As if we didn’t have enough to worry about these days! Between the killer heat waves, the rising oceans and the increase in mega storms, it’s already obvious that Mother Earth is trying to kill us before we kill her.
There are weird new super germs appearing everywhere, and the drugs we have aren’t working.
Did you know you can get flesh-eating disease from swimming in warm ocean water? And ALL the ocean water is warm now!
(Who the hell thought up the name “flesh-eating disease” anyway? Sicko.)
And even if you decide to risk having your flesh chewed off my bacteria and you jump into that warm ocean, you’ll probably be eaten by a great white shark.
I tell ya. It just isn’t safe out there.
The food supply isn’t safe. Our household cleaners are giving us cancer.
Don’t even get me started on what happens if you drink water that got left in a plastic bottle in your car!!
So as if all that isn’t enough to send you to the therapist with a bottle of Xanax in one hand and a pot brownie in the other….There is a scientist in Tennessee who is trying find a portal into a mirror universe.
Yes, I am serious.
A. Portal. Into. A. Parallel. Universe.
What in the world is wrong with people? Shouldn’t scientists be busy trying to cool off the earth, or stop the bacteria from eating our flesh?
We don’t need another universe, thank you very much. We’re having enough trouble with the one we’re in now.
So I’m reaching out to all of you. Please send a letter to your local elected officials. Tell them that unless the new mirror universe is cool, safe and has a non-insane President, we don’t want any part of it.
I know. You think I’m looking at pictures of my kids when they were little. Right?
Or pictures of the dogs I’ve loved and lost. Or the career I’ve left behind.
You think this is one of those sweet, poignant, tender posts about watching the next generation come of age and take the places that ours once held.
Any of those would have made wonderful blog posts, I’m sure. But this one is much more mundane.
Because this morning I got up and showered. I had my lovely iced coffee and then headed off to see my 89 year old mom. But before I left the house, where the dogs were snoozing on the couch and the husband was snoozing in the bed, I did what needed to be done.
I made sure that I peed before embarking on the hour and a half trip. I made sure that I put in some eye drops so I’d be able to actually see the road before me.
And I took my meds.
I grabbed my weekly pill minder and flipped open the tab for “Saturday AM”. I plopped the blood pressure pill, the fish oil and the multivitamin into my palm and swallowed them with a nice glass of cold water.
Then I looked at the pill minder.
It was just about empty.
I was completely shocked. Now, I knew that I fill said pill minder every Sunday morning. And intellectually, I knew that Sunday would be tomorrow.
Didn’t I JUST FILL THIS STUPID THING?!
Wasn’t last Sunday morning only 20 minutes ago?
What the hell.
How did a full week go by without me even noticing it???????
I grumbled to myself. I cursed a little (OK< you define “a little”). I went out to the car and off to visit Mom.
Cuz, ya know. She’s OLD. I’m in my prime.
I’m definitely in the prime of that time when you measure the passage of the weeks by the need to refill your stupid, damn pill minder.
This whole getting old thing? Yeah.
Not for me.
Gotta go. The blood pressure pills are calling and the fibromyalgia meds are singing my name.
Well, happy Solstice, everyone! Yay! It’s finally summer, for real!
The days get shorter from here.
I guess you can see how ambivalent I am about the end of the school year. Now that I’m no longer a classroom teacher, the end of the year is less about having time off and more about feeling at loose ends.
My daughter has the summer off, which means I won’t have my grandkids here for a few weeks.
I mean, I am very, very happy to have some time to rest and recuperate. I love watching my grandkids every day. I really, really do!! Toddlers are magical!
So I obviously need some time to catch up on sleep. I need time to organize all these art supplies, old toys, and dried out play doh. I want to garden and read and maybe finally submit some writing somewhere. Summer is a good thing!
On the other hand, it’s amazing how dull it can be when the only one to talk to around here is me. I’m somewhat less riveting than I thought.
So day one is coming to a close. I’ve watched the news, read a lot, argued and snarked at people on social media and done four loads of wash.
I need to figure out how to fill my hours without the kids here to say, “Nonni, watch!” and “Nonni, guess what?” I need to feel useful without serving food every hour on the hour to hungry kids.
At least I have the dogs for company.
But you know what?
Both Lennie and Bentley spent this entire first day of summer wandering from room to room looking for the kids. They both spent a ton of time sitting in front of me with their big, sad, hound-doggy eyes.
We took a walk. They liked that!
But then we came home and they both went from bedroom to bedroom to kitchen to the deck. They both sighed. They both turned in circles. They gazed out the window. They chewed on their nylabones, but you could tell their hearts weren’t in it.
It’s going to be a long summer, pups. No kids until September, at least not on a regular basis. No games. No laughing. No sweet snuggly little girls to wrap an arm around your furry necks. No giggly little boy for you to chase down the hall.
Most importantly, no dropped cheese for many long weeks.
I have dark brown eyes, I used to have dark brown hair, and I have a big nose.
Yes. I do. I have grown up with the realization that I have a lovely, prominent Roman nose.
This is my identity. Italian woman, big nose, big heart, big piles of pasta. It all goes together.
Because this has been my image of myself for some 60 years, you can understand how upsetting it would be to be informed that this is not actually the real me. You can imagine my moment of disorientation when the very core of my personal belief was shaken.
Holy panic attack, Batman. It was terrifying.
This is what happened.
I went to have my CPap fitted this morning. I talked to the lovely, intelligent, articulate cPap using woman at the home care facility. She fitted me with just the right hose to force my throat open and thereby stop my snoring, snorting, gasping, death inducing nighttime routine.
I have been reading about the incidence of sleep apnea in women, and have come to feel pretty much at ease with the realization that a whole lot of us women suffer from this disorder.
I am OK with that. Sorta. I am accepting of the fact that the sleep issue does not mean that I am old and fat. I am accepting of the idea that I just need some help to keep myself breathing while I sleep. It’s just a little medical issue.
All of that is cool.
While i was meeting with the lovely woman who introduced me to my machine, something happened that has shaken my entire belief in myself and who I am.
Part of the fitting today included taking a measurement of my nose.
My big old, honkin’ Roman Italian schnozzola. I needed to be measured so that the nasal mask would fit me.
I sat back for the measurement. I breathed out. I was sure that the measurement would come out as “big” or “huge” or “Italian” or “Holy shit”.
When the friendly woman held up the measurement and said, “You have a small nose”, my entire world came unglued.
I mean. OK. I gasp and choke and have a fat neck and can’t sleep and I need a stupid giant machine…..but my NOSE IS SMALL???????
That was the moment when I realized that I no longer have any idea of who I am.
In all of my most fragile moments, it has never occurred to me that I might have a small nose.
Look at this picture.
Do you see a small nose????
I don’t either.
So….who am I? What has become of my entire view of myself?
If in fact I am a woman with a small nose, might I not also be a woman with a boatload of patience? (Nope.) Or a woman who struggles to put a decent meal on the table? (Nopie, nope, nope).
I am my nose.
I am my internal view of myself.
OK, fine. I’ll give the stupid CPap a chance. But seriously?
A SMALL nose??????
These medical people have no idea what they’re doing.
This means that Nonni has lots and LOTS of energy. It means that Nonni has so many fun and amusing plans! Plans for how to repaint the house, inside and out, while writing a novel and baking organic cookies!!!! Yay, Nonni! Yay, Prednisone!
It also mean, alas, that Nonni is just a teensy weensy bit cranky. And that Nonni is ready to use that all that energy to utterly destroy anyone who gets in her way.
Yesterday is a good example of poor Nonni’s conflicted relationship with Prednisone.
You see, Nonni and Papa went out to hear some great music from one of our favorite bands on Friday night. As always, Upstate was amazing and exciting and fun and uplifting. We had a fabulous time.
But we got home late. And Nonni was feeling those fun Prednisone energy jolts. Until about 4 AM. At that point, she fell asleep.
So. Saturday morning found this old woman on three hours of sleep, with way too much energy but no strength. I was crabby (if “murderous” and “crabby” are synonyms.) I paced around for a bit. I did dishes. Cleaned the fridge. Paid the bills. Organized my pots and pans. Used a tiny bottle brush to scrub out the silicone straws that the kids use.
By noon I was climbing out of my skin.
So I headed into the yard.
And that is where Nonni discovered that she is not the only crabby old bitch to be on the loose.
We’ve lived in this house for close to thirty years. In that time, we have created a lovely garden area filled with flowers and bushes and blooming shrubs.
And when I say “we”, I mean ME. I mean this woman. All by myself. I ripped out grass and put in perennials and ripped out weeds and put in bushes. I have trimmed and pruned and raked and fertilized and transplanted. And it is gorgeous out there.
