("free snowballs - the cold trek home" from the black kettles collective flickr stream.)
so, i'm thinking it's time for another freebie, and i thought it might be nice for me to solicit your suggestions. iPhone wallpaper? more mailing labels? a birthday card in honor of my upcoming 31st? something bloggy like another "comments make me happy" button?
whaddaya think, friends?
i feel bad that i've already forgotten where i first saw this, because i'd love to give a little shout out to whomever first brought it to my attention, but i'm sleep deprived and really can't be expected to remember things like which blogs first took me to which websites.
but i am definitely still getting a kick out of this website, designed to come up with your resolutions for you. perfect for any of us who have resolved, say, to take the easy way out.
my favorite so far is jump rope, as pictured here. i've also gotten learn italian, be a better person, and learn to cope. the last one was eerily appropriate and caused me to close my browser window while shuddering from creepiness.
Calling all of my Blockbuster Online and/or Netflix-affiliated readers. I need your help.
I need to know: How long do you keep a movie before you just send it back unwatched? How long must it sit on top of your television, still in its original envelope, before you say, "Oh, jeez, I am just soooo not going to watch this" and then open the arriving envelope just to transfer the DVD to the departing one?
Is two and a half months long enough?
Sunday it was "oh, dear, I need a break but I have a million things to do so I better keep on truckin'."
Monday it was a case of the grumpy grumps.
Today it was all out overwhelm-ed-ness. (I added the hyphens because I want you to read the "ed" part like you would in the word beloved. It seems more overwhelmy that way, with the "ed," doesn't it?)
This is what happens when I work on my dissertation.
Did I tell you that I got that "fifteen minutes a day" book I mentioned last week or the week before or jeez people do you really expect me to go find a link to that post because it's probably still in my "most recent posts" list over on the right over there and even if it's not you can just go search "writing your dissertation in fifteen minutes a day" in my search bar and you'll find it and I think you need to learn to do things for yourself and not expect me to spoonfeed you links.
Whoa.
I'm sorry Internet. Apparently I'm not just overwhelm-ed; I'm also Meany McHeadBiterOffer.
But so I got that book from the library and I've been reading it in manageable two-page snippets before bed and I really hate to ruin it for you but you can probably already guess: the point of the book is that you cannot write your dissertation in fifteen minutes a day. If I hadn't gotten it at the library I think I'd be asking for my money back because holy false advertising batman!
So yeah, the point of the book is that you cannot write your dissertation in fifteen minutes a day but that you also cannot really write your dissertation without investing that first fifteen minutes a day which will, inevitably, get you rolling into fifteen hours a day.
For me, though, this is the problem. I promised myself I'd work fifteen minutes each day, and I followed through on the promise and kept it up for at least ten days, but I quickly discovered that fifteen minutes gets me about as far as no damn where and so I would work work work and the next thing I knew I'd have spent two hours after dinner working on my dissertation, or four hours on a Sunday, and still barely scratching the surface. Sounds great, sounds perfect. It's a two-pound-a-week diet that actually makes you lose two pounds a week while eating pizza and chocolate and oh, how great except OH MY GOD I CANNOT HANDLE THIS.
Sunday morning I woke at five and cried. I mourned the loss of time with Brian. I mourned the loss of time for me. I mourned the loss of hobbies. I cried because if I want to stay devoted to this dissertation I can't train for a race this summer or join the Monday night summer Ultimate Frisbee league or do anything except relish the days with Evan and then work like a dog at night. It's not so bad but it's just so bad.
I cried because my house is messy and I just felt like we'd finally gotten on top of it. I cried because I'm good at working on my dissertation but working on it isn't good for me. I cried because I've been a graduate student in various programs for eight years and I need to not be one for awhile. I cried because I want to get this thing over with so I work really hard but then it backfires and sends me into three days of wickedness and then two months of ignoring the fact that the dissertation even exists.
I am frustrated because I cannot find a middle ground. I can't find a way to make just a little bit of progress and go slowly.
I am totally suing that lady for her dumb book and her dumb title and her dumb rightness about how long it takes to write a dissertation and how you really need to be preoccupied by it at all times to the point that you write notes on the table while feeding your baby some carrots and string cheese.
UGH.
OK. Rant over. For now.
Last night Brian and I went to bed at 7:25. Tonight it's 9:06 and we're settling in. All three of us are sick sick sick (my god this is getting ridiculous -- I just got "better") and Brian has the added bonus of being injured. Yup, he got hurt during his Ultimate Frisbee game last weekend -- one of those injuries that seems like "oh, that hurt" when it happens but then three days later is like "jesus, ow" and then three days after that is like "holy god that hurts." The pain, which is exacerbated by his cough -- did I mention we are all sick? -- led to x-rays and some major drugs, which in turn led to nausea, vomiting, and other very unpleasant sensations. Brian's calling the medicine Satan in a Bottle. He spent two days at home which is unheard of in Brian's life. In the six years we've been together I don't think he has ever called in sick.
So this morning I was emailing with my mom and she asked me if there was a word more pathetic than pathetic. Tonight on the phone she asked how the infirmary was doing. It's that sad around here. Patheticker than pathetic.
Honestly.
But the one good thing about today is that it's my nieces' birthday (two girls, one birthday -- hard to punctuate and pluralize properly) which means I can show you what I made for them! YAY! I've been waiting and waiting to show you.
They're art smocks, also from the now-infamous Bend-the-Rules Sewing. I made them in brown so that they won't show the mess. The fabric is actually home decorating fabric for a little bit of extra sturdiness. Each one is individually pre-scribbled with all kinds of pretty colored threads. It was fun and I hope the girls love them. I know I do.
Here's the back. Cute, huh?
My bloggy friend Christina -- you'll find her in my comments as well as at A Mommy Story (listed in the "blogs i read" section at right) -- recently honored me with a You Make Me Smile Award. Aww. She wrote, "I picked Julie because her son is so adorable I want to eat him up, and her crafts are stunningly beautiful. Go see the apron she made recently and marvel at the bazillion french knots." I'm blushing. Honest.
As I told her, sometimes I actually want to eat Evan up, too. Really. I mean, check him out:
I have to admit, though: Evan doesn't even look like my baby here. He looks like some stand-in, some older, wiser kid they got to play the part of Evan in this picture. Weird.
So anyway... to spread the love, I thought I'd pass the award on to the ladies at Sugar City Journal who inspire me every single day with their gorgeous children's (and now mommy) clothing. I swear, reading their blog and looking at the images (oh! the coats!) has truly changed the way I think about clothes. I know they're kids clothes but they remind me that getting dressed can be fun and that handmade clothes don't have to look, as Heidi Klum would say, "kind of home sewn."
I'm three birthday gifts away (four, I guess, since one of the birthdays is my twin nieces' birthday) from launching a full out skirