Reduce, Reuse, and Throw Glass and Cardboard into the Trash?

I remember watching the Sean Connery film Medicine Man for the first time. I was so inspired by the jungle, by the fight to cure cancer through the miracle of nature, by Dr. Campbell and Dr. “Bronx” that I banded together with my fellow neighborhood young environmentalists and declared the day International Rainforest Conservation Day. We roamed around our neighborhood with our faces painted like the original Medicine Man paints Bronx’s face in the film, wore khaki shorts and hiking boots, and soapboxed about saving the earth to everyone we encountered.

Its funny how when you are young you have no real concept of time – six months is forever and the age 30 is ancient. But even if those lapses in understanding were present on the International Rainforest Conservation Day, somehow my underdeveloped brain processed the crisis of the environment an immediate. As threatening. They are cutting down trees?? Animals are dying? Species are going extinct? My soda can is pollution?



I felt the weight of environmental destruction on my shoulders as I built compost bins with my best friend and pestered my mother for eggshells and coffee grounds with which to fill it.

As I grew older, much of the world of the Lazy Layman’s Urban Guide to Saving the World became routine. Of course there is a blue recycling bin under my desk at work. Of course I turn the water off when I brush my teeth. Why wouldn’t I bring my reusable grocery bags with me to the store? The passion that trademarked the early stages of my relationship with the environment has morphed into a passive companionship. I do my part but never think twice.

I’ve recently rekindled some of the romance the green earth and I had once shared. It wasn’t a statistic about the rapid decay of our resources, or the upcoming release of Disney’s Oceans (a companion to Earth), or even a late night rewatching of the origin of my environmentalism, Medicine Man. It was the realization that my new apartment building doesn’t recycle. Doesn’t recycle? Doesn’t even play its part in the Lazy Layman’s Urban Environmental Action Plan? Doesn’t even passively protect the ground on which we walk? How is this possible? I’m supposed to throw my recyclables in the same bag as real actual waste?

Chicago has a sad history of fake recycling (remember the Blue Bag Program?) but 10 years after the beginning of this millennium, it is criminal to throw bottles and cardboard boxes into a landfill.

Any advice on how I get involve in this fight? Who controls local recycling programs? Who do I complain to?

In The Absence of Lunchmeat

The location of my new apartment is ideal. Its right in the middle of everything. I have an international assortment of restaurants and all the shopping that’s necessary (vintage/independent stores and DSW and Marshalls). I am also a brisk three minute walk to the train (assuming I hit green lights), nearby clubs and dive bars, and right at the corner of cross town buses. My sister lives only a couple miles away and my work a quick ride on a reverse commute train. Seems pretty nice, right? There is really only one thing missing from my neighborhood. Lunchmeat. Yeah, seriously.

There isn’t a super grocery store, and there isn’t a little deli-type market nearby. There is a Whole Foods, but even in my most yuppie of moments I was still not in my element enough to navigate that place. If there was lunchmeat, I sure didn’t find it.

At first I didn’t think this was too much of a big deal – I mean, its just one item on my grocery list, right? Wrong. I find myself frequently focusing on my lack of sliced turkey. When I pack my lunch each day I skim the fridge—whats in there? Some leftover pasta? A few slices of frozen pizza? I guess I could throw some peanut butter between two slices of bread, but its just not the same. I didn’t know this about myself, but I apparently have one specific idea of what “Making my lunch” means.

Sandwich
Two Slices of wheat bread
One slice of cheese (preferably not government cheese, but willing to compromise)
Yellow Mustard

Side
Cheezits (or other similar baked cracker-like object)
Piece of fruit

Drink
Possible Soda, if I’m feeling generous.
Water from ye olde Nalgene bottle

I know. This is a post about lunchmeat—which is kind of ridiculous – but I think part of my desire to post about this predicament is how confused my daily life can become with just one switch up. I didn’t really notice my lack of lunchmeat when I was grilling out everyday in Austin, or when I was living out of my old bedroom at my mom’s house. I just noticed when I got back into 9 to 5ing, suddenly there was a gap in my routine, a gap that made me (for the first couple weeks) to resort to PotBelly sandwiches for lunch, but now, I’m trying to make my lack of lunchmeat cause me to be more creative!


2010 is a year of opportunities, a year of creating new routines, finding new passions. This is the Year of 52 Adventures.

