i've determined that it takes me five songs to drive everywhere close to me, or, alternatively, twenty-three for when i make silly driving errors or visit somewhere i've never been before with hand-written google map directions on a sticky note. i always seem to stop and then restart the next time on that same song.
this is not taking into consideration that i almost always skip track three and sometimes repeat eight and eighteen an undetermined number of times, depending on the day, or depending on if someone passes me and i consequently miss singing my favorite part out loud.
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
this is the family i've been waiting for
The No Trash Family
By Sharon
Cotliar, Susan Young
http://www.people.com/people/archive/article/0,,20559312,00.html
When Bea Johnson decided her family should stop having any trash to throw out, her husband, Scott, says, "I thought she had lost her mind." No trash? Just about. Since 2006 the Mill Valley, Calif., couple and their sons have cut down their garbage output so that they now produce only enough in a year to fill a 1-liter mason jar. (The average American leaves behind 1,051 lbs. annually.) Everything else? They reuse, recycle or compost.
Gone are Styrofoam trays and plastic wrap-Bea brings glass jars to the butcher, fish and deli counters to fill with meat, fish and cheese. Cereal or cookie boxes with plastic liners? Banned; she makes her own or buys from bulk bins. Rags replace paper towels, washable pads for cotton balls and toilet paper-well, they still buy toilet paper but recycle the tubes, along with any other cardboard that finds its way home.
Why live this way? "We set out to simplify our lives, and it turned into something good for the environment," says Bea, 37, an artist (pesky unrecyclable butter wrappers are one medium) who also runs a decluttering business and writes a blog, thezerowastehome.com, on which she documents her low-impact life.
The boys, Max, 11, and Leo, 10, barely notice their life is unusual. They've grown up carrying lunches in knotted towels and playing with recycled toys. (Plastic toys they outgrow are donated.) "I don't want my children to feel deprived," Bea says. For gifts, they often get experiences like sports outings. But, says Max, sometimes "I'll bring home things that can't be recycled," like the wrapper from his 3-D movie glasses. Scott, 48, despite being an eco-business consultant, admits he became enthusiastic about their lifestyle only after he noticed they were saving money-Bea shops resale stores for clothes, and he estimates they've cut 25 percent of their food costs, more than offsetting the premium they pay for green and specialty items. Recently Scott was the one approaching the deli counter with glass jars. When he did, the clerk asked, " 'Hey, do you know the jar lady?' " he recalls. Scott told him, "I'm married to the jar lady."
AT THE STORE
At the super-market, Bea (right) brings sacks for baguettes and food bought from bins, and glass jars for meat. At home the kitchen cabinets are stocked with nuts, dried fruits, peanut butter and pasta. "As long as they have the cereal, fruit and cookies they like, they're happy," says Bea. Adds son Leo: "Most of my favorites aren't in plastic."
NO-WASTE KIDS
Leo, 10 (with Zizou), snacks from a cloth sack of nuts. Even at school he shuns waste. "It isn't hard to say no to chips. They are gone in three seconds, then the bag is in the trash." His and Max's artwork decorates the stairs.
IN THE YARD
Now an expert at composting, Scott relies on worms to turn trash into fertilizer for his garden.
IN THE BATH
They use bamboo toothbrushes and homemade baking soda toothpaste. Bea also makes her own eyeliner, but Scott can't lose his plastic contact lens case.
WHAT YOU CAN DO
• Refuse plastic bags. Bring jars and reusable totes to the store.
• Buy secondhand; if you buy new, choose glass and metal, not plastic.
• Swap disposables for reusables (refillable bottles, cloth napkins, rags).
• Fight junk mail. Get off lists at dmachoice.org or catalogchoice.org.
• Turn down freebies; taking them creates more demand. Says Bea: "Do you really need another pen?"
• Download music and videos online instead of buying CDs and DVDs.
WHAT THEY THREW OUT
Items that can't be recycled go in a jar under the sink. Packaging from infrequent large purchases (like their computer) gets left behind at the store. "Zero waste is idealistic," says Bea. "We refuse packaging material as a statement that might lead to more recyclable materials."
Paint rollers
Plastic tie from a pair of shoes
Plastic hanger straps from a dress
Plastic cork covers from wine bottles
Plastic casing from an electrical cord
Candy wrapper
Photos
Clothes tags
Old plastic toothbrush
Masking tape
Packaging of home repair/electrical items
A fruit sticker
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
"I HAD A GOLDFISH AND I FED IT TOO MUCH AND IT DIED."
eugene, the beta fish, died at age three.
when i see other beta fish in the pet stores or in fancy vases on admin desks in offices, i'm reminded of how big our fish grew to be. he must have been at least three times the size he was when we bought him for a dollar seventy-five or whatever. i read somewhere, i think, that they grow to a size proportional to their environment, and we once had him in a really giant bowl because we felt bad for how they are usually kept in small plastic cups. the bowl was from winners, and it actually came with a sticker that said DO NOT FILL WITH WATER.
