Paper, power, peppermint mocha, and perspective
The other day, I unintentionally offended an environmentally- concerned friend with the news that we use disposable dishes for most of our meals.
His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
“Don't you know how bad that is for the environ-ment?”
I retorted, “Well, running the dishwasher three times a day sure leaves a carbon imprint, too, so you have to pick one.”
I pick convenience.
We could just eat primitively from one big bowl with our fingers. Or hey, not eat at all.
In that scenario, the plants are free to grow, reproduce, and die as Destiny intended, without our interference in our quest for survival.
Seriously. I'm all for saving the earth and all (I mean, I recycle!), but I'm a bigger fan of saving the humans. And my sanity.
I'm just saying, let's not get carried away.
Centerpoint Energy wastes a tree every month to bully me.
Even though our actual bill is electronic, they persistently mail me a full-color bar graph comparing my energy consumption with “efficient neighbors.”
You efficient neighbors are killing me.
Like that smart kid who insists on ruining the bell curve in school.
Centerpoint rudely proclaims just how “inefficient” we are, and then offers suggestions to save money on gas use, like replacing the water heater.
So, if I spend $1,000 now, I can save $40/year?
Or perhaps I'd prefer to save $100/year to insulate my crawl space at a cost of $4,000.
The guy up at Centerpoint needs a lesson in economics.
See, this is what happens when you grade on the curve! I should mail Centerpoint a monthly update on how many trees they kill informing us of our efficiency inadequacies.
According to their website, they have upwards of three million residential customers.
That's like, a whole forest, dude. Every month. Not to mention the energy it requires to turn trees into paper and transport it all over the nation. Don't worry, though, I recycle that monthly notice religiously.
Sometimes, procrastination results in unintentional ecoconsciousness, like when I texted invitations to our latest party one day beforehand.
(But I did use paper plates, which can't be recycled due to food contamination, so I guess I'm still in the red environmentally.)
On Wednesday, my husband's mother called me. “You know, Mandy is turning 40 on Friday. We should do something big.”
My heart caught in my throat.
Two days to plan a big bash?!
Instead of arguing, I stopped at Starbucks and self-medicated.
Together, we decided to invite 50 people to my house for a fiesta on her birthday. In two days.
My 48 hours already contained shopping and baking for the Cub Scouts potluck, school, doctor's appointments, and lunch dates, leaving precious little time for party prep. I agreed, however, because, well, I don't know. Maybe because I was sipping on Skinny Peppermint Mocha, and all my logical brain cells were soaking in happy-juice.
The day of the event, I frenetically zoomed from one room to another, barking out school commands while dusting, sweeping, wiping, and scrubbing.
As the babysitter arrived, I added one final item to my list of errands: take recyclables to the trailer. (Although the city does pick up recyclables, my overflowing bin would certainly damper my efforts in cleanliness for
See MOM, page A3
Dorothy Wilson The Marion Mom MOM
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the party.)
So I hauled the bulging bin to my van and slammed the door shut to secure it.
Except my finger was in the way.
The pain shot through my arm. I grabbed my hand and hopped erratically around the driveway like a crazy witch doctor calling on rain. I paled and dropped to the concrete. My finger throbbed, my chest tightened, and my breath came in short spurts. Blood oozed down my hand.
My brother tended to me and sent me to Community Medical for an x-ray.
(Those dadgummed recyclables are still in the back of my van.)
I knew the pain had ended my whirlwind cleaning, but I bravely decided that a party in an unswept house is a party nonetheless.
When I returned, finger unbroken but bandaged and splinted, my son sprinted out to the van with the news that we had lost power.
On a windless, rainless day.
Sigh. Have you ever prepared a fiesta in the dark?
My mother-in-law, a type of housework cognoscenti, stood in the darkening dining room, braying commands to my children like, “Wipe down that table!” and “Make sure you sweep the corners!” when they could hardly see the table and certainly not the corners of the room.
Vacuuming was out. So was running the dishwasher.
The black-bean enchiladas sat, cold, in the gas oven because it only ignites with an electric spark. (Believe me, I tried in trepidation to light it with a match to no avail.)
Maybe Entergy was just trying out a new plan for “forced efficiency.” In that case, eat my efficient dust, neighbors- who-still-have-power.
I envisioned a memorable candlelight fiesta, but when I went searching for my candles, I discovered a cabinet full of empty candle jars.
That's when I recalled my kids' favorite art project. They pour melted wax into a glass of cold water and form creative discs of wax in ethereal bubbles and shapes.
It's kind of nifty. But it won't light your way.
Determined to maintain my enduring Panglossian outlook, I laughed out loud and shook my head.
I couldn't script this stuff.
Thanks be to Baby Jesus, Entergy arrived with a fix. We pulled off the party without a hitch—well, except for the overflowing toilet and the naked kid who emerged from the bathroom.
While we chose not to decorate in the traditional black over-the-hill headstones and pillboxes, my daughter picked up on the phrase and asked what it meant. I responded, “It means the best part of life is over, and you're headed past your prime.”
She responded sagely, “But going downhill is the best part of the ride!”
May it be so, child. With warm showers, warm enchiladas, and a warm house. And paper plates if you so choose.
Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all of the little adventures life with their seven children brings. Her columns appear from time to time in the Evening Times. This column originally appeared in the November 2015 issue of the Marion Ledger.
