PNW Problems

compost-lol

When my kids were younger and we were living under the sunny skies of Scottsdale, AZ, I would tease them about the difference between real problems and “Scottsdale” problems. For example, a desperate cry from a naked boy awaiting a soak in our jacuzzi tub that sounded like this: “MOM, HELP! WE ARE OUT OF LAVENDER BATH SALTS,” was clearly relegated to the “Scottsdale problem” list. A tearful lament that a sibling wouldn’t share any of his gluten free banana pecan scone, was also quickly shifted into the “Scottsdale” category. My favorite was the “There is nothing to eat. Someone finished my salmon skin sushi roll!”

I tried to kindly explain that these minor inconveniences were not really problems for most people in the world. Real problems had to do with homelessness, poverty, world hunger and the deteriorating ozone layer which is leading the planet towards its fiery destruction.

Now we live in Seattle and I have finally realized that each and every geographic region has it’s own set of hideous problems facing todays children and young adults. No, it is not the epidemic of youth suicides, the plethora of school shooting massacres, or even the long term harmfulness of rampant opioid addiction. I have found the PNW problem that is ruining our children, destroying their sense of self and contributing to the powerlessness and depression overwhelming young people today. Composting.

We dutifully have separate garbage cans for garbage, recyclables and compost. My children are avid supporters of composting and have also insisted that there are undercover refuse police who go through our garbage cans in search of an errant unwashed yogurt container or a bags of pungent pet poop, (which surprisingly is not compostable). While I have researched extensively regarding the hefty fines imposed by these “refuse regulators,” I have found inconclusive and confusing reports of fines ranging from public shaming to $1 per oversight.

Since the thought of actively allowing food scraps to accumulate on my counter or under my sink was more than a little unsettling to this city girl, I embarked on a research project to find the most convenient, sanitary and bug-free method of composting I could find. I settled on a YukChuk under the sink and a small (dishwasher safe) mini bin for the freezer. I got compostable bags and explained the system to my kids.

The key to successful composting is simple. EMPTY THE BINS OFTEN. I’d love to say this lesson wasn’t extremely disgusting, stench-filled and painful to learn, but that would be untrue. Once we got the proper system set up and running, I found myself being the sole compost remover of the clan. This bothered me quite a bit.

“Take out the compost,” I urged multiple times a day. Sometimes I would even remove the bags and set them outside the back door for easier disposal. But my children merely saw that as a stumbling obstacle and stepped over the bags in order to avoid touching their disgusting contents of gross, moldy, food remains.

One night I emptied the compost trash and as an experiment decided not to fill the bins with the compostable green bags beside them. The next morning I awoke to find the unbagged bins filled with food waste. I snapped. “That is it,” I announced to myself since I’m obviously the only one who pays any attention to me. Then I washed out the bins, dried them and hid them deep in the garage.

My younger son was dismayed about this. But I calmly explained that I was not willing to be the sole composter in the family and had unilaterally decided to revoke all internal composting privileges. He took that in and then acknowledged that he understood and believed I had made a sensible choice.

But when my 17 year old son discovered the missing bins, the fireworks began. “How can you do something like this to me?” He raved. “You are literally ruining my life!” “How can you be this cruel and unfeeling? I’m literally horrified.” (Literally seems to be the word of the week in my house).

While I totally acknowledge that feelings are real and emotions are nothing to laugh at, this reaction struck me as a bit over the top. “Are you serious?” I asked. “You’re melting down over compost?”

He left in a huff.

When he returned from school, he was still ruminating on my sick, twisted effort to destroy the planet. “Look mom, this is extremely important to me,” he stated with clear, calm coherence. “I’d like to make you an offer.”

Since I am unable walk away from this type of intriguing proposition, I say, “I’m listening.”

“I will pay you for the privilege of indoor composting,” He reasons.

“Hmmm,” I say with an open, inviting lilt. “How much?”

“I’ll give you a dollar,” he proffers.

I laugh heartily and recommend he come back when he has a serious offer to submit.

“Okay,” he acknowledges. “I’ll give you five.”

I walk away with an expression of disappointment at this lame attempt to negotiate a settlement.

“Ten?” he suggests.

Still I say nothing.

“Okay, I’ll give you twenty bucks for the tiny little freezer bin,” he pleads.

Since I could actually use the extra twenty, I offer my hand and we shake in agreement. “But,” I add, “Failure to empty the freezer bin will result in permanent loss of internal composting privileges.”

He nods in resigned assent.

“And,” I insist, “This twenty is non-refundable.”

It’s been several months since the compost accord, and I’m pleased to report that the Gettleman household is actively composting, recycling and garbaging according to all State and local government regulations and statutes of political correctness.

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Happy New Year?

This week, most Jewish people ignored the minor holiday of Tu B’Shvat. Unlike the biggies, like Rosh Hashana, Chanukah and Passover, Tu B’Shvat has always occupied a spot on the sidelines, kind of a red-headed step-child kind of holiday.

In part, it’s because it’s a complex festival that has to do with tithing and farming and a lot of technical “arboreal-related” issues. Most of us think of it as some sort of birthday celebration for the trees. Beyond that, we can’t really see the forest.

I would’ve missed the holiday completely this year had it not been for my 11 year-old son, Levi, who came home from school on a mission. It was 4:00 and I was rushing to get ready and get out of the house by 5.

“Mom,” he started in a determined tone that clued me in immediately that I was in for trouble. “I have to go to the grocery store right now.”

“I’ve already gone shopping today,” I assured him. “I’m sure whatever you need can wait till tomorrow.”

“But it can’t,” he bemoaned. “Tomorrow will be too late.”

