February 2008 - Posts
I've been doing a little online research, still trying to find something that meets the "green standard," is within our budget, will stand up to kids and a dog...and it has to look fabulous. (Note to my boss: I'm blogging about it, so my research IS work related!)
A co-worker recommended cork, but I really hadn't seen anything I like. And I was under the impression that cork was becoming rare. A couple years ago, it seemed like every time I bought a bottle of wine, it was "corked' with plastic. Turns out the biggest risk to cork was a lack of interest. The industry was dying away because only wine bottlers were using cork, and stripping cork from trees takes great care and skill, and the tradition was dying.
The recent interest in all things green has revived the cork industry, so I took another look at what all is available flooring-wise. Wow! There's a lot of great looking stuff out there, and beautiful applications. Some of it's out of our budget, but some of it looks to be affordable. I learned, too, that cork has terrific insulating properties. I knew already about the acoustic advantages and it's cushioney quality.
Here's what concerns me: I was sold on bamboo, too, until I learned more about how cultivation and harvesting works. Now I'm not so sure.
Does anybody know anybody who has used cork as a flooring material? Have you read anything about its being undeserving of its green reputation?
Others may dispute it, but I like to think of myself as being of above average intelligence. (I wear velcro-closing shoes because I want to, not because I have to.) I'm aware of and concerned about the condition of the mothership, and, as an American, feel a particular responsibility for slowing its degradation. We have a 6-year-old son and a 2-year-old granddaughter (don't even ask how that's possible), and there's nothing for bringing evironmental concerns into focus like comparing the earth of your childhood with the earth you'll leave your offspring.
We bought a ragged mid-century house last year with plans for lots of updates and upgrades, all with an eye toward great design, but minimal consumption and environmental impact. The appliances in the "new" house were way outdated and way inefficient. The new washer and dryer are Energy Star rated and have all the water and electricity-conserving bells and whistles. They also cost more than twice the cost of my last set, purchased only five years earlier. The new stove is also Energy Star, and again was just about twice the cost of my last one. We also need a new refrigerator, and it has to meet the same energy efficiencey standards as the other appliances. And, oh yes, I want stainless steel.
The carpet was ratty and when we moved in, but that was OK because I knew there was a puppy in our future. Now, the dog is housebroken, and it's time for some hard choices. My first choice was budget-busting hardwood floors (did I mention we also need a new roof?) But when I discovered I could get bamboo for roughly the same price, the price seemed worth it to offset the environmental impact wreaked by carpet mills. Bamboo's popularity is understandable; it's a fast-growing, sustainable material that's also tough and beautiful.
Then I came across this article: "Is bamboo really green?"
In a nutshell, nearly all bamboo comes from China, so transporting it causes a huge impact. Bamboo has to be handpicked, and China has a lousy track record for human rights. Bamboo has become so popular that diverse habitats are being clearcut to plant monoculture bamboo groves in China and in Latin America. And then there's the VOC outgassing; without the formaldehyde and polyurethane bamboo probably won't stand up to the wear and tear meted out by those kids and that big dog.
How do we make these choices with so much conflicting information? Kermit the Frog was wrong; it's not easy being green.
Sometimes between school shootings the horror fades a little. And then it happens again, and I think again of the students' suffering--the students who were shot and the ones who saw the shooting, but missed the bullets. I worry a lot about the ones who survived, and the way their lives have been forever changed. Then I think of the parents of all of the students, injured, mortally injured, and uninjured.
Maybe there's something wrong with me, but what haunts me most is the thinking of what hell the shooters' parents have to endure for the rest of their lives. There was another family who lost a child at NIU, and I don't think their community is rushing to support them or comfort them. Who can imagine what Stephen Kaszmierczak's family must be going through. Is it possible for a killer's parents not to torture themselves by wondering how much fault they share for the murder?
The news channels don't know yet what medication Kaszmierczak was taking, only that he'd gone off of it. The assumption is that he had been diagnosed with and treated for a mental illness. What must it be like for a parent who watches as their child's illness worsens to the point where they seek medical care for him? And how awful when those efforts fail, when the practitioner doesn't help, or the meds don't work, or the kid won't take them because the side effects are so severe. I'm guessing it's a lifetime of hell.
And then one day somebody comes to the door to tell them that their child is dead and has killed the children of other parents as well.
And it makes me very, very sad that today the story from NIU is that Kaszmierczak killed five. He killed himself, too. His family lost a child in the worst possible way, and I don't know how they'll live through it. The death toll is at six, but there were many more victims.
I've had good ones and bad ones. I've worked in offices where there was a clear competition among women to see who scored the best or the most. I've always tried to keep from getting sucked in, and I would be angry if my husband shelled out $100 bucks for the same roses that are usually half that price. But I do expect something.
I am so thankful for my husband and our family that it shouldn't matter one whit whether he succumbs to market pressure and antes up big to prove his love for me. And many years he hasn't. This is not a guy who's good about Christmas, anniversaries or birthdays either, and all three of them fall within a span of six weeks. This year he punked out completely and it has really becoming a sore spot for me. Over the years I've dropped hints, I've circled things in magazines, I've left wish lists and bookmarks on the computer, I've teased, I've cried and I've screamed. Whether he knows it or not, my husband had a lot riding on Valentines Day this year.
By around 9:00 last night I was feeling pretty resentful because I was the one who had to buy the valentines for all of Jack's classmates and then spend an hour while he addressed all 15 of them. I was the one who picked up the potted tulips for his teacher. I was the one who used two lunchbreaks to shop for balloons, handmade chocolates, stuffed animals, books and very cool musical cards for my husband, Jack and our granddaughter. I already knew I was going to spend my lunchbreak today picking up the big, comfy new seat for my husband's new bike. And, because of his previous performance, I thought I'd probably been neglected again.
But around 5:00 this morning when I got up to make coffee and let out the dog, my sleepy, sleepy husband crawled out of our warm bed to meet me in the family room with a kiss and a card. Five minutes later he and Jack stood smiling together while Jack presented me with another card ("Too mommy, Frum Jack"). Jack has seen his mommy laugh and cry at the same time before, but he still thinks it's pretty funny.
What this means is that my husband took the time to take Jack to the store to pick out a card, and then spent more time while Jack signed and addressed it. It means they stood around thinking of me and how much they love me. It means they've spent time anticipating my delight, and delighting in the anticipation.
I may never again have one of those romantic, pricey Valentines Days that comes with candlelight, sparkley gifts, roses and new lingerie. I think I'm OK with that.
PS -- That sweet man of mine just delivered roses and a balloon. See me smile.
GoodSearch (www.goodsearch.com) is a Yahoo-powered search engine that benefits nonprofits. For each search you conduct, the organization of your choice gets a penny. For me, this amounts to maybe 15 cents a day, or just over $50 a year. But because I sent out emails to a lot of people who also support the same local nonprofit, I've generated almost $200 for them in just over a year.
If your favorite group isn't registered yet, it's a very simple and quick process, and you might be able to do it for them. Or, give them a little nudge to do it themselves. I'm sure they'd love to be included because, unlike all their other fundraising, it creates no work for them.
GoodSearch also helps you with your donations through their new GoodShop program. There are hundreds of companies that will donate a portion of your online purchase to the charity of your choice. I haven't used this feature yet, but I will next time I shop online. Some of my favorites:
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Target, 1.5 to 5.5%
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Petsmart, 6.5 to 10%
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Best Buy, .5 to 1.5%
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Amazon.com, 1.5%
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Barnes & Noble, 2.5%
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1-800-Flowers.com, 7%
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ebay, 25 to 37.5%
The very best time to generate money for them is when you're getting ready for a trip. Before you buy your next airline tickets, rent your next car, or reserve your next hotel room, check out the GoodSearch site to see which vendors are going to donate and how much.
This kind of philanthropy is a no-brainer. It costs nothing and it takes no time. Like millions of other people, I'm guilty of saying "I wish I could do more, but I just don't have the time or money."
BAM! Another perfectly good excuse blown out of the water. Next time you hear somebody try to use it, send them to www.GoodSearch.com.
If you've heard this lament a thousand times, you can click away now and my feelings won't be hurt. But if you're a parent like me, and you feel guilty because evenings are so hard, read on. You're in the company of a friend now.
I get off at 6:00. My son's after-school program closes at 6:00. Luckily, my sweet husband gets off at 5:00 and can pick him up. I get home around 6:30, unless I have to stop at the grocery store. By the time I get home, my wonderful husband has either just started dinner or is halfway through it or already has it on the table ... or none of the above.