So when I headed outside yesterday, I noticed that the yard had begun to close in on us. Every year, it seems, the trees sneak a bit closer. The woods encroach. The wild comes just a bit closer.
And yesterday, for the first time in a decade at least, Nonni had Freakin’ HAD IT.
I took up my brand new rechargeable, super efficient trimmer. And I went to town.
Thirty minutes into my “pruning” efforts, the driveway was littered with the chopped off limbs of maples, oaks, hemlock, ash, beech and birch. There was suddenly sunlight again on parts of the yard that had become moss covered and shaded.
I looked up.
I LIKED this!
Nonni, in all of her angry, teeth gritting, pissed off over-energized-jittery glory had found a way to burn off some steam.
I made my way up and down my driveway, swinging my tool of revenge in front of me like a demon. “Take that!” I crowed, as I buzzed five oaks and three maple saplings from the edge of the drive. “You won’t take over my one means of escape, you foul beasts!!!!” I lopped them off at ground level.
I believe I chortled.
I kept the driveway space clear for my car.
I kept going. My heart was racing. Mosquitoes were lodging in my ears, nose and on the edges of my sweaty gray hair. Still, I could not be stopped. This was FUN.
And so empowering.
Mother Nature wants to put out ten knew pine trees in my GRASS? I don’t THINK SO!!!
Buzzz, Bzzzzz, bzzzzeeepeezeeep! Down, down! I vanquish thee!!
Fourteen baby oaks popping up off of one downed pine tree? Not on my watch, kids!!!!
Vrooom, vrooomy, vrooomotchka!!! Out you goes!!!
After three hours, my arms were shaking. I couldn’t see because of all the sweat, dirt, dead bugs and pine needles plastered to my face.
But I felt GREAT.
I knew it was time to head inside for a shower, a triple tick check and a martini. But I needed one more quiet moment of reflection.
Mother Nature, you’re not the only cranky old pissed off lady out here today. So you just back off, bitch. Nonni is here to save the yard.
First thing you need to know is this: I am a relatively healthy old lady. At 63, I am still pretty spry, healthy and hearty. There are few things in life that I can’t do because of my health.
But. I do have stupid, annoying, aggravating Fibromyalgia. I was diagnosed about 10 years ago, after being told that I didn’t have Zika, West Nile, Lyme Disease, Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis, cancer, IBS, Epilepsy or anything else that would make me run screaming into the night.
Instead, I was told, I have a pretty common autoimmune disease that will make me tired and achy. And will keep me awake for about two months in a row. And will make my thinking resemble a big bowl of tapioca pudding.
I am very very lucky. Once I was diagnosed, I was put on a dose of Cymbalta. This anti-depressant eased my pain, helped me to sleep, cut down on the famous fibro flareups and even made me less cranky.
Better living through chemicals!
However, ten years into this experience, I find that every now and then I have a big old fibro flare up. It can come on slowly, with just an extra pain in the neck (not kidding) and a general sense that I’d be better off is I spent a day in bed.
Which I have NEVER DONE. Ever.
Still, there are days when I find that the past three weeks of endless motion, action, socialization, gardening, shopping, cooking, visiting and schmoozing have left me in a fibro funk.
That’s when I reach out to my wonderful primary care doc. I send him a message on our Patient Portal. “Ruh, roh.” I type. “I’m having a bad flare up. Prednisone?”
He knows me. He understands how this works. He sends in the script.
And this is where the fun begins.
Prednisone is my savior and my worse enemy, all at once. Let me give you an inside view.
DAY 1: “I can’t move. I would love to get up and go pee, but the bathroom is so….far…away…..” The kids arrive. I say, “What a great day for movies!” Even thought its 75 degrees and sunny, I canNOT get up from my chair. I manage to feed them and change the diapers, but that’s it. I need some medicine.
DAY 2: I take my 60 mg of prednisone. I slump into my chair, coffee cup in hand. One hour later, everything still hurts, but I feel a faint buzz in my skin. It’s a quiet day, but at least I manage to turn on music and put the kids into glittery costumes to dance. Dinner is leftovers. I sort of clean it up.
DAY 3: Another 60 mg down the hatch. My neck and back hurt, but the rest of me feels ok. I serve a nice home cooked breakfast. I’m hungry, so I join in the feast. By noon, I’ve done two loads of laundry, swept the floor, exercised the dogs and cleaned the kitchen. On to lunch (homemade soup….yes I ate some) then books, then a nice dinner. Early bed. Slept great!
