I have never worn Birkenstocks (but that's mostly because of my foot phobia and general avoidance of any open-toed shoes) and I'm at least smart enough to know that my mug needs a little mascara and a touch of color to keep the children from running, shrieking, from the house each day. I've never smoked weed (Obviously. I'm way too well-behaved for that), and I don't get particularly worked up over the fuel my Odyssey gobbles up, but I am a bit militant about recycling around here. When I find E has tossed an empty saline bottle in the trash can, I promptly fish it out. I mutter to myself a lot while Wonderboy quizzes me annoyingly about why I talk to myself so much, and I schlep it to the recycling bin. I have a long history of recycling. Long.
First let me digress to gush over my first true love:
Sigh. Man, I loved that rusty heap. I'm not kidding. My Jeep was my banner of declaration to the world that I was a low-maintenance, outdoorsy, mountain-loving girl, and my boyfriend (not E) loved it almost as much (E never loved my Jeep, sniff, sniff). Mine was rust colored, which was good since much of it was rust-covered. I wore a barn coat that matched with metal clasps and a chocolate brown corduroy lining. I was so in love with the earth my closet consisted of nothing but earth tones. I was all about school, my Jeep and my dog. And so I was naturally all about earthiness.
Now, back to recycling. See, I got this brilliant idea. The city had no recycling program at the time, but I'm nothing if not ahead of the times. I can tell you that my parents' house generated no less than 92 empty gallon milk jugs per week. It was just killing me - my family was single-handedly killing the earth with milk jugs. So I put a call in to the city and discovered a location where I could drop off #2 plastics. Brilliant! I separated out one of the 14 trash cans that went to the curb each week, setting it aside strictly for milk jugs, and I guess the other 6 people in my family must have nodded in agreement that my idea was sheer genius, and then collectively rolled their eyes and snickered when I wasn't looking. Things went smoothly until that trash can was full. Well, dang it! I was busy trying to wrap my earth-loving little brain around biochemistry or something at the time. I had good intentions. My dad took those good intentions, otherwise referred to as the 92 milk jugs, and stuffed them in the back of my Jeep. Can you believe the nerve?! I tell you, there is NOTHING like the smell of 92 milk jugs baking in an enclosed car on a 95 degree day. I sat down right in the driveway and cried my earthy eyes out, and then I launched into histrionics, and then I cursed the earth and the entire dairy industry. Then I took those 92 milk jugs and stuffed them in the trash cans at the curb (my apologies, earth!) and drove as fast at my 2.8 L engine could take me to Kmart (with all windows open) to buy 17 vanillaromas. Dad: 1, Janna: 0.
There was no more recycling in our house, I can tell you that.
Lesson learned, Dad. Lesson learned.
3 comments:
We (I) still love your jeep and get a lump in my throat when I see it cast off to the side of the hill-the rust survives and the grass is greener under it.
How can you call yourself a recycler? I've seen how many shovels full of that good canine fertilizer finds its way into that plastic can. You need to unknot your knickers and repent to your father who gave you those lovely long slender legs and really do some good for those roses. THEN you can call yourself the queen of recyclers!
I never knew the milk recycling story but I did spend a lot of time in your awesome jeep. I was lucky enough to be a passenger in this amazing car quite often. Your wheels made my 1988 olds look pretty pathetic so just riding in your vehicle helped my social life. I saw a cordoba today and thought of you.
What's all this jeep memorial crap about. It's still in it's prime, not cast away. In fact. I just pulled a basketball hoop over with it and it performed amazingly. The jeep lives on!
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