Green Thoughts

I certainly consider myself environmentally conscious and would even go as far as saying that I am an environmentalist (as defined by Webster: : "an advocate of the preservation, restoration, or improvement of the natural environment").  I believe that we are experiencing global warming as the fate of our own choices and actions.  However, I'm not sure about the concept that this planet, which humans have inhabited for over two million years, is so rapidly approaching a level of destruction that will make it uninhabitable for relatively near-future generations. Some things about this theory don't sit completely right with me.  Regardless, I still try and do my part.  So below is a partial listing of things I am doing in favor of a greener planet and some things where I happen to draw the line at (though I remain open to rational discussion about change).  I encourage you to think about your own green efforts...where is your line?

For a greener planet, I ...

1. Drink tap water over bottled water whenever its an option
2. Reduce my trips in the car (combining shopping with work trips, etc)
3. Replace my light bulbs with CFLs and LEDs
4. Don't use paper plates or paper towels in my home
5. Reduce the use of phantom power by unplugging unused appliances and not leaving things like TVs and chargers in standby mode
6. Recycle as much as possible in the home and at work, including electronics, clothing, glass, paper, cardboard, etc.
7. Am in current negotiations with myself about building a patio composting system
8. Don't ever run heat in my house (lucky I live in a temperate climate for this one)
9. Plant CO2 absorbing plants on my patio
10. Eat lower on the food chain as much as possible

I don't, won't, etc ...

1. Take shorter showers.  5 minutes?  Really?  No thanks!
2. Stop eating meat. Uh, no!  While I agree that food production animals need to be raised under higher ethical standards, I don't really buy into the whole "highest producers of methane and nitrous oxide" theories.  Perhaps its from being raised in rural Nebraska where our livelihood was dependent on the meat eating of others.  And quite frankly I enjoy a good steak, hamburger, bacon, roast, etc.  Also, I don't drive an SUV...so I'll keep my 1lb of meat for each of your 40 SUV miles.
3. Use naturally biodegrading cat litter. I mean really. Do you understand what happens to corn fibers when they get wet?  And even knowing this (again from my rural Nebraska upbringing) I actually still tried this solution.  So, until there are other solutions to healthfully co-existing with my two cats in this area, I'll be sticking to the clay--sodium bentonite.  Yes, I understand that its strip-mined. However, I also understand that the biodegrading version doesn't actually biodegrade in our landfills when its inside of plastic bags or buried by tons of other garbage.  So what's to be done about it?