eugene survived when the bowl split in two during transition from one apartment to another. it just fell apart. one leak and then another, right in my roommates hands. the beta fish was welcomed into our new apartment in a small remainder of the base of the do not fill with water fish bowl. we downsized after that.
someone who didn't know eugene very personally flushed him because he was sick, on the bottom of the bowl. he couldn't swim anymore, but we could see his gills moving, so we couldn't bear to kill him. he was just a beta fish, like the ones in the little plastic cups.
but once, i put him in a beet jar, and punched holes in the lid, and seatbelted him into my passengers seat, and the man who pumped my gas said he'd seen alot of things, but a fish, a little beta fish in the jar, going home for christmas, WELL. that was new.
when i see other beta fish in the pet stores or in fancy vases on admin desks in offices, i'm reminded of how big our fish grew to be. he must have been at least three times the size he was when we bought him for a dollar seventy-five or whatever. i read somewhere, i think, that they grow to a size proportional to their environment, and we once had him in a really giant bowl because we felt bad for how they are usually kept in small plastic cups. the bowl was from winners, and it actually came with a sticker that said DO NOT FILL WITH WATER.
eugene survived when the bowl split in two during transition from one apartment to another. it just fell apart. one leak and then another, right in my roommates hands. the beta fish was welcomed into our new apartment in a small remainder of the base of the do not fill with water fish bowl. we downsized after that.
someone who didn't know eugene very personally flushed him because he was sick, on the bottom of the bowl. he couldn't swim anymore, but we could see his gills moving, so we couldn't bear to kill him. he was just a beta fish, like the ones in the little plastic cups.
but once, i put him in a beet jar, and punched holes in the lid, and seatbelted him into my passengers seat, and the man who pumped my gas said he'd seen alot of things, but a fish, a little beta fish in the jar, going home for christmas, WELL. that was new.
Thursday, 19 April 2012
mrs. dexter
"i cannot stand the sameness of our days."
growing old. realizing you have to use the banister to get up the stairs. four decades of marriage, and he leaves you for the widowed neighbour. "i cannot stand the sameness of our days."
is there anything more terrifying?
growing old. realizing you have to use the banister to get up the stairs. four decades of marriage, and he leaves you for the widowed neighbour. "i cannot stand the sameness of our days."
is there anything more terrifying?
the not-by-friedan feminine mystique
forgive me in advance for this.
"we should make a list. what kind of qualities do you look for in a guy?"
(we love lists. i used to make pros/cons list about the boys my roommate was trying to choose between on sticky notes and tack them on the walls of our kitchen so we could all examine them while eating breakfast. it was effective, i'm sure. but this is besides the point.)
"well. he has to be physically attractive. i have to be attracted to him."
"he has to like the same things i do. or have the same values."
"he has to be funny."
"yeah, funny is good."
"and handy. i don't want to be the man in the relationship, you know? like...at home, my dad does the electrical, the plumbing..."
"so you want to date your dad?"
"you know what i mean."
later:
"who decided relationships should be monogamous?"
(we were making supper.)
"don't you think we would all be happier if we weren't? mongamous?"
three girls said no.
"why not? wouldn't it be great if we could just have a guy to come home to at night but--"
"well when do you decide to stop with one and go with the other?"
"someone always wants to keep going."
"girls are crazy."
"i'm not crazy."
"yes you are. wait until you get into a relationship. you invest so much it gets scary, and then you get crazy."
"sometimes i'm sad that my boyfriend doesn't love me like in the movies."
"we are all crazy bitches."
later yet:
i talked about attachment and detachment with my sister.
"your body remembers things even when your mind doesn't."
detach from one to attach to another. be desperately attached and indifferently detached. latch.
there is nothing simple about relationships. betty friedan wrote about "the problem with no name," that empty feeling, the inexplicable desire for something that we can't have, or we shouldn't want. there has got to be more to life than this.
she wasn't talking about relationships, necessarily, but i'm sure she would hate every moment of the above conversations.
i want someone to appreciate me, even if nobody else anywhere at anytime does.
i want a monogamous relationship but i'm not convinced they work.
i can't tell if i'm attached or detached.
carrie bradshaw out?
"we should make a list. what kind of qualities do you look for in a guy?"
(we love lists. i used to make pros/cons list about the boys my roommate was trying to choose between on sticky notes and tack them on the walls of our kitchen so we could all examine them while eating breakfast. it was effective, i'm sure. but this is besides the point.)
"well. he has to be physically attractive. i have to be attracted to him."
"he has to like the same things i do. or have the same values."
"he has to be funny."
"yeah, funny is good."
"and handy. i don't want to be the man in the relationship, you know? like...at home, my dad does the electrical, the plumbing..."
"so you want to date your dad?"
"you know what i mean."
later:
"who decided relationships should be monogamous?"
(we were making supper.)
"don't you think we would all be happier if we weren't? mongamous?"
three girls said no.
"why not? wouldn't it be great if we could just have a guy to come home to at night but--"
"well when do you decide to stop with one and go with the other?"