Bags dropped. Shoes off. Shout at the dog (Down! Down! Down!) one hundred times. Now I move on to whatever it takes to get food in all four of us. Sweetly encourage son to eat (Jack, eat your dinner, Honey) three or four times. Demand that son eat (Yes, Jack, you have to eat and you have to eat NOW!) three or four times. Fantasize briefly (I'm alone with my beloved husband in a romantic restaurant. The food is wonderful. The conversation is intimate. The wine is flowing ...), then give up on forcing son to eat.
Start son's bath. Get him and 27 toys into the tub. It's 7:15 now. Clear the dishes. Maybe wash them, maybe not. Pick up dirty clothes from morning. Take the dog out. Snarl back at dear husband, because it takes less energy to snarl than to argue about dirty dishes. Go through Jack’s backpack, checking to see if he got a smiley face in his planner.
7:45. Get son out of tub, wrapped up in a towel the way only Mommy can do it. Find pajamas. They must be Superman, Batman, Spiderman or dinosaur pajamas; anything else is for babies. Help him dress so he can keep talking about his day. He can't talk about his day and get dressed at the same time, and I really do care about his day and this is the only time we'll have to talk. Present and discuss with him contents of his backpack and any notes in his planner. Homework at this stage is rare, thank goodness.
8:00. Or 8:15. Or 8:30. Son is in bed. Tickling is done. Talking about day is done. In lieu of his babyhood “Now I lay me…” prayer, we now each list the things we’re most grateful for, and the people we think need special blessings. Without fail, we each include the other in both categories.
At best, I’ve had 2 hours with my son. On a bad night it’s only an hour or an hour and a half.
How does this affect my son? My marriage? How do any of us bear it?
Five wins!
I wonder whether that kind of recognition for an album recorded while she was using booze and crack will reinforce the idea that she can use and still do great work, or if it will bolster her pride and give her further incentive to clean up and develop her generous talent for many years more.
Like they say in the program, one day at a time. Either way, the occassion was one of tremendous pride and surprise for her. She took the opportunity to thank her mom and dad for their support, even though they had publicly expressed their disgust and worries.
It's unlikely that she reads my blog (how cool would it be if she did!), but maybe it's enough to send good wishes out into the ether:
Way to go, Amy. You're a class act.
If you read my blog the other day comparing Amy Winehouse and Britney Spears, you maybe remember that Amy had an appointment with officials at the US Embassy in London. The results are kind of good news/bad news, but more good than bad.
The bad news is that her application for a visa to attend the Grammy Awards was denied. The good news is, she kept the appointment. The better news is that she will perform for the awards ceremony via satellite. But the best news of all is that she immediately returned to the rehab facility where she's been holed up for the last two weeks working on her nasty drug and alcohol issues.
In case you've been in a coma for the last year and don't know about Winehouse, she's one of the most exciting new artists of the last decade, as evidenced by her six Grammy nominations. The other big thing about her is that despite all that talent, she's been canceling shows, and all her way crazy behavior has been providing college tuition for the children of paparazzi.
I'm more than a little embarrassed to let you all know that I track her ups and downs so assiduously. But her music, her lyrics, her voice all blow me away. And, in my opinion, her sky-high beehive, circus-worthy tattoos and Sharpie-applied eyeliner are perfect. All I know is that when I discovered Winehouse, I discovered a beehived R&B singer within me that I never knew existed. I'll bet she's been living hidden away inside me for decades.
Anne Lamott wrote once that all of her prayers were essentially, "Thank you, God, thank you" or the "Oh, God, help me, please help me." For Amy, I say both.
When I turned on CNN at 5:30 yesterday morning, the death toll was as 24. Three hours later when I left for work, 32 victims of the tornadoes had been counted. This morning, the news is of "at least 55."
I work with a woman who, having just recently moved from the tornado-free Northwest, has never experienced the devestation first hand. I advised her briefly of the difference between tornado watches and warnings, and answered her questions about where to take shelter just in case. Maybe later, on a sunny day, I'll tell her about some of what I've witnessed and the stories I've heard from others in the Midwest.