I explained calmly that no amount of whining would sway me on this issue and sent him on his way. A few minutes later he re-emerged with a grocery list and a very rational request. He had $15 in tow and announced that he was going to pay for his items himself if I would agree to let Gabi, our nanny, take him to the store. He assured me that they would be back in plenty of time to get Eli, his brother, to Karate.

“Levi,” I finally inquired, “What is so important that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m making a Tu B’Shvat seder and we don’t have all the items I need.”

Now I believe in consistent discipline. I also believe in sticking to my guns. If I say something, I try very hard to follow through with it. But the requested grocery trip had suddenly taken on a new perspective. Sure it was still inconvenient. But why was I sending my boys to Jewish Day School if I wasn’t going to support the important and thoughtful lessons they were learning? I agreed to the bargain, delayed my dinner date and handed Levi a 20 dollar bill.

About an hour later, Levi called the Seder to order. He had set out bountiful platters of pomegranate seeds, nuts, dates and olives. There were avocados and plums, fruits with inedible peels, seeded berries, pitted fruits, and a few Fig Newtons to stand in for wheat, barley and figs. I was taken aback by the beauty and effort involved in creating this meaningful display.

Then Levi taught me about Tu B’Shvat, the New Year for the trees. He explained the significance of eating each of the food items he’d prepared and told me stories of what the holiday meant spiritually as well as literally and religiously. I have to say I was in awe of his expertise and the facility with which he handled the information. We sat together for nearly an hour, me listening to him, reciting prayers, and even asking follow up questions to gain better understanding of his teachings.

It was an unusual opportunity for me to take off my parental hat and see my son for the bright, thoughtful and passionate person he’s becoming. It is truly an honor to be able to step back and appreciate your child for who he is and what he believes in and cares about.

Sure, we’ll still fight about his forgetting to put his dishes in the dishwasher, and his failing to put away his folded laundry as promised. But in between those minor altercations, I’ll try to remember just how amazing this strong, independent young man is, and how grateful I am for all that he brings to our lives.

Happy New Year, trees!

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If crime doesn’t pay, then honesty should be rewarded!

I am too honest. I really am. I’m the kind of person who corrects the cashier at Safeway when she charges me for cheap, ordinary Gala apples when in fact I’ve purchased exceedingly expensive Jazz apples.

I’ve always been this way. I can’t keep things I find on the sidewalk. I never cheated on a test in my life. And I actually feel compelled to return that extra nickel when the young man at Dunkin Donuts makes the wrong change from my $20. (Well, in my register-ringing teens, our pay got docked for every penny we fell short.)

C'mon TJ's. Give me a break.

But today I feel genuinely ripped off. And it’s all because of my insane honesty. I went to Trader Joe’s. (Yes, I’m obsessed about shopping there. I go there at least 5 times a week. But that’s another issue we can contemplate in the future.) Much to my delight, I remembered to bring in my reusable grocery bags. I normally end up running back to the car to retrieve them just as I’m entering the check-out lane.

As you probably know, Trader Joe’s offers a kind of incentive program for bringing in your own bags. Every time you use your own, you get to fill out a ticket for a chance to win a $25 gift certificate. I’ve been entering this weekly lottery for over a year. But much to my chagrin, I have never won. This seems odd to me. For someone who enters as often as I do, I was fairly certain that I would have been victorious by now. And for some reason, I really want to win this. It has taken me a great deal of energy and effort to consistently remember to bring in those dumb canvas bags, and now I want to be rewarded for it.

When they first started the program, they always gave me a ticket as I checked out. But, over time, they have become a bit chintzy with the tickets. I sometimes go weeks without being given one. I know that I could ask for one. But I’m kind of embarrassed about it. I don’t want to seem too needy or competitive. So I generally smile a little less brightly and just head out to the car disappointedly with my cadre of environmentally protective reusable bags.

But today, the gentleman ringing me up actually remembered to give me a ticket to fill out for the auction. My face lit up. I smiled and murmured some hopeful remark about it perhaps finally being my time for the big win. He affirmed my wishful philosophy by reminding me that somebody has to win. Why couldn’t it be me?

I bagged my groceries as he continued to ring up the items in my cart. That’s when I saw it. There was a second blank ticket just barely visible underneath a stack of brown paper bags. “OMG,” I thought. “I could fill that out too and then I’d for sure end up winning.” I unobtrusively palmed the extra ticket and secretly slid it over to me. When the cashier was distracted, I picked it up. (I had already dropped the first one in the little tin at the front door.)

We talked cheerfully and he helped me bag the remainder of my groceries. “Just fill it out and drop it in the tin,” I said to myself. But I couldn’t do it. What if I did actually win and it was under this kind of false pretense? How could I live with myself?

After I was bagged and payed for, I held up the bonus ticket and announced, “Hey, here’s an extra one. I just found it lying up here.” “Thanks,” he said as he collected the still blank ticket. And that was it. He didn’t thank me for my honesty. He didn’t say, “Listen, just go ahead and fill this one in too. It’ll give you better odds for winning this week.” Nothing like that. He just thanked me and stuck the ticket in the register.

I am now certain that that ticket was the winning ticket. I deserved that ticket. I bet I enter this drawing more often than anyone else in the valley. How come I never win? That’s just weird. I’m starting to think it’s all a ruse. Maybe they don’t actually pick a winner every week. Maybe they do it like once every four months or something. Whatever they’re doing, they are pissing me off and I’m one of their best customers.

If Trader Joe’s is going to reward people for protecting the environment, you’d think they’d also want to positively reenforce the kind of honesty I displayed this morning. I mean, being green is one thing. But without good, old-fashioned honesty, this planet is seriously doomed.