"someone always wants to keep going."
"girls are crazy."
"i'm not crazy."
"yes you are. wait until you get into a relationship. you invest so much it gets scary, and then you get crazy."
"sometimes i'm sad that my boyfriend doesn't love me like in the movies."
"we are all crazy bitches."
later yet:
i talked about attachment and detachment with my sister.
"your body remembers things even when your mind doesn't."
detach from one to attach to another. be desperately attached and indifferently detached. latch.
there is nothing simple about relationships. betty friedan wrote about "the problem with no name," that empty feeling, the inexplicable desire for something that we can't have, or we shouldn't want. there has got to be more to life than this.
she wasn't talking about relationships, necessarily, but i'm sure she would hate every moment of the above conversations.
i want someone to appreciate me, even if nobody else anywhere at anytime does.
i want a monogamous relationship but i'm not convinced they work.
i can't tell if i'm attached or detached.
carrie bradshaw out?
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
grids
the boys ride their bicycles to the north edge of town, to railway avenue, two blocks up from the grocery store and one and a half blocks across from the grain elevators. the train had sparked yesterday afternoon climbing the hill it always climbs, by the carleton's yard, and all the surrounding ditches are charred and flaking like crappy old acrylic paint discs in the school's art room.
the siren had called for the town's fourteen volunteer firefighters, but for insurance purposes they couldn't pass the outside edge of town with the truck.
the boys lean their bicycles against the nelson's garage and push the gate open, the one that doesn't close properly because one of the hinges is off and the lock doesn't match up. mr. nelson's yard is getting pretty wild, and the boys promise to get the lawnmower out of the garage for him after they use his barbeque for lunch. mr. nelson doesn't use his barbeque much, but there are still some coals in the bottom.
the summer is hot in a way that makes all the growth yellowish and scratchy on the part of the boys' legs that is above their socks and below their shorts. they both have scabs on their knees, but the one always picks the crusty part back on his, so it has a tight whitish-pink scar around the edges and a dark blood centre. when the grass in the nelsons' yard tickles him he scratches it again, and wipes the little bit of blood from his fingers to his shorts.
they get the coals going pretty easily, and then dig in their pockets for change to buy hotdogs. they're not interested in buns, just the pink hotdogs that come linked in plastic and nobody knows if they're raw or cooked or what. they walk the two blocks to the grocery store, wondering if they will be able to afford ketchup, or mustard, or both.
one of the boys doesn't really remember this story now, but the other, probably the one who picked at his scabby knees, he remembers everything. he remembers hearing that siren again, and how mrs. foley, who worked at the till at the grocery store, left midway through ringing in the ketchup to look out the window and see if she could see smoke. "seems like we've been hearing that thing too often lately!" she said.
there was a hole in the back of the barbeque or something, and the nelson's yard and garage probably caught fire long before the boys even got to the isle with plastic-linked hotdogs. neither one of them can really remember how much trouble they got in, or what was in that garage besides the lawnmower-- but the one boy, the one that remembers all the details, can recall standing on the street with a bottle of ketchup in his hand, wondering why the heck they hadn't rode their bicycles to the grocery store.
the siren had called for the town's fourteen volunteer firefighters, but for insurance purposes they couldn't pass the outside edge of town with the truck.
the boys lean their bicycles against the nelson's garage and push the gate open, the one that doesn't close properly because one of the hinges is off and the lock doesn't match up. mr. nelson's yard is getting pretty wild, and the boys promise to get the lawnmower out of the garage for him after they use his barbeque for lunch. mr. nelson doesn't use his barbeque much, but there are still some coals in the bottom.
the summer is hot in a way that makes all the growth yellowish and scratchy on the part of the boys' legs that is above their socks and below their shorts. they both have scabs on their knees, but the one always picks the crusty part back on his, so it has a tight whitish-pink scar around the edges and a dark blood centre. when the grass in the nelsons' yard tickles him he scratches it again, and wipes the little bit of blood from his fingers to his shorts.
they get the coals going pretty easily, and then dig in their pockets for change to buy hotdogs. they're not interested in buns, just the pink hotdogs that come linked in plastic and nobody knows if they're raw or cooked or what. they walk the two blocks to the grocery store, wondering if they will be able to afford ketchup, or mustard, or both.
one of the boys doesn't really remember this story now, but the other, probably the one who picked at his scabby knees, he remembers everything. he remembers hearing that siren again, and how mrs. foley, who worked at the till at the grocery store, left midway through ringing in the ketchup to look out the window and see if she could see smoke. "seems like we've been hearing that thing too often lately!" she said.
there was a hole in the back of the barbeque or something, and the nelson's yard and garage probably caught fire long before the boys even got to the isle with plastic-linked hotdogs. neither one of them can really remember how much trouble they got in, or what was in that garage besides the lawnmower-- but the one boy, the one that remembers all the details, can recall standing on the street with a bottle of ketchup in his hand, wondering why the heck they hadn't rode their bicycles to the grocery store.
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