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A Landlord Named Karma

I've lived and worked in enough college dorms to learn two things:  1) when lots of people are living together in close quarters with poorly insulated walls, there is going to be noise, and 2) some people just can't be reasoned with.  Both of which bring me to the neighbor upstairs. 
I live on the ground floor of a three story building, thus the woman who lives above me is sandwiched between my apartment and her own neighbor upstairs (who happens to play the drums).  We all share our bedroom wall with the kitchen wall of the connecting apartment, which as you can imagine can create some situations in which sleep will be disrupted by say running dishwashers, families that cater events on weekends and are up cooking at 2am, etc.  All things that in the five years I've lived here, I've dealt with patiently and with understanding that life consists of a certain amount of noise we have no control over.  My neighbor upstairs however has not. 
Over the past five years, I have made a myriad of compromises to the way I live my life to accommodate what appears to be her super-human sensitivity to noise. Side note: She once complained to the landlord about a high-pitched noise coming from the refrigeration unit at the 7Eleven across the street.  She said she could hear it in her apartment.  I could barely hear it when I was actually at the 7Eleven.  In the first year she complained about things that I could fairly easily change: vacuuming in the a.m. on weekends, rolling my laundry cart out at 6am on Sundays, etc.  So when I found that I could turn the volume off of my TV and still hear/understand what was being said clearly when we were watching the same channel, I knocked on her door and shared my concern with her.  She did not welcome this and I quickly learned that she was the type to retaliate.  She never knocked on my door to complain about noise, opting instead to ambush me out on the side walk when I was coming home from work or out walking the dog.  Often, she'd raise her voice while I attempted to reason with her--drawing attention from neighbors.  And then she would follow that up with a complaint to the landlord about my unreasonable noise making.  Then she began to retaliate with noise.  I once mentioned to her that it would be nice if she wouldn't vacuum on Friday night at 9pm when I was typically settling in to watch a movie.  Not only did she not stop, but for two weeks straight, she vacuumed EVERY night at 9pm.  And has since continued to vacuum on Friday/Saturday evenings.  She also took to gossiping about me (and others) with another neighbor right outside of my windows/patio.  Under the guise of walking their dogs, they happily greet each other and spend 20+ minutes every evening talking and cackling in raised voices.  They cleverly mask their gossip by speaking in French; a language which I understand perfectly well.  Lets just say that she is a mean spirited, prejudiced, vindictive individual.  Even the nicest neighbor I've ever met, an older gentlemen, shakes his head when he sees the two of them and has referred to them as "the gossip hags." 
Two weeks ago, the neighbor upstairs interrupted my perfectly calm zen-patio afternoon when she stopped by to announce that I would have a new neighbor upstairs in a few weeks.  Apparently she bought a new condo and will be moving.  I could barely hold back my expression of complete joy at this announcement.  That move can't happen soon enough for me as her insanity about noise has increased tri-fold over the past five years, culminating last night in her stomping on the bedroom floor (my ceiling) at 2am for nearly 45 minutes straight, a practice she has taken-up to alert me to the fact that some noise has woken HER up.  It doesn't matter what that noise was or where it actually came from, if something has woken her up it obviously had to be me. 
And so Karma, I'm putting you on notice. I fully expect that in her newly-purchased condo, the neighbor upstairs will experience the same kind of neighbor that she has recently been to others.  And I have complete faith that the universe will deliver me a new neighbor upstairs;a ruggedly handsome, single heterosexual male in his mid to late 30s who understands that living life comes with a certain amount of reasonable noise.  Maybe he'll even have a Harley. *wink* 

A Harley Moment

Hoping to shave a couple of minutes off my ten minute commute home tonight, I took a turn onto a road I'd never been on before.  It took me through a rough looking industrial area that dumped right back out on the road I usually take home.  Though I didn't cut any time, I did have a thought provoking chance encounter.  At the stop light, my car came to rest next to a guy sitting on a classic Harley Davidson in the turning lane.  An average height, sun-roughed man; his greying goatee and long hair trademarks of my image of a "Harley Man."  And exactly the kind of guy that twenty years ago I was likely to have ended up marrying, or at the very least ....  The bike--a thing of beauty, was definitely a fxb sturgis from the early 80's with studded leather saddle and saddle bags. It looked carefully restored with shiny black paint and red trim.  Dressed head to toe in leather, the rider wore a vintage-style classic leather helmet, sun glasses and smile.  As I sat there admiring the bike and its rider, all the tension from what has felt like the longest week in recent history escaped.  And I just knew that if at that moment he had turned to me with a nod towards the bitch seat and said "hop on," I would have.  But its only Wednesday after all and as the lights turned green, we both drove off in our separate ways.  Oh well, there's always tomorrow.        

Bodice Ripper in Progress?

I was cleaning up some files from an old flash drive this morning and came across this piece I started writing several years ago.  It smacks of romance novel and I never finished it, but I might.  This is the opening page....thoughts? 
 ------



This was the kind of thing he’d always done.  B-- had perfect timing and when she saw his maroon baseball cap and scuffed cowboy boots at the edge of the concourse, she didn’t care that he hadn’t been waiting 20 minutes for the plane to land, what mattered was that he was there.  Just as he’d always been.

His six foot three frame towered above her as he dipped his chin in a welcoming nod.  He didn’t say anything, he knew he didn’t need to.  The touch of his hand at the small of her back spoke a thousand words and closed the gap of the years that had spanned between them.