DAY 4: 60 more milligrams of Prednisone. I eat a huge breakfast before the kids even arrive. By the time they get here, I have pancakes, fruit, cereal, juice and muffins on the table. I sing while they eat and I sing while I clean it all up. We play outside. I manage to weed the veggie garden, prune the lilacs and fill the kiddie pool. I feel great! So much energy. Dinner is delicious and entirely home made. I eat more than my husband.
I get myself to bed at a reasonable time, where I toss and turn for 3 hours before finally falling into a restless sleep.
DAY 5: I wake up at 4. I take my medicine. By nine, I have had breakfast, made the kids meal, made us all lunch, organized the silverware drawer and polished my grandma’s silver. The day is full….even though the kids would like to rest, I keep us all outside, walking through the woods, hunting for bugs, gathering leaves, pulling up clover. I teach them all how to find the best dandelion leaves for salad. OK, the baby is only two and the older one is not yet four, but we get a lot done. After lunch, I get everyone to create a collage of nature’s treasures. They cry a lot, but the art is very cool. The kids go home at five, and I whip up a fabulous home cooked meal for the hubby, who enjoys it thoroughly. I get to bet around midnight, but I can’t fall asleep. I’m trying to calculate how many ants I have removed from the sink in the past week.
DAY 6: Down to 40 milligrams. Who cares? I hate everyone by now. Everytime one of the kids frowns, I scowl right back. I eat breakfast. Then I eat all the leftovers. I eat a few snacks. Then I snarl at the kids because let’s face it; if they didn’t leave food on their plates, I wouldn’t eat it and I wouldn’t be so FAT, now would I????? We do puzzles, we eat lunch (really????MORE leftovers?????) Paul comes home for dinner, which I slap down on the table. I drink some wine. I drink some more. I eat my dinner. And Paul’s leftovers. I go to bed. Hahahahaha. I am still awake at 5AM. I hate everything.
DAYS 7, 8 & 9: Why do I need this stupid medicine anyway? NOTHING hurts. I have been awake for a year. My hands are shaking. Is there any more cold pizza? The kids are handed a bunch of paper, some markers and a few glue sticks. I retreat to the kitchen, where I pretend to make lunch while eating all the croutons in the cabinet.
Slowly, slowly, the prednisone is reduced. Finally I am down to a mere 20 mg, and I start to find myself again. I manage to cut myself down to 4 eggs and two english muffins for breakfast. I remember how much I love the kids. I am able to calm myself down enough to read a few books to them. Dinner is pleasant again. I am able to sleep. A little.
And it finally winds down. The flare up is over. I feel fine again. I feel like myself. If the past is any indicator, I won’t have to go through this nonsense again for at least 4 months.
That should be enough time to shed the 15 pounds I gained while getting better, right?
I am now in my 6th decade of life. My hair is almost entirely silver. My jowls have arrived, and the wrinkles around my eyes will show you my general mood.
I’m a happy old wrinkly grandmother.
I know that I’m chubby, I know that I’m gray. I get it. I’ve earned these marks. They show that I have lived.
For the most part, I am happy to observe time moving along merrily. I know that nothing is permanent, and that time can’t be slowed, or stopped, or forced to run backwards.
My life is in its early Fall season, I’d guess. The beautiful pressures of summer are over. Now it’s time to settle in a bit, make some stock to hold us through the long winter, to think about which good books we’d like to keep us company as it snows.
I don’t think about time passing as much as you might think. I try, really, really hard to keep my focus on the moment in front of me.
But sometimes old Mother Nature reaches in to give me a poke.
This evening she did exactly that.
I was standing on my deck, in the back of the house where Paul and I have lived for 29 years. I was resting my chin on my hand, and gazing out into our woods. My eyes weren’t really focused. I was just sort of looking into the distance.
But then I saw the little golden leaves in front of me. Slowly unfurling into the warm sun. Little oak leaves.
I pulled my focus back and looked at the tree that was reaching out, offering me those tender leaves.
And there stood a strong, young, vibrant oak, bursting into life on the edge of our woods. It’s branches were leaning toward the deck. Toward me.
My head swam. Time went whooooshing past me, leaving me reeling with vertigo.
