I love POB (partner of blogger). She is the better half of my soul. She is extraordinary.
She is also “at liberty” these days, since losing her job in a corporate restructuring. To my mind, she can rest on her laurels and eat bon-bons for the rest of her life. I want her to be happy. But recently, I think she needs to have a job for her sanity and well, frankly, for mine.
A few weeks ago, I learned from POB all about the scam of recycling plastic bottles. The bottles are shipped to China (add to carbon footprint) where the process of recycling those bottles causes noxious gases to be released into the atmosphere (EPA would not allow such recycling in our country) and then the recycled product is shipped back to us (add to carbon footprint). All this, over dinner, after a long day trying to woo clients and bring in business.
Last night, we were at dinner at a restaurant with friends and POB had questions about the fish special. Was it farmed? Was it certified as “happy fish” before it was fooled by bait and impaled on a hook? Where was it fished? (as in, was it fished in a place that is overfished?) I had an extra glass of wine that had a huge carbon footprint. I felt bad but the wine felt good.
But it was really the other week that I decided that POB needs a job, ANY job, with or without pay. POB announced over a gluten-free, nut-free and (dare I say) taste-free dinner that we should get one of those apartment-size composting kits so that we can create fertilizer and then drop it off at compost-receiving stations in Central Park. That way, the parks will be greener and we will be, too. Ok, ok, ok, ok, at age 47, I am composting nicely, thank you. I will disintegrate enough just in time for the worms, etc. to break down the rest of my cells at my death. POB is not mollified by the knowledge that I am in slow-burn compost mode.
What, am I not compost enough for POB???? At long last, has it come to this?