“I had to check a bag”  “k”

He looked over the heads of the crowd and led them towards baggage claim.  While they waited for her bag, she recalled the day a few years earlier, the summer before the planes hit the twin towers, that he’d met her there at DIA for a drink during a short layover.

He’d once said “Call me when you come through town.”  Not sure he’d really meant it, but he did and when she deplaned, there he’d stood with his hands deep in his pockets, reading the floor.  She knew he didn’t like being around so many people, and yet he’d come this time—fought the crowded parking lots, found his way to the gate and waited.  Her plane had been delayed and now they had less time than they’d planned.  He didn’t seem to mind, pulling out a stool at the bar and ordering her favorite beer as if they’d been here before.  It’d been a year since her father had passed, so unexpectedly.  She’d just been back east visiting her mother for the first time and instinctively he knew it had been a rough one.  As usual, he didn’t speak much, waiting for her to invite conversation.  And she did.  What had he been up to? How was Elizabeth.

His answers were brief.  “Workin’.”  “She’s fine.”

It was enough—just to be there. 

They’d only spoken once or twice since the day she’d entered the church graveyard to see him standing there.  Hat in hand.  Standing by himself, away from the others.  She had not been able to go to him right away so she lifted a hand in a quiet greeting and he nodded.  While the brief service took place, she thought about his presence.  It was nice to see him, but why was he there?  It had been years since they’d spoke, the physical miles between them too many; the emotional miles too tender.  As the service came to an end and the funeral director slowly lowered her father’s ashes into a ground, still hardened against the spring thaw, she felt his arms come around her from behind.  At first surprised, her muscles tightened, and then she was helpless to the desire of her tired body to collapse against him. 

She was home.

California "Find Yourself Here"

Don’t be fooled by my year-round tan, local address and pocket-sized dog, I am not a Californian.  In fact, given my quite vocal displeasure about the nuances of this state in which I currently find myself the majority of you might think that the first time I ever uttered the words, “I’m moving to California” was just about five years ago when I packed up my one bedroom apartment and two long-haired tabbies and left Oregon.

It wasn’t. 

Like most young children, I had a penchant for throwing a fit when I didn’t get my way.  Also, like most, I would threaten to run away; the idea of which seemed to make my mother just a little too happy.  “I’m moving to California!” I would yell, and if I were really upset, “I’m moving to California and I’m going to buy a boat!”  Somewhere I had gotten it in my petulant adolescent mind that one had to own a boat to live in California.  As the heat of my temper subsided and the idea of going to California on my own became more daunting, I would suggest, non-apologetically, that someone else in the house could perhaps join me.  That I might be willing to allow one of my sisters or mother to live in the guest house of some mythical mansion that was waiting just for me to move in, no doubt in the general vicinity of where I was going to park my boat.  My family would laugh it off.  They knew I wasn’t going anywhere. 

And yet, here I am. 

I came to the Bay Area for professional reasons.  A job I loved, which three-plus years, two promotions and one lateral-move later, was the culmination of extensive overtime, hard work, stress and anxiety.  It was a demanding environment, and when I wasn’t physically at work, I was there mentally – at home checking email, planning how to accomplish the next day’s to-do list, and worrying about the possibility that I’d made some kind of arbitrary mistake that would inevitably come back to bite me in the ass, depending on the mood of those in charge.  I went to work, came home and slept (kind of), and went back to work; often slightly less congenial than the previous day.  When I did find the time to take vacation, I would retreat to Oregon, with friends and family. It was peaceful, made sense and fed a desire to be back in that nurturing environment again.  Of course it did, it was vacation!  Back at home in California, the ulcers would flair up, my mood would take a nose dive, and the grind of the weekly routine continued on.   I had few active friendships, little time to myself with any energy to do anything, and an upstairs neighbor who to this day consistently complains about the level of noise coming from an apartment I wasn't really spending that much time in.  No wonder I disliked California so much.  Granted it could never have lived up to the ideals of my fantasy-fueled childhood musings, but I’d certainly had more hope for it than this.  California and I just weren’t going to click and it seemed our time together was limited. 