When we moved into this house (last year? last month? three decades ago?) there was a tall, strong white pine standing behind our deck, just on the edge of the woods. It had thick, lustrous branches and a tall, straight trunk. One branch leaned in so close to our deck that I was once able to coax a chickadee from it’s tip to my palm.
I loved that tree.
For years, I watched it age and wither and become brittle. A few years ago we knew that it was finished, and we had the guardian pine taken down.
The sun came shining down. Little saplings sprang up in the place where the old tree once stood.
And while I wasn’t looking, an oak sapling raced toward the skies. It opened it’s arms, reached for the sun, and grew.
Today I stood looking at the woods. One confident, cocky oak tree seemed to have taken center stage. I had a sense of it grinning at me as it passed me by.
I closed my eyes and saw the old white pine that used to be the star of our particular stage. I could imagine her spirit smiling at the exuberance of the teen aged oak.
I felt time racing by.
I am surely getting older. If I somehow forget that fact, I have no doubt that Mother Nature will remind me.
When my family moved out here, into the woods, we were pretty excited about connecting with nature. We had always lived in either a city or suburb.
Now here we were, moving out to the woods. Way out into the woods. When we first moved in, the local phone number was only 4 digits.
The roads were dirt. There were no streetlights or sidewalks.
Life was pretty….country. Yep. Pretty countryish.
Now that I’ve lived here for just shy of three decades, you’d think I would have come to terms with the rural nature.
Only I haven’t.
I mean, I am delighted when I see a few deer crossing the street. I love seeing the local foxes as they play in the fields. I love watching the hawks, and the ducks and the rare but exciting bald eagle as they fly over us.
But you know what?
I’m still a big woos when it comes to strange movements in the woods.
Let me give you an example of what I mean. Last night, at right about 1 AM, we woke up because both of our super-domesticated-not-at-all-wild dogs were whimpering and whining. They wanted to go out.
It was my turn to get up, so I did.
I trudged into the dining room, cell phone light in hand, and opened the slider door. Both of my canine fools went hurtling out into the night, full on baying like bloodhounds.
They raced along the fence in our yard, big noses pointed into the woods.
I stood on the deck, thinking, “What? What’s out there?????”
Now the truth is that we live in central Massachusetts. The scariest thing in our forest is most likely a big fat raccoon.
Still, my tiny brain got all excited by the dogs’ reactions. Bears? Bobcat? Moose? I wasn’t sure, but my heart was definitely racing.
I went back to bed, thinking to myself, “Wow, we really do live out in the wilderness! It could be anything out there!”
I went to sleep thinking about how fabulous it is to live out in the wilderness.
Yay, me. Such a pioneer woman!
Then I woke up.
To the sound of the dogs, screaming and going insane over the sounds in the back woods. I went out onto the deck and peered into the woods.
After two cups of coffee, a shower and a perusal of the news, the dogs were still hysterically barking into the woods.
I went back onto the deck. “Woods,” I told myself. “Nice, clean woods. Yay.”
Two hours went by. I gave the kids breakfast, read a book, cleaned up the table and got out trains and tracks.
The dogs were still running from the front fence to the back deck to the sofa and back again. Baying and moaning and barking and yowling the whole time.
Oh, hoorah. Life in the godforsaken, stupid, crappy woods.
After another hour of this insanity, I realized that the neighbor dogs were barking, too.
“A bear?”, I thought to myself. “Maybe there’s a bear family on their way here.”
I got very excited. I perched on the deck, camera in hand. I waited. The dogs raced and barked and yowled.
I waited some more.
After a while, I saw a chipmunk break free from the stone wall around my flower bed. He ran into the woods.
The dogs acted like they’d uncovered a T Rex.
I moved out to the woods, to a place where you can’t get phone reception, where the closest grocery store is a half hour away, all because the dogs can’t resist a freakin’ CHIPMUNK?
I remember a time when I was very young, one of six children clamoring around my Mom. I remember her barking at us all, “Stop yelling “Mom”! Stop, you’re making me crazy!!!! I’m gonna change my name and not tell you what the new one is!”
At the time, afraid that my Mom was about to disappear on us, my siblings and I cried and moaned and tried to guess her new name. It was pretty harrowing.
Of course, I now realize that the entire time as we were crying and guessing her new name, we were all yelling, “Mom? Momma? Mommy! Ma! Mom! MOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!”
Still, I thought she was being just a tiny bit heartless.
