie Getches is a freelance writer in California who can be reached sometimes, somewhere in the Pacific time zone.

© 2004 The Washington Post Company

Before My Wedding a True Identity Crisis

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Before My Wedding, A True Identity Crisis

By Catherine Getches

Sunday, September 14, 2003; Page B03

BOULDER, Colo.

When I was growing up, I never worried much about my name. Bart Simpson,

for instance, would never be tempted to prank-call a bartender and ask if there

was a Catie Getches in the house -- not in the way that an "I.P. Freeley" or "Ben

Dover" just begs to be said aloud. Actually, the most laughter my name ever

provoked was on the playground, and even then it was no match for what

Rainbow Harmony Mars and Ralph Rottenberger, two of my friends, had to

endure. Around the time hormones cued boys into the fact that I was a girl, the

best they could do was "Catie the Cootie" and "Sketchy Getches." All in all,

nothing much to complain about.

But the naming penalties I avoided on the playground started to

catch up with me later. "Ms. Getchell, 1 million dollars is

yours!" announced the Publishers Clearing House envelopes. Credit card

companies offered special "0% interest" rates to "Mrs. Gretches" and "Catlin

Getcher."

Still, no big deal -- until I realized that government employees had the same

penchant for misspelling my name as the bulk mailers. My passport came back

with a "z" inserted into my last name three days before my departure to

Argentina, a mistake I didn't even notice until a co-worker pointed it out. He

jokingly wondered if I were secretly Greek and particularly heavy-handed with

the peroxide bottle. But if "Catherine Getzhes" didn't trigger any alarms with

airline clerks and immigration inspectors, who was I to be troubled?

Later, after I moved to Arizona, the Department of Motor Vehicles cleverly

omitted the "c" in Getches. I guess I was too busy gawking at the purple shade

of my skin in the photo to notice, or to think about the potential consequences.

Then, last month, I went to get a marriage license.

Dimwitted, you say? Maybe. But in my defense, I might point out I had a lot on

my mind, what with 125 people arriving in my hometown of Boulder for the

weekend. I was taking the plunge, making the leap, sure at last that I wanted to

marry Peter. Ordinarily, I re-think every choice -- when I ask for a scoop of

Coffee Chip, I immediately wonder if Vanilla Swiss Almond would be better.

My parents and friends joke about my affinity for saying "Actually . . . "

because that's what I always say at restaurants before I call the waiter back to

change my order.

But when I strode into the Boulder County Clerk's office with my required

pieces of identification, I was confident. I was serene. I wasn't prepared for the

woman at the counter to inspect my driver's license, study my passport and flat-

out deny us a marriage license two days before our wedding.

A part of me thought it was an omen, a sign that I should turn and hightail it --

fetch all my forms of (false) identities and head for the border. But I snapped

back to reality when she began explaining why she couldn't overlook the

misspellings: "Sorry, we can't do it. Not since 9/11."

She cited Statute 1224, rattled off something about identity theft and kept

mentioning 9/11. I tried to imagine the law's intent -- terrorists waving phony

marriage licenses at grim-faced Border Patrol agents? -- as my eyes welled up.

Instead, I pictured my aunt filling petite sacks with Jordan almonds for the

champagne toast, my mom sprinkling rose petals along the route to the

ceremony site, Peter's mother chopping jalapeños for salsa at the barbecue, the

hike my Dad took with me so we could have time together before he "let me

go." How could 9/11 hold back two people from their intention to love, cherish

and honor each other forever? And what would I say to my guests? "Sorry,

wedding canceled due to Osama bin Laden"?

I told the clerk I had been in and out of the country five times on the passport. I

said Arizona's DMV had made a typo. I begged her to look at my Social

Security card, worn but accurate. She just kept shaking her head.

The office was closing in 25 minutes and Peter was scheduled to be out of town

the next day. There were two options: For some reason, they could perpetuate

the error and issue a license using one of my created names. Or Peter could sign

an affidavit for his part in the transaction and I could come back the following

morning to secure our union, provided that I could find my birth certificate --

which was either in my parents' cluttered basement or my new home in

California, depending on whether you trusted my memory or my mom's.