Then, reality struck and the parts of California I had hoped existed, but was now certain had been sucked into oblivion by vapid local life forms, found a way to reveal themselves. 

I, along with hundreds of others in my industry, was laid off.  The economic climate was such that moving to Oregon to find a job was just as much a gamble as staying put.  I had an apartment lease I couldn’t afford to break and the prospects outside of this state were just as dim as inside.  But there was an up side.  For five months I had all the free time anyone could ask for.  For the first month, I didn’t even look for work.  I slept, A LOT.  And read and then began to explore my neighborhood, my city, the surrounding cities.  I spent time with friends (from my previous job) for happy hour, movies, lunches and weekend brunches.  I began to spend time with a friend’s toddler a couple afternoons a week and quickly became the beloved “Auntie Netters.”  For the first time in four years, I was actually living in California.  It had become crystal clear that previously I had only been existing.   Now, a year after having lost the job that brought me here, I’m working in an environment where I thrive.  I go into work every day fully intact as myself and walk out the same way, I rarely leave any of myself behind, take work home with me, or feel pressured to be someone other than who I am. Its low stress, no overtime, and doesn’t pay well.  But having stripped my financial needs to the bare minimum, I’m getting by.  In fact, I’m doing better than that: I’m spending time with friends (new and old), writing every day, exploring new neighborhoods, valleys, and mountain tops.  And finally seeing what so many others have told me for years is great about living here in this state of California. 

Ironically, the time I’ve lived in California is the longest I’ve lived in any one place since leaving home after high school.  And just about the only thing that's missing, is that boat. 

Keeping It Real

Ok, I am a self-confessed “Reality” TV Junkie. And yes, I know that these shows have as much to do with reality as the GOP does with truth telling. Regardless, I can’t help myself. There are two DVRs in my home, which equals four hours of recorded television to every hour of the day. And my tastes run from the popular mainstream variety such as Amazing Race and Survivor to the significantly more obscure The Robert Verdi Show and Giuliana&Bill. My favorite must watch however, is Bravos’ Real Housewives series. Even the title of this series mockingly reinforces how the stars of these shows are anything but “real housewives.” Andy Cohen is smarter than that, he knows his business and gets that the last thing anyone wants to see is the reality of women schlepping around the house in sweat pants and a t-shirt with baby spit on it.

Like most of you, I grew up in middle-America. My mother was an actual housewife. She worked in the home raising three daughters until we were all old enough to get to and from school by ourselves. I, the youngest, was twelve before she began working outside of the home. Our house was clean, our clothes were washed, and dinner was on the table when my father walked in the door at night. She was the nanny, housekeeper, gardener, and chauffer. There were no day spas, limos, or Fred Segal’s in our neighborhood. So when I see Vicki (RH of OC) haranguing the other OC Housewives for not working outside of the home, I'm entertained and I laugh. Because even they don’t do the things ours and countless others’ mothers did and are doing to keep households functioning. And Vicki ‘s “real housewife at work” defense is about as slippery as the spray tanners and Botox injections she has done at her place of business (an insurance office). Yet, I’m obsessed. I watch them all, from the OC to NYC, NJ and the ATL. And I’ve dabbled in the viewing of their far inferior look-a-likes: Southern Belles, etc. I’m hooked, but for a reason far beyond pure entertainment value.

The absurdity of what is portrayed as their day-to-day life serves as a reminder of how happy I am in my life, to be living in this reality (egad, a lesson?). With the exception of one or two of these “stars,” who had irons in the limelight fire before being pulled into the “reality world,” these are just people. For some reason they feel a need to share a version of their life with us each week, which I and countless others eagerly anticipate and watch. Yes, they all tend to get carried away with what they believe is some new found level of importance, reaching a higher rung in some arbitrary hierarchy of popularity and significance. But that doesn’t bother me. We’ve all been known to “get a little big for our britches,” as my father would say. Instead, I draw from them a reminder that life is really all about being happy with who and where you are and striving each day to just keep it real.