While I have no clear recollection of feeling the same way about my own children, I now fully understand my Mother’s frustration at hearing her name called out roughly 987,675 times a day.
And this is where the whole grandparent thing gets weird.
I will never ever ever forget the first time that my sweet Ellie looked up at me with those melting brown eyes and said, “Na. Na ee.” My heart rate jumped right up to about 300 and I almost stopped breathing. “She said ‘Nonni!!!’ She said it! She said ‘Nonni”!!!”
Thrilled is way way way way way too weak a word for the joy that coursed through my bloodstream! Huzzah!!! She KNEW me! She recognized the key and unforgettable role that I was playing in her life! We were bonded forever, me and my girl! Oh happy, happy day!!!!!
You get the picture.
And it has only been the past month or so that little Johnny has started to use my name. He, for reasons that nobody can explain, talks like a little old Italian man. Like more than one of my old uncles, in fact. When he wants a snack, he asks for “cheese-a”. To answer the question “Who wants a snack?” he answers “Me-a!”
So of course, he calls me Nonna. With the long ‘nnn’ that marks a good Italian accent.
Si, that’s me! La Nonna!
Picture the same heart stopping joy and delusional beliefs of eternal love that I felt when Ellie first called out to me.
Happy, happy old Nonni/Nonna. Happy and joyful me-a!
Sure. For the first nine million times.
The problem is this: Ellie has learned to use the phrase, “But, Nonni….” to open every single comment. If she is asking me a question, it’s “But, Nonni, what part of our body helps us to chew?” If she needs something, she says, “But, Nonni, can I have milk?” To tell me about her weekend, “But, Nonni, we had so much fun with Grammy and Grampy.”
“But, Nonni……?” Over and over and over again. All day. Every day. ALL WEEK.
Even if I’m looking right at her, and we are the only two humans awake in the room. Even if I just said to her, “Honey, maybe we can do some art.” Even then, her first words are, “But, Nonni……….”
There are moments when I am sure that my head will explode.
Then sweet little Johnny, our man of few words, reaches out his arms to me. “Nonna?” He’ll ask, “Up? Arms?”
And I melt again.
Mom, I’m sorry for making you pretend that your name was Rumplestiltskin. I had no idea.
Ok, fine. I am not really one of those “awards show” people. I mean, I haven’t ever seen all the movies nominated for Best Picture. I don’t know most of the Emmy nominees.
And as for the Grammys? Puh. Leeze. I am far too cool and hip and groovy to follow those pop stars.
But I suddenly find myself with the overwhelming desire to create a new category of award winners.
Because I spend WAY too much of my life ordering stuff online, and because I am also a dedicated environmentalist, I find myself enraged at plastic.
I go to my local grocery store once a week with my canvas bags. I put my veggies in mesh bags instead of plastic. I carefully choose milk and juice in cardboard cartons, detergents in biodegradable packages, and snacks in cardboard.
I use compostable trash bags, bamboo sandwich bags and metal water bottles that I fill myself.
I am a good doobie. I love this earth! I don’t want to kill her or her gorgeous oceans!
I am VERY careful about plastic.
Until I order on Amazon.
Then I lose my teeny tiny little mind. Because no matter what I buy, it comes in plastic.
No. Matter. What. It. Is.
For example, I was shopping for my grandchildren just before Easter. I saw cute little plastic eggs filled with pastel playdough. I decided to order them in spite of the plastic, thinking that I’d be able to reuse the eggs for years.
Then they arrived.
Four cute little plastic eggs. Each one wrapped in five or six layers of plastic shrink wrap, then carefully vacuum sealed within a hard plastic case.
It was FREAKIN’ PLAYDOUGH! It wasn’t going to rot. Or mold. Or degrade. The four ounces of pink and blue goop came enclosed in THREE layers of plastic.
Three layers of plastic that will remain intact for about 10 bazillion years.
Holy stupidity, humans.
Here I am. I am proposing a group endeavor. I’d like everyone who is reading this to nominate some company or item for our “BAD PLASTICS” Award.
I nominate the Playdough Easter eggs, but I could just as easily have brought up the plastic measuring spoons that came wrapped in plastic, the potting soil (aka, “dirt’) that came wrapped in plastic, or the eco friendly bamboo toilet paper that came wrapped in (you guessed it) plastic.
What have you got, fellow environmentalists? Let’s start our own “Awards Show”.