A hasty, harried search at my parents' house produced the buried treasure and

proved my memory right. The next day -- with my twin sister, Liza, as a witness

-- I raised my hand to take an oath as onlookers wondered if we were taking

part in Colorado's first gay (and incestuous) marriage.

I swore that I was in fact the person as named, that I had never been married

before and something else about not marrying a family member, as my sister

shook with laughter beside me.

But my identity problems are far from over. I've married a Fromen. Now I have

to decide whether to take a name that seems to be the favorite punch line of

every guy who's seen the movie "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." It was mildly funny

when Ferris tried to scam his way into a table at a fancy restaurant by

pretending to be "Abe Frohman, the Sausage King of Chicago." But it's tough to

muster more than a frozen smile when Peter says "Fromen, party of two," and

yet another maitre d' asks if we're any relation to a man who's nothing more

than a figment of Hollywood's imagination.

Then again, I don't know why I'm complaining. I should be used to fictional

names by now.

Author's e-mail:getchesc@yahoo.com

Catherine Getches, a k a Catie, is a freelance writer now living in northern

California.

© 2003 The Washington Post Company

How to Click With Those Who See Voting as So Last Century

COMMENTARY

How to Click With Those Who See Voting

as So Last Century

By Catherine Getches, Catherine Getches, 27, lives in Santa

Rosa.

It was Super Tuesday when I realized that the

Urban Outfitters' tee that had at first annoyed me

was actually true. "Only Old People Vote," the shirt

declared in my generation's ironically detached

way. It was true — voting made me feel more of a

nonmember than a participant in the political

process. I cast my ballot in one of the area's oldest

elementary schools, where I signed in with an

election volunteer wielding a magnifying glass.

And when she had trouble finding my name she

joked about alphabet amnesia, having "learned the

ABCs so darn long ago." I took a ballot from a man

sipping from a can of Ensure, and I was handed a

dried-up Sharpie by a silver-haired woman who

kept the cap as insurance on its return.

I wondered if the word "primary" was a nod to the

primitive voting system and if these three

attendants were at this pioneering polling place

when it all began. I pictured my paper ballot racing

to the counting location via Pony Express in time

for that night's results. And for the first time, I wished life was more as it

was on "American Idol." If vast numbers of people can be motivated to vote

for contestants who are simply interested in being heard, why is it so hard to

get people to act in behalf of candidates who have a message?

If I can transfer money via phone, publish photos straight from my

cellphone to the Web and instant-message a vote along with millions of

others to elect an Idol, why can't there be a safe and modern system in place

for selecting the country's leaders? And why do we think the current system

is so safe? At my polling place, no ID was required, just knowledge of my

name. My privacy was subject to the voice level of the attendants, and the

cereal box-like contraption that was to conceal votes from wandering eyes

was hardly fool- or snoop-proof.

When my mom was my age, she voted in every election. At 27, she was

loosening up to rock and roll, but she was also firmly against the Vietnam

War and active in protests. There was incentive to vote, she says, because

men between 18 and 26 could be drafted. These days, "sit-ins" don't really

register, but look at how many of us can come together for no reason. We

meet up in moblogs, our potent expression of cellphone solidarity.

With the click of a mouse, thousands of people can tune in to our online

tirades, where we can expound on everything from our fears to the

consistency of our last caffe latte.

Perhaps we do need something like the plan by state Sen. John

Vasconcellos (D-Santa Clara) to give 14-to-17-year-olds in California a

fraction of a vote. With less than 4% of the people between the ages of 18

and 29 voting in the last election, it's clear that young people are not being

reached in their medium. My mom often asks: "Doesn't anybody your age

care? Are you all so complacent?" And I counter with what I hear so often:

"What's the point? Where's the incentive?"

In 1990, a few years before I first voted, Rock the Vote seemed pretty cool.

