After seeing Al Gore on 30 Rock — the camera zoomed in on his mouth, chockfull of yellowed teeth that have caved and shifted slightly ever since he lost that Presidential election — look into the camera and say: “Recycle everything”, with the emphasis on e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, I have been his Recycle Everything Ambassador…or Stepford wife.
It feels like the latter. Which makes me shudder. I don’t even think Tipper is a Mormon. But I just had a quick flash of the two of us…oh, nevermind.
I am wrought with guilt every time I throw something away. I’m back to tearing the cellophane window out of the junk mail envelopes so that I can recycle them too, not just their contents.
I bought a drain catcher so I don’t waste any food scraps down the drain that could be tossed in the compost bin while there are starving children…and bio-engineered corn in silos everywhere. I am caught in a twister of big-picturey and minute details at once.
I threw my son’s old crocs in the recycling bin. Al Gore said, “Recycle everything.” I am throwing plastic bags without the chasing arrows in the recycling. It’s my way of saying to the people at the recycling center: “Yes We Can” and “Just do it!” without having to look like Al Sharpton. Get it? Yes We Can, he’s a democrat for Obama and Just Do It because he’s Nike’s athletic wear spokesperson?
He isn’t? Oh. Then why does wear all those…oh, nevermind.
When I threw away my tattered-beyond-all-modesty sweats last week, I pressed them into the pile in the pail under the sink, shut the door on them, and there was Al Gore’s voice, “Recycle e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.” Ding! It’s the Lord, Noah.
I guilt-backpedaled and pulled them out. Did you know one pair of sweats can make a half dozen 12” rags? I placed them in the linen closet where I’ll feel all Al Gore Recycle Everything good about myself next time I reach in there and grab one. I can’t wait to clean again!
Today, however, there was a digression. I don’t know if it’s forgivable. I wadded up two pairs of sweats from Vincent’s drawer that he won’t wear anymore because “they have holes in the knees and the testosterone”, meaning the crotch, and they are beyond repair. Really, Al. They are. I sew, too, but these…no. No can do.
I did not turn them into rags because I already have rags. Al was totally pissed at me. I could have “cut them up into strips and put them in the compost bin!” he said, rising up on the balls of his feet and breathing down his flared nostrils, which are pretty scary when they’re not “aflare”. Tipper deleted the Christmas eCard she was going to send our family. It hurts. They really mean business.