Tonight for dinner I made what I’m calling a gourmet Jacks frozen pizza. I had a pizza in my fridge, it sounded delicious. So I added Andouille sausage, sliced green peppers and stewed tomatoes. It was rad, and in a world without lunchmeat- the second half will be lunch tomorrow at work!

A Cat Homecoming.

I’m picking up the cats today.

I’m thrilled because I’m creepily obsessed with those little monsters, but I’m also sort of moved because they are the last part of my life to come back together. The last time I walked through my front door to be warmly greeted by Shakespeare and Eliot I was working at my old job, living in my old apartment, leading my old life. The two little cats were an unfortunate casualty to the vertigo that swept me up over the last several months; but I’ve regained my balance and perhaps have a solid enough foundation to put the books back on the shelves, restand the picture frames and carefully pick up the pieces of shattered coffee mugs from the kitchen floor.

The cats coming home just means that its really home, that I’m really here, that its real. I think they’ll like the new place as much as I do – the big, busy-street-facing windows that throw light (both real and manufactured) all over, radiator-warm places to sleep, and plenty of stuff to mess with. In these short months I’ve learned what its like to be a non-cat owner and my house has become un-cat proofed. A tube of chap stick sits harmlessly on the coffee table, plastic bags gather quietly near the kitchen trashcan, my scarves hang unsuspectingly from my coat rack.

Things will change when the cats come home, but mostly they’ll just go back to the way they should be.

On Living the Solo Life

The last time I lived in a space that was not shared was a time so distant that it feels unreal in my mind, like the memory of a hilarious misunderstanding that may have been a part of my post-college experience, or, perhaps, just a really vivid episode of Friends.

The basic motions of day to day living are hard to remember on my own, I find. How much coffee to make, how many times to hit the snooze button, remembering to drop off my Netflix on my way to the train, checking to see that I don’t have last nights makeup remaining on my face.

A person normally certain at home, I find I have lost that aspect of myself living alone. Without a companion, I ruminate daily on the possibility of a break-in, a forgotten coffee-pot on-switch, a cat caught dangerously among boxes. In the past, the reassurance of a roommate or a live-in partner somehow has made me feel more sure of myself, more confident. It also provides that convenience “just in case” back up system for all my errors – if forget to close the window or blow out a candle, there is a good chance the other resident of my home will remember. I just seem to feel stronger when someone is there telling me it is true.

Living alone has plenty of benefits—which are also hard to cope with in their own way. I like listening to whatever music I want at whatever volume with no need for consensus. I like watching all the slow and sad biopics that no one else finds interesting. I like drinking a glass of white wine before bed. I like the quiet within my walls, especially compared to the cacophony of the intersection outside my window. (I like that when I am making no noise, there is none.)

Having your own space is a privilege that is not enjoyed in all places or by all cultures. Even here, in the US, in Chicago, some people don’t support a woman living alone in a city, but I am lucky that it isn’t forbidden and that I have the financial ability to do so. It is a way to change the way you see yourself.

It is hard to imagine, from where I contemplate, the commitment of two people to share a space for the rest of time. Not just a bed, but a kitchen, a bathroom, a sofa. To share a day, a year, the life of a possible child. To divide ones life into two for sharing. Committed people who share a space may enjoy the added benefit of space-sharing – a confidence that the home won’t burn to the ground while they work – but the decision is expensive.

We often think of selflessness in terms of service, giving, anonymous donations, but the literal use of the word – to be selfless, to not be concerned with matters of self – marriage/commitment is just that. An agreement to think of another person as often as you think of yourself – to share your life, to choose a shared existence over one dedicated to personal priorities. To give up a place where the noise you make is the only noise in the room. This seems generous to me.

I think I am learning to be selfish, learning to not share, and learning how many scoops of coffee are enough for just one person. It is as long of a process as the road to selflessness, breaking all those sharing habits, but it is necessary when you find yourself living the solo life.

About The Things You Want

Although I have officially secured employment, I am still waiting on an apartment situation to come through, so I am still "staying" at my moms house. After a few suggestions about what this blog should become (thanks pals), I am still at a bit of a loss to discover the over all goal of what I type here. Perhaps, as with many good things, its purpose will be uncovered over time. As for now, I fantacize about what my new place will be like, what my new life will be like - how i'll do all the things I should be doing now, then. This is pretty classic me, sitting around, watching television or playing on the internet thinking about all the jogging/writig/guitar playing i will do when I have some free time.