But these days, out-of-date RTV artists like Donny Osmond just aren't

pumping me up for the polls. Today, when I stand in line for a Rock the

Vote concert, all I see is the disconnect between the clipboard-armed Rock

the Vote Street Team outside and the ear-ringing levels of music inside.

The same thing is true of efforts like the competition that asked teams of

teenagers from across the country to devise strategies for presidential

candidates to reach the youth vote. One team came up with handing out

condoms and hairbrushes emblazoned with "Kerry Cares." Another group

created an ad showing the Bush tax cuts paying for DVD players and

Members Only jackets. The competition's sponsor called it "on target" to

have "the president embrace the bling-bling lifestyle."

Wouldn't the money be better spent on electrifying the voting process

instead of trying to prop up the political process with current fads?

If voting were less of a cross between the SAT and going to the DMV and

more like taking an online survey, it might be more appealing. This year is

already a testament to the power of political Web logs and other Internet

enterprises.

Just look at the assertion on Rock the Vote's website: "16% of Americans

who vote are under 30. That's enough to sway an election or two."

It seems that all we need is a medium that meets us on our terms. If the click

of a mouse can charm us to a chat room where even Howard Dean's scream

won't scare us away, then why does getting involved in the political process

feel like being handed an eight-track when you're used to your iPod?

Copyright 2004 Los Angeles Times

That's a Collection of ... What, Exactly?

That's Quite a Collection of . . . What, Exactly?

By Catherine Getches
Sunday, November 20, 2005

Inever used to have trouble getting rid of things. Maybe that's because the weird stuff that people collect can speak volumes about them, and I never wanted anyone to read anything into my fetish for collecting, say, pink plastic flamingos. I can relate to the scene in the recent movie "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," when Trish discovers that her boyfriend (the Virgin) has a wall-to-wall, mint condition collection of action figures and a huge stash of porn tapes. While I'm sure a still-packaged Aquaman and a video of "Forrest Hump" have their finer points, it can still be disturbing to come face to face with the things someone else has a "thing" for.

So it's always been easy for me to defer to the trash pile -- even during a post-college closet cleaning, when my teary-eyed Dad, clutching the broken strap of a straw bag I carried throughout junior high, was only able to eke out the words, "Not . . . this." He always said I "might regret it later." But now that it's later, I'm finding that unloading excess baggage is harder than I thought. Progress, it seems, has made pack rats of us all.

Thanks to modern technology, collecting stuff is stranger than ever. It's not just that once hard-to-find objects are now easy-to-come-by thanks to a high-speed connection between every man's trash and every other man's treasure. Or that eBay's "weird sales" category has become even more visible thanks to pop culture -- it's been featured on a "Tonight Show" segment, various Web sites and blogs highlighting what people actually post and pay for in the Internet marketplace. With something virtually out there for everyone, it's not surprising that bidding wars break out over a mind-reading machine (sold for $710) or a Ziploc bag full of Lucky Charms marshmallows ($102.50). One man from Indianapolis can hope to sell his soul, while another can snap up the guide "10 Secrets to Successful Toe Popping." We're all the wiser for it -- or at least ready to pounce if we see a celebrity spit out chewing gum, or spot a grilled cheese sandwich in the shape of, well, anything.

I thought it was weird that Bob Dylan collects monkey wrenches until I saw that character on "The Sopranos" who collected her hair and toenail clippings. Angelina Jolie collects beer mats, knives and orphans. My father-in-law has a stockpile of 1982 Bordeaux upstairs and an arsenal of old catalogues and magazines in the basement. A childhood friend has a garage full of empty soda and beer cans, and an old man down the street hides his driveway and house under hubcaps, his collectible of choice.

But now that technology has amped up our ability to accumulate, more and more of the stuff we collect doesn't even collect dust. My husband, for example, apparently feels better knowing that our TiVo has saved 89 episodes of "Seinfeld." Who cares that the show is rerun daily, that we own seasons 1 and 2 on DVD, or that we have yet to watch a single TiVoed episode? Apparently it calms him knowing that "The Frogger" episode is on our saved list, or that we could watch the show nonstop for days if we wanted to. Maybe I should be grateful that he doesn't collect receipts by the shoebox anymore -- he told his assistant he hates paper, so now he has a library of correspondence on his BlackBerry. Sometimes, after he's left for work, I think I'm hearing phantom noises of him scrolling that little wheel on the device.