I remember when I first moved to the Southeast almost 20 years ago, how shocked and panicked I was to hear my first local tornado warning. I was still excitedly anticipating my first hurricane, but, dummy that I was, I had no idea that they had tornadoes in Florida! And worse, no basements!
Oh, those girls. One goes out on the town without underwear, and the other stumbles around in only a bra and jeans. Amy Winehouse, despite appearances, is only 24; Britney Spears is only 26. I'll bet neither of them likes to being compared to the other.
I’d hate to have to lay odds on a complete recovery for either of them, but my hunch is that Amy Winehouse has the better chance of survival. My hope is that the intellect, insight and humor she brings to her lyrics will somehow help her through. My fear is that her downfall may be her lousy taste in men, and a lingering fallacy that drugs and/or booze is a creative muse.
I suppose Britney has talent and at least used to have drive and commitment, but to a large degree her career has been built on shock appeal. But her judgment is so far gone now that her behavior is just sad and sordid. Kissing Madonna on the mouth is maybe OK. Driving around drunk without a license, flashing your hoo-hoo at photographers, not OK. My slim hope for Britney is that there’s a Baptist Church somewhere in her home state of Louisiana that has a youth group praying full time for her recovery. Change that: I hope they’re dividing they’re prayers between Britney and her boys.
The latest I’ve heard on Amy Winehouse is that she met with officials at the American Embassy as part of the procedure to obtain a visa. The outcome will determine whether or not she’s able to attend the Grammys later this month. The meeting was scheduled sometime ago, and despite her ongoing stint in rehab, Amy still kept the appointment. Compared to Brit’s peek-a-boo appearances at custody hearings, you’ve got to give Amy some points.
I don’t know about you, but my mid-20s weren’t pretty. The bad choices I made during that stage of my life have forever ruled out any future I might have had for a career in politics or the FBI, or as a parent who could easily maintain eye contact during conversations about youthful experimentation.
Thank God I was never paparazzi worthy!
I just got back from a week in northeastern Ohio, and no, I didn't go because I lost a bet. Admittedly, it's a strange destination for a Floridian in January, but my sister had surgery and needed some help afterwards.
At the beginning of my stay, there were three or four inches of beautiful, pristine snow. But it warmed up by week's end, and we drove through the rain to the Pittsburgh Airport for my return flight. The snow had melted and all the dog crap and litter were exposed again, but the trees were still coated with snow and ice and sparkling. Four hours later I was back in Tallahassee, and found my tulip tree in full bloom in my own front yard.
It's a bittersweet thing going back to my hometown after 20 years, because Youngstown is the buckle on the rust belt. What used to be a 28-mile stretch of steel mills along the Mahoning River is now carcinogen-laden badlands. The valley is studded with the demolition and recycling businesses that canibalized what was a source of generous income for thousands of first, second and third generation immigrant families. Those families and their preserved cultures made Youngstown, Ohio a wonderful place to grow up and come of age. But for me and 80 percent of the region's population, it just wasn't a place to make a living or build a life so we left. Maybe "fled" better describes the exodus.
The northside of town where I lived in my 20s is a ghost town. When I visited in 1992 my old friend Coy warned me that if I was going to tour the old neighborhood "go during the day, keep your doors locked, your windows up, and don't stop for red lights or stop signs." On this trip he said it's safer now because so much of the old neighborhood has been torn down or boarded up. And he was right; even the park and playground were empty.
Coy, my friend of almost 30 years, has prostate cancer. The forty radiation treatments he underwent brought it under control for a while, but now it's stage 4 and has metasticized to his ribs and hip. He says he isn't in any pain and is still working. It was through Coy that I met my ex-husband, his best friend, and for a few years during and after the divorce our friendship was a little awkward. But a mutual history and fondness made it easy to reunite on this trip, and I'll always be thankful for the little bit of time we spend together over lunch. He's decided against the recommended chemo treatments. He's been building a new foundry and studio for his bronze sculptures and wants to work again in the large scale he abandoned years ago. He knows that if he does the chemo he'll probably never feel this good again.
As if I needed another reminder of time's passage, I had a birthday while I was back in Ohio. Hometowns and old friends matter more to me as I get older. I've always complained about a lack of continuity in my life; multiple marriages and relocations always seemed to interrupt or sever ties. But on this trip, even with all the changes, life seemed seamless. I guess when I was younger I didn't appreciate how deep my roots and relationships really are.