My BFF Nick, over at the Grammar -Diarthrosis, recently wrote a little about this phenomenon as well. She asks herself, and us, as her readers, " if we know what makes us happy, why don't we do it more often?"

Although I have always acklowledged myself to be the sort of person who enjoys a little suffering, I was surpised to realize my response - because sometimes I'm happier with my cravings unsatisfied. I haven't always been a "do what I want" type of person, but I have been inviting a little more of that attitude in over the last several months. But even "doing what I want" leaves me still not doing some things that I know make me feel better - specifically writing and jogging. Some of this is laziness, as both of this activities require some sort of motivation, but that isn't the only reason why I hesitate. I hesitate because I know that if I have everything I want, and if I do everything I desire I won't know what to do with myself. What will be left? When you reach all your goals, don't you just have to set new ones anyway? Will I ever actually be satisfied?

You know how people always ask that question about winning the lottery? The "If you had all the money in the world, what would you do?" question? I've never had a good answer to that. I mean, I would travel, I guess, but I wouldn't want to travel alone, and everyone else probably has to work and pay a mortgage, so they can't come with me. Would I spend all my time running and writing? You'd think since I've been test driving this hypothesis since August (clearly without "all the money in the world" but with "a sufficient credit card limit that I'm not afraid to use") that I would have found the answer. But I haven't. If I decided to "write all day" I would be instantly frustrated and probably feel bad about myself for not writing a masterpiece. The running? Just because I have a million dollars and tons of free time doesn't mean five miles will be any easier for me...and its still cold out...and either way, it will still only take up an hour of my day.

The be all end all point really is this: Do what you can when you can. I think its ok to not accomplish everything you want to, or to not do all the things that make you happy -- just dont stull wanting those things or forget what makes you happy.

Photo: Nervous Blogger joyfully running a St. Pats 8k in DC.

How Swiftly Times Have Changed

As some of you may have heard, vacation Nervous Blogger is officially retired and prompt and professional NB is here to stay.

That is correct, I am jobfull.

Now, I still have a couple weeks left to find an apartment, move all my stuff, and generally get my act together, but the big question is this: Where does the blog go now? I honestly thought, by the way things were progressing (or not progressing), that I would be an out-of-work blogger for quite a bit more time, but the tides have shifted.

What do you think I should post about?

On Waking Up...

Growing up, my mother had a rule about weekend sleeping in – She let us. When we came rolling out of our bedrooms at 11, 12 or 1 pm she always said. “If your body didn’t need to sleep, it wouldn’t sleep.” From this late-sleeping-on-the-weekends habit, I grew into an adult who felt at a loss for free time. An adult who tried to get up early and state up late on weekends – to try to cram as much into those days as possible. I have become a person who is bothered by laziness and who would rather talk a walk around the block than watch one more episode of Project Runway.

When I was working in DC, I rose for woke at about 6:55am. Sometimes a little sleepy or whiney, I was always in generally good spirits about starting the day. My live-in girlfriend at the time woke for work even earlier than I did, so I often had an hour or so of half-awakeness during which to acclimate myself to morning.

When I first arrived in Austin, my two roommates and I often cruised, pajamaed out of our respective sleeping quarters around 9am to have tea together in the kitchen. Now THAT was sleeping in for us. Nearing the end of the Austin adventure, we all started sleeping later. I don’t know if we were partying longer or harder, if our days were more busy or stressful, or if our bodies were simply getting used to the idea of a life without a schedule.

Now, back in my mother’s house, under my mother’s rules, I fight to get myself out of bed each day. Even when I sleep from 11pm to 11am – I’m still tired. Because she is retired, my mom also sleeps when she feels like it, so I’m under no pressure to be extremely productive.

I know that it will be easy for me to fall back into a work-day routine. I know this primarily, because I will be so happy to be working. It’s just so odd that during a time of my life when I have so much free time, I sleep so late. The weather in Chicago has been an absolute miracle, but I wrestle to get myself up to enjoy the day. I’m not depressed, I don’t feel sad when I wake up – just tired. Just reeeeeealllly lazy.

This morning, I got out of bed at 9:30 and I’m temporarily alone in the house. I feel like the only person in the world. It’s nice. I’ll try to remember this feeling next time I’m tossing and turning alarmless well into the late morning…