The rise of digital cameras has similarly increased the number of pictures people take -- and made it unlikely we'll ever enjoy an actual print. We download more and more digital data, and delete less and less, as if hitting that "Del" key is like ditching the Hope Diamond. Lately, we're even being forced to save -- with Google's Gmail, the Mack truck of megabyte-storage capacity, you can't delete even if you want to.

But that's okay with us. We think it's hip to walk around with a warehouse of up to 25,000 songs or 10,000 videos on our iPods or (insert flavor-of-the-week Apple product here). And the more we collect our news in RSS feeds and receive e-mail alerts and news updates, the more we add to the deluge of e-mail we already have to troll. Now if we could only collect the time to get through it.

What really weighs me down is the idea that instead of collecting rare items, we now stockpile the ubiquitous. Before, collectors sought an original Picasso, a rare vintage Chateau Mouton Rothschild, a one-of-a-kind Indian head nickel. Now, we download "Desperate Housewives" episodes -- special only because not everyone else can do it (yet). At a dollar a song, a friend who used to obsessively alphabetize his CDs figures that when full, his 40-gig iPod nano will have a value of almost $10,000. So why don't preloaded iPods even fetch retail on eBay? Sure, we'll pay Apple $1.99 to download Kanye West and Madonna music videos, but if we never watch them, what are they worth? Maybe time will tell.

I wonder if they'll ever accumulate the value of those old-time collections. I wish I'd saved a few stamps or those two-dollar bills my Dad used to give me, now that I see all the cash in coin collecting and philately. In the last month, a set of four U.S. stamps sold for a record-breaking $2.7 million, a set of coins went for a U.S. record of $8.5 million, and shortly afterward, there was a world-record sale of a single 1-cent Z-Grill stamp for $2.2 million.

But even if a collection isn't driven by dreams of monetary gain, shouldn't it at least provide some pleasure -- whether it's Pez dispensers, Manolo Blahniks or, if you're like Jay Leno, antique motorcycles? Are we really having fun if 60 percent of us admit to going through our stash of e-mail on vacation (and 4 percent to checking it in the bathroom)?

There are a lot of theories as to why people hoard certain things or form collections of others. The psychoanalyst Werner Muensterberger views collecting as a sort of security blanket -- a "relentless and intrinsically narcissistic aim . . . to help undo traumata during the formative years." Stanley B. Messer, dean of the Rutgers University Graduate School of Applied and Professional Psychology, says collectors are responding to the inevitable and unavoidable disorder of everyday life.

Others, like blogger Chip Rowe, point to the leaving-something-behind theory: "Collecting stuff is like trying to find anchors to keep you from slipping toward death." At some point, though, he theorizes, we have to decide we don't need the baggage. "Let's face it, unless you're famous, who wants your kindergarten numbers exercises?"

I didn't save those, good for me. In fact, I don't have much saved at all, except for the stuff my Dad snatched from my trash pile or guilted me into keeping and squirreled away in my parents' basement for "later." Which makes my only collection all those e-mails in the deleted folder of my inbox. I wonder what I could get on eBay for 2,489 perfectly preserved castoff messages?

Author's e-mail: getchesc@yahoo.com

Catherine Getches, a writer living in California, might collect things if she didn't move so often.

Down in the Dump(ster)

Why I'm Down in the Dump(ster)

By Catherine Getches
Sunday, April 21, 2002

[NOT FULL ARTICLE...]For two weeks I drove, my trunk full of everything from crumpled Coke cans and empty Heineken bottles to torn-up Raisin Bran boxes and toilet paper rolls. I was in hot pursuit of a place where I could rid myself of my recyclables. But the rental community where I'm living doesn't separate its paper and plastic from its flotsam and jetsam, so I had no choice: I became a dumpster stalker.

What began as a mission grew into an obsession. I stopped at a bar and asked where they discarded their beer bottles. I inquired at bagel shops and pizzerias about the final resting places for their Pepsis and Mountain Dews. I visited alleys behind restaurants, snooped around office buildings and, aside from a few receptacles on a college campus, I found that it all went to the same place: the trash.

For a late-twentysomething who grew up in suburban America, this is equivalent to a Puritan being told that there is no God. Ten years ago, recycling was easy, ubiquitous and usually color-coded. Blue bins were part of the landscape, flanking trash cans at home, office, grocery store and college campus.

But these days it's not so easy to be green. Plastic soda bottle waste doubled between 1994 and 1998. Last year, according to the Container Recycling Institute, the aluminum can recycling rate dropped to 55 percent, its lowest point in 12 years.

I see evidence of trouble everywhere. New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg, facing a $4 billion deficit in the aftermath of the Sept. 11 attacks, proposed recently that the city suspend its money-losing metal, plastic and glass recycling service. He predicts citywide savings of $57 million. (Paper recycling will continue.) Once such a suggestion might have been politically risky, but the bring-your-own-coffee-mug crowd has become the buy-your-own-bottled-water bunch: They'll just drop their empty Aquafinas (bottled by Pepsi) and Dasanis (bottled by Coke) in their trash compactors and go about their business. U.S. sales of bottled water grew 30 percent last year; it's now a $3.5 billion market.

If you doubt this shift in perspective, go to any Starbucks. Ask for a mocha and you'll often get a cup inside a cup (a single layer being too hot to hold) protected by a corrugated paper "java jacket" and, for those on the move, a cardboard carrying case. It's enough packaging to mail the darn mocha across the country.

I saw the first hints of recycling apathy when I was living in New York City a few years ago. I'd lug bags of recyclables down six flights of stairs and place them where the superintendent instructed: right next to the heaps of garbage bags at the curb. Then I'd watch as a single dump truck whisked away all the bags simultaneously. At work -- a midtown Manhattan publishing house with more than 10 magazines to its name -- I was told the company recycled "downstairs," where "maintenance takes care of it." I had a hard time picturing the already overworked maintenance staff picking through each employee's trash bag, separating stacks of magazines from newsprint and colored paper, not to mention apple cores, excess cream cheese and chewing gum.

When I moved to Phoenix, I was glad to see the city-run recycling service for many residences but couldn't believe the number of stores, eateries and apartment buildings where management didn't offer recycling. After consulting the Internet, I found four drop-off locations (two of which turned out to be defunct) for aluminum, plastics, glass and paper. Newspaper is the easiest to recycle, thanks to the Boy Scouts' bins scattered about. But I don't know anyone else in my apartment complex who goes beyond the dumpsters, and all of my friends unflinchingly cast their refuse into one container. Don't they remember what we learned in kindergarten?

Of course, most city governments have learned that recycling doesn't pay for itself. When New York City passed its 1989 recycling law, members of the City Council and environmental advocates predicted it would save money. That hasn't been the case, although on what side of the balance sheet do you account for all those reprocessed plastic bottles? The American Plastics Council reports that the industry recycled 1.5 billion pounds of "post-consumer" plastic containers in 2000. That's a 368 percent increase since the beginning of the decade, but essentially the same as the amount in 1999.

The best evidence of a waning interest in recycling may be the change in marketing tactics. The Wall Street Journal recently reported that companies have concluded "green" sales pitches don't sell: In 1994 Philips Electronics named an energy-saving fluorescent bulb "EarthLight." In 2000, it was repackaged as the seven-year "Marathon" bulb; sales grew 12 percent.

To recycle now feels like a quirky hobby. While others accumulate automobiles or art, I hoard trash.

On Sundays, my boyfriend and I pack the car, drive to the depository and then celebrate our good deed with the Sunday paper, bagels and mochas. And I've gotten over the strange looks from the counter guy when I hand him the extra cup I saved from the previous Sunday's outing and ask him to fill it up.

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Catherine Getches is a free-lance writer who wouldn't mind if you recycled this column.