What Goes Around

I am green. At least I try to be. I wash my garbage, separate it by material type and give it to the city in a blue bin every Monday. Plastic, glass, aluminum, paper. I rinse out my whiskey and wine bottles, my beer and soda bottles and cans, my jars of jelly, salsa and mayo. I scrub flip top plastic containers that once held a salad or a dozen wings and I re-use them to hold other things. More salad, more wings. I pick the cheese off pizza boxes and dust off the crumbs. I've considered blow-drying the grease stains. I can tell I'm old because I used to just throw everything in one garbage can. Now I have the blue bin, a paper handled bag, a plastic grocery bag of plastic grocery bags and the garbage can. Whenever I consume something, disposing of it's wrapper gives me pause. If it's paper I wonder what kind of paper. If it's plastic I search it carefully for a recycling symbol. If it's aluminum, I rinse it out or ball it up. I check for a return fee and then throw it in the blue bin anyway, recalling the old guy in the mini van who raids our stash every week for returnables. I don't know if he knows we know, but I don't want to cut him off if it's putting gas in the van. And then I think, if it's putting gas in the van and you can smell that van coming five minutes before it arrives and long after it moves on, now my goodwill is messing up the atmosphere. I probably have black lung because I'm recycling. But I don't want to be rude. He's gotta make a living, too. And I really don't want to take the returnables to Stop and Shop myself. The last two trips were a disaster - damn those can cruncher machines that always break down or fill up on my third can when I have 103 more to push in. Have you met the guy who "maintains" these machines? When you do, tell him I'm still waiting. I also confess to leaving brands the store doesn't take in the rejected can return. It only holds so many and all of them are mine. I apologize for any inconvenience, which is what the digital display says to me whenever the machine breaks down. I mean well, but I just don't have that kind of time. Recycling at home and supporting a stranger works out better for me. It's all the rage to be green now, and it pains me to think of how willy nilly I once was with garbage. I imagine how much waste one person can be responsible for and I remember seeing a report in the news on it. Some guy decided to carry his garbage around with him for a week - whatever he generated he had to hold onto in a bag. What would be in my bag? Well, this week: giant empty plastic tray with lid from chick-fi-la which once held nuggets for 25 people, four wine bottles, a fifth of Dewers, a fifth of Tangaray, a fifth of Jack, a mini-keg of Heffeweizen, several beer bottles, several soda bottles, several soda cans, several crumpled up cocktail napkins, shrimp skins and tails, gift wrap, tissue paper, junk mail, cake box, frosting cans, an entire roll of used paper towels, a broken hanger, two pairs of holy socks, scooped cat litter and whatever I swept off the kitchen floor just before the party. I'm sure I'm leaving a lot out, but now that I recycle, I feel better about a lot of that crap at least coming back my way some day. I honestly don't know how it works and sometimes believe that stuff in the blue bin is secreted off in special trucks but driven to the same dump in the end. I don't know what goes into making a bottle that holds alcohol, or how many of them get recycled to make more bottles of alcohol, but I think something can be learned from the plastic water jug people. You buy a jug, and then you just refill it until it gets smooshy or gross. Then you buy another jug. And you recycle the old jug. If I had one big bottle of Jack, polished it off, then went down to the liquor store and just refilled it, think how many times I could do that before that bottle had to be recycled. Think of the space, the energy, the time, the resources, the money I would be saving everyone if they did not have to keep making so many individual bottles of Jack in a variety of sizes - nips, half pints, pints, 5ths, gallons, and "is this size legal?" Even beer bottles and cans, for that matter. Let's all just go down to the store and get refills. Think of the friends you'd make! The world would be a much happier place, you wouldn't have to wash your garbage and we could get rid of those damn can crunchers once and for all. I'm pretty sure we wouldn't be putting anyone out of a job by eliminating those.

One Good Fool

Today is my birthday. I've always felt secretly pleased to have been born on a day for fools. It's like being handed a "get out of being serious for free" card. Expectations are immediately lowered. Levels of amusement markedly raised. I can be a goofball and well, we knew this would happen. The thing is, it almost didn't happen. My mother is charged with telling me my birth story every year (it is tradition), but I wonder if I shouldn't just tell it like I've heard it all these years and see if I'm right on or if I'm not as great a listener as some of my past bumper stickers have claimed. I will likely romanticize it more than she did. I will put in a few fade outs for effect. I will create a sense of urgency that the nurses may not have felt. And my mother's hair will be perfectly sprayed into a beehive I recall from one of her earliest photos with me. Or was it Aunt Susan? At any rate, here it goes...I was born on April 1, 1968 in Fort Knox, Kentucky at Ireland Army Hospital. My Dad was in Vietnam. My Mom was there (heh heh). I believe either on that very day or days before she was driving my Dad's old stick shift car somewhere and got stuck on a hill and the car kept rolling back. It could have been months before. I just know that my Mom can't drive a stick and I can and she always says the only reason is because she was pregnant with me and was stuck on that hill. If only I'd been born sooner! I could've clutched her out of there. Anyway, I digress. The sheets at Ireland Army Hospital were very green, the doctors and nurses were all decked out in green, my Mom's gown was green and the whole place was one big shamrock green building. Hence, my subsequent degree from Michigan State. Mere blocks away was a huge vault of gold (Fort Knox) and a horse racing track. I was destined to be rich and love horses. One out of two is not bad. When my Mom went into labor I was two weeks early. I was not expected to arrive until April 12, which coincidentally, was my Grandpa's birthday. It would have been equally special to share this date with him and quite likely would have excused me from a few minor indiscretions (beer, whiskey, cards, pretty women), but being funny would not have been nearly as, well, funny. I'm told showing up early was not my idea. It was brought on by a series of seemingly repeatable circumstances but in hindsight, not enviable. My mother is a chocolate covered cherry fanatic. They were then, and I believe still are, her favorite. She ate two boxes on March 31. Listen, she was preggers, her husband was on the other side of the world, my sister was running around in diapers, maybe the cable went out, probably it was cold outside, give her a break. Minutes later she wasn't feeling so hot, so my Oma (her mom and in many ways, my beloved second mom) rushed her to the hospital where no less than 12 blood sugar specialists soaped up and put on their surgical masks to consult her about the baby. "Mrs. Fracker, there's a good chance your baby will be born mentally challenged." Fade out. And we're back...it's April 1, about 9:30 p.m. The room is packed with doctors and nurses. Many looks of concern and anxious whispers. My Mom is so matter of fact, I can only imagine her saying, "I will have the baby now" in a thick German accent with her perfectly swooped beehive and then everyone prepping for delivery. Turns out it was a good idea to just get it over with. I popped into the world at 10:00 p.m. weighing in at a cool 6 lbs. 7 oz. or something like that (I still fudge my weight a little, a girl's gotta have some secrets) and a whopping 22" long. Tall for my age then. Not so much now. It's hard to tell at the time if I was mentally challenged. I couldn't hold a pen and Sudoku hadn't come onto the American scene yet. But there's no question I was an April Fool's baby, which my Grandma (Dad's mom) delighted in calling me from that day forward. My Dad found out in code that I'd made it into the world. The overseas call was a bit garbled, but one line came through loud and clear: "Mr. Fracker, your wife Sue Ann had the baby." Since my Mom's name is Helga, this could have been cause for confusion or jail time, but he knew what it meant. They both agreed if I was a girl, I'd be named Sue Ann, for some famous actress at the time whose name looked beautiful on the big screen in the only scripty font available at the time. 10 months later, Pops and I met for the first time in a local restaurant over steaks and fries. Me in my high chair, him in the booth. By way of introductions, I crumpled up my napkin and threw it at him. To this day, that's still how I greet people. I relish being a fool. And I thank my parents for giving me such an auspicious start. Happy Birthday to me...Mom, let me know if I got it right.

Jack to Reality

Vegas has a way of illuminating an otherwise forgettable moment. I guess that's why what happens there always stays there. Try to tell someone else about it when you're not there anymore and it just doesn't have the same luster. I just got back from Vegas this morning and I feel like my head is still there. Must have something to do with falling asleep on a jet plane and waking up at my desk... I still have the Goldfish Bonus song ringing in my ears and I keep seeing 17, 20, 32, 5 and 00 / 0 float across my screen. We were there for 4 days. I was a bit sauced for 3.5 of them. I think this is because you can pull up a chair to any given game of chance and within moments a woman in some form of mesh hosiery and a too teenie bra asks you if you want a cocktail. Looking at her like it's 8:00 a.m. because it's, well, 8:00 a.m. is a natural reaction, but what becomes even more natural is your acceptance that she is dressed properly for Friday morning at the Rio and you would in fact, love a cocktail. After all, you've been here since yesterday. Minutes after she delivers your breakfast Jack and Diet, it comes as no surprise she is now the lead dancer spotlighted in a one-woman show atop a row of slot machines 6 feet away. Of course she is. She's not doing anything until you need another drink anyway. It's not like that at home. It's not like that at work. It's not like that anywhere else, really. Order a drink at Chili's and you'll be lucky if the big guy behind the bar remembers your straw. He's not going to start tripping the light fantastic for you. It's such a letdown. Your expectations for entertainment and stimulation soar in Vegas. Everything's a show. Everything's as lit up as you are. It's hard to shake that VIP feeling when you come home. Things dull quickly; there's no action here. No one's trying to accost you with racy booklets of chicks boasting aeriolas too big for their stars. No one's drinking out of a 3 foot genie bottle. No one's removing their oxygen mask to hit a cigarette while simultaneously pressing Max Bet. It's too quiet. There's just the usual hum of the office lights. Every time the phone rings I think I caught a scatter for 30 credits, but it's just Verizon. Transitioning is always the hardest part. Vegas is fading fast and reality is at the door ready with a smile and a handshake. Welcome back. I've got your bills. You need to make an eye appointment. No, I did not bring drinks. What's this $2 for?

While I was in Vegas I thought about my cocktail of choice and topic #25: why Jack is better than Dad. I'm referring to Jack Daniels and Old Granddad. The thing is, I enjoy both. There was a time when I much preferred Old Granddad. I liked the sound of it. I liked the raised eyebrow ordering it would illicit. I liked it's grainy, alcohol-y taste. It's powerful stuff, the Dad. I made fast friends with the very few others who shared my passion for it. Whenever Granddad was not available, I would fall back on Jack or Jim. For a while I thought Jack and Jim were interchangeable, practically twins. But Jack surfaced, the cream rose. Jack is simply smoother and rarely makes me regret him in the morning. It's not like I go around pounding shots of whiskey and/or bourbon to determine their distinctions. I'm not an expert; I don't pontificate. I merely befriend and then see who lasts. Jack has endured, no question. Granted, I can only have so many nips and it's best we part ways for the night (and perhaps a few days after). Maybe I hook up with a Mich Ultra or two in between, but it always comes back to Jack. Bartenders and friends have told me to avoid the Diet part, stick to Coke or even Coke Zero, but I can't help it. Coke is too sweet and Zero is not often an option. I'm sure my liver, spleen and whatever else can turn green is hoping I'll give it up soon, but I am a whiskey girl at heart, I guess. As long as I keep hitting the gym, wearing the patch and avoiding heights, a few swigs of my favorite blend can't do any real damage, right? I vow to re-evaluate in 10 years. Maybe by then I'll favor pina colatas. I do like getting caught in the rain...