Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Environmentally Unconscious.

While talking to my Lovely Fiancée™ last night, the two of us both got into a fairly snarky mood.  It happens; we have that whole artist mentality going for us, where neither of us can admit we're wrong... so it makes for a nice healthy bit of usually good-natured friction here and there.  (Yeah, once in a great while, we'll pick at a scab a bit too much and cause a small micronuclear explosion... but it's never yet been anything that love, understanding and hazmat suits can't overcome.)

At any rate, we were sniping at one another from under the cover of thick sarcasm last night-- this is no small exaggeration, either... many of our conversations spread out the sarcasm the way an inattentive McDonald's cook dollops on the Big Mac special sauce.  I forget how the idea came up, but we were talking about her family using those reusable metallic water bottles, because it's unsafe to reuse plastic ones-- I should probably point out I washed, refilled and reused the same 1 liter Mountain Dew bottles for the better part of a year, and that probably explains a lot about my lack of mental focus-- and she mentioned that one of the models kept water cold for something like a day.  I was intrigued.  And I looked at the price of it and was flabbergasted.  It cost more than most pairs of shoes I buy.

"Why not just get a Thermos?"  I asked.

She replied that it wasn't really the same thing, and she preferred having cold water over the course of the day without putting the water back in the fridge, where sometimes the kids grabbed them, so just keeping the plastic bottles was out of the question.  She needed something that would stay cold out of the fridge for long periods and that the kids could be responsible for.

"So why not just get Styrofoam cups?"  I asked.  "You can mark them with your names.  And for the price of that thing, you could probably get a year's worth."

At this point my Lovely Fiancée™ said something that resonated with me.  Well, first she called me obstinate, incorrigible and a few other adjectives I probably shouldn't relate here.  Then she said something that resonated with me.  I should note that this is probably paraphrased, because it is currently seven in the morning and I have yet to ingest any worthwhile drugs:

"Sometimes I think you are so intent on being anti-Green that you're willing to cut off your nose to spite your face."

At the time, I huffed and scoffed and shook a fistful of righteous indignation at the whole idea.  But as more time went on, I came to the conclusion that there was more than just a nugget of truth to that.  Her son-- my soon to be stepson-- is very environmentally conscious.  I am more like environmentally comatose.

Now, I am not always rabid anti-environmentalist or anything like that.  Our new house is Energy Star efficient, and we're using CFL bulbs and energy-efficient appliances, and drinking purified water in bottles with just enough plastic to make it like drinking water out of a stiff zip-lock bag.  So I'm not all about filling Mother Earth with nuclear waste, non-biodegradable plastics and Styrofoam landfills, but I think that there is sometimes way too much of a press put on by people to be green. 

A lot of the things on the Green Initiative agenda are, in fact, very noble, well-founded and helpful at first glance.  Take recycling.  On the surface, it sounds wonderful.  And it is, if you have the time, dilligence, extra space and money to do so.  So, in effect, if you are rich enough to be able to afford the space to keep a bin for your aluminum cans, a bin for your clear plastics, a bin for your non-clear plastics, a bin for your paper products, a bin for your corrugated cardboard products,-- and yes, I work somewhere that recycles, so I know they will not accept those last two mixed, as silly as it sounds-- a bin for your organics, a Sharps container for your recyclable syringe needles (we'll assume that, like me, you only keep those for medicinal or experimental purposes), and a trash can for whatever is leftover.  And have the time and the lack of things to do to spend your time sorting your trash. 

And on top of that make your kids do so... because, after all, they are the ones who are most benefiting from it.  And probably like most kids, my stepson-to-be is probably going to be all about being environmentally friendly until it gets to the point that he has to actually do work.  Like when he has to lug six separate bins to the curb instead of the one trash bin.  Then somewhere, I'm sure, my Lovely Fiancee™ and I will be informed about scientific studies that say that recycling really doesn't help all that much, and may, in fact, be harming the ecosystem of the Southeast Asian Archback Tern or something.

I also have a serious problem with every online biller sitting there and spouting off about how I could be more green and environmentally conscious by receiving all my billing statements via e-mail.  I get this from my phone company, my bank, my credit card sites, my insurance companies, my utilities, and at least four of the porn sites I hit on a regular basis.  And they ask me every time I go to pay.  Like the past thirteen months have meant nothing, and this time around, I've had some sort of Saul-of-Tarsis-sees-the-light-and-becomes-St.-Paul conversion after a lifetime of abusing trees.  Even though in my preferences at all these sites, it says, "Yes, I want a paper copy of my bill."  Even though I have repeatedly told customer service agents that most spam filters are notoriously inept at low levels and at high levels will find a way to 'learn' that a bill reminder is spam and delete it-- and oh, by the way, I'm sure your collection agency and their repo man Enzo will give me a pass on that one.  Even though I'm sure that all the Green Agenda by all these big-name businesses-- which have now suddenly gained a Green conscience and are spearheading "Save the Earth" measures-- has absolutely nothing at all to do with the fact that they are shaving thousands, if not millions, off their budget calculations... meaning that their CEO's can now worry just a little less as they hit that seventh hole on the Palm Springs resort they're golfing at this week.

Yes, even though, I am subjected to that same smiling "Don't you want to be environmentally friendly and only get a bill via e-mail" reminder every fucking month.  And it's led me to respond in this way:

"No.  I don't want to be environmentally friendly.  I want to be environmentally hostile because you insist on asking me this every time I'm here, regardless of my answer last time.  Yes, I want a paper statement.  You know what?  I want a paper statement made out of wood pulp from a seven-hundred year old Sequoia!  Wait, you know, fuck that!  I want my statement on parchment-- parchment made from the flayed and tanned skin of an endangered Long-Haired Spider Monkey, and written with an ink made from a mixture of Humpback Whale oil and West Indian Manatee blood!  And I want an old-fashioned fucking stamp put on it, too!  The ones with the lead base in the gumming!  None of that pre-stuck or pre-printed crap!  And yeah, put the whole thing in a Styrofoam envelope, too, you buncha malcontent fucks."

Ahem.  I have been told that given the right set of circumstances, I can get road rage without even driving.

And I do cheerfullly admit that I am the sort of person who naturally bristles and bucks back at being told I need to do something, like some dull-wit or child or slow pet.  So when I hear stuff like, "you need to recycle," or "you need to be more concerned about the environment," my first gut, kneejerk reaction is to come back with "Bullshit.  You need to come up with a system of sorting trash and removing recycleables at the trash facility, and then pay top dollar to create jobs to do so, because then you could help kill two birds with one stone."

Metaphorically.

Cause, I mean, you start insinuating about killing animals to some people, and they'll lose their fucking mind.

(And again, the author feels that he should point out that he loves his Lovely Fiancee™ like nothing else on Earth, and any 'spats' you see here have been very much embellished for humorous effect... and he thanks her for being such a good sport.  He would also like to point out that this post has been made using environmentally-safe fonts on an energy-efficient monitor, and some of the jokes have been recycled.) 

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Decoration of Independence

Let's get this out in the open right now.  I love my Lovely Fiancée ™ like nothing else I've ever known.  I love her unequivocally, without reservation, without any sort of foreseeable end.  I have never been this sure about wanting to marry someone... and that includes any and all TV crushes I may have had during those awkward years of puberty, when-- possibly like most other guys on their first brush with percolating hormones-- I was known to fall hard for a good medium-range camera shot of cleavage or a hot step-aerobic instructor's bare midriff.  With my Lovely Fiancée ™, I can honestly say I have never been with a woman who makes me feel so happy, so content, and moreover, so able to feel comfortable just being me... quirks and flaws and warts and all.  (And I'm sure she's happy to hear about the quirks and flaws and warts, too, especially since I have taken such exquisitely careful pains to hide them during our dating life.)

Understand that we have very similar attitudes, very similar tastes, and very similar artistic natures.  So there is an awful lot of subjects that we see perfectly eye-to-eye, and a small boatload of others that we share fairly compatible views on; if we're not on the same page, we're at least in the same chapter.  But in the long run, it will be those topics which we disagree upon that will be sure to keep this marriage interesting.

And when I say interesting, I mean the definition that has roughly the same meaning as volatile. Or incendiary.  Or mildly atomic bomb-ish.

You already know about the whole sordid cat thing.  To her, a cat is a compatriot... a family member... a stalwart friend who just happens to not have opposable thumbs.  To me, a cat is a potentially disease-and-allergen-riddled vermin that has absolutely no redeeming value unless you have rodents in your house... it provides no protection, it scares no potential burglars/muggers/murderers, it carves up furniture we can't afford to replace, it stinks to high hell, it does not differentiate between places it is supposed to go and places that are off limits. It's a very slight difference of opinion.  Yesterday, she was cooing about the fact that a feral cat in her neighborhood had kittens on her porch because it felt safe there.  While she was doing this and going on about it, my thoughts wandered more or less to these subjects:  1.) Potentially, they could have Rabies.  2.) Potentially, they also have fleas.  3.) It would be very ironic to drop them into a pond with carnivorous fish in it, and  4.) Oh, sweet mother of fuck, don't let the little bastards fucking imprint on her and force her to give me the "But they can't live without me, and the kids just love them, so I can't just leave them there alone" bit later.

(Believe it or not, that is actually pretty unfair of me.  I'm sure that my Lovely Fiancée ™, knowing how apoplectic the thought of even one cat is making me, is almost certainly not giving any sort of thought to bringing in others.  And yet, there is always that niggling little bit in the back of my head that always adds, yes, because cat-lovers are so well-known for their entirely rational and logical thought processes-- especially when it comes to kittens-- aren't they?)

So we knew all things feline was going to be a big stumbling block to the Utterly Perfect Saccharine Marriage.

What we didn't know was that window treatments were going to be another one.

Part of the problem, of course, is that we're both artists.  And as such, we consistently exercise our God-given artistic right to assume that we are never wrong.  This is sometimes also referred to as Artistic License-- which more or less says that reality is actually fluid and varies from artist to artist, and in fact the cold hard facts of reality have absolutely no place in artistic vision unless the artist says it does.  Artistic License in small dollops is a good thing.  But like so many things, it can be downright dangerous when it goes uncontrolled.  Artistic License can allow an artist to paint a vague shape and say it's a dog when in fact it looks like a smoldering heap of unwashed socks and elephant shit.  Artistic License can lead someone into honestly believing the bible told them to create a Jesus Theme Park complete with the Crucifixion Log Ride and the Loaves and Fishes Gift Shoppe.  Artistic License can delude people into believing that Facebook games ending in -Ville are actually constructive uses of time.  Artistic License means Lady Gaga wins.  Artistic License leads to well-intentioned but ultimately disastrous Artistic Visions... like when someone decides that they should get their new car in purple and puke orange to make it stand out.

And sadly, My Lovely Fiancée ™ and I are exhibit A in the case of Bad Shit That Happens When Those Carefully-Cultivated, Seemingly-Artistic Visions Collide. 

It started innocuously enough, when we were searching through web pages for designs for our windows.  For most of the windows in the house, we'd come to the decision that mini-blinds would suffice, because A) mini-blinds are cheap, and B) we are about tapped out of our money.  However, there were a couple windows, like the front room picture windows, where we both felt something more was called for and were willing to spend a bit more on.  So independently, we looked at a few options. I took a more classical route: I preferred the functionality and understated style of Roman shades.  So I fired off some links for her to check out, and told her excitedly how we could even get motorized ones that would raise by remote.

Her response to those over the phone was simple and to the point: "Really?"

And it wasn't a response to my enthusiasm, like "Really?  We can do that?  Oh, honey, how wonderful!"  No, it was one of those Really? tones that only women can make, the sort that generally precede something like, you seriously want to put your genitalia in the vacuum hose?, or, you honestly think a shirt that says 'Hooter Inspector' is an appropriate gift for a five year-old?  The kind of tone that makes you immediately feel small, uncultured, and on a mental par with the smarter breeds of flowering shrubs.

"Well, yeah."  I said, unperturbed.  "You don't like it?"

"No, I don't think I do."

"Why not?"  I pressed.  Because, as a guy, I am used to having a reason why I don't like something, even when it comes to style, you know... the color sucks, or the flow of the whole thing is wrong, or it's too expensive, or it just doesn't go with a damn thing we own.

There was a long silence.  A long and possibly pointed silence.  "I really just... don't... like it," she said, with an odd sound to her voice... most likely because she was swallowing words like "Loathe", "Repugnant," "Hideous", and "Vomitous."

"So what do you have in mind?"  I asked.

She sent me a link, which I dutifully followed.

There was an equally long and poignant silence as I took it in.

"Did the link work?"  She finally asked.

"Uhm.  Yesssssss," I said.

"Aren't they nice?"  She asked.

I looked again.  "Uhm.  Is that a fucking scarf over the top of the whole thing?"

"Yes," she said, probably able to tell that I was not as impressed as I was supposed to be.  "They call it a scarf valence."

"It's well named... it looks like it belongs over some rich old woman's neck.  It's freaking gauzy, too."

"That's the way it's supposed to be.  It suffuses light."  She said.

"Aren't drapes supposed to block out light instead of just filtering it?"  I asked.  "I mean, I could just put up toilet paper if we wanted to only kinda block out light."

An exasperated noise-- one that I am slowly becoming familiar with-- came from the other end.

And things pretty well spiraled down the toilet from there.  It was a case of Classic vs. Nouveau, which is something like Mac vs PC for people with an over-aggrandized sense of their own interior decorating worth.   I think I called one of her choices snotty and over-embellished, and she said that one of my choices looked like it belonged in a nursing home.  I told her that a more classic style emphasized the Roman look of our doorway, and she said that the design of the house demanded something that didn't scream 50 years old.  If we'd been in the same room, the eye-daggers might have been flying every which way.

Finally I took a deep, irritated breath.

"So.  Mini-blinds?"  I grated.

"Fine."  She growled.

"Cheap."  I grunted.

"White."  She snarled.

"Perfect."  I rumbled.

So I put up a pair of nice white mini-blinds in the living room and we have managed to survive phone calls since then without incident.  And we have a very nice house that is waiting to get a full drapery treatment until we can go out together and actually see if there is any sort of window treatment we can both enjoy without getting nauseous every time we enter a room and see it.

And until then, we are living happily ever after.  At least until we start having to pick out towels.

(The author would like to point out that the argument above has been embellished and dramatized in some portions for the sake of effect. In reality, Mark and Jessi are not nearly so coarse or filled with invective, and would never say most of these terribly hateful things to one another. Thank you.

...Okay, except the cat thing. That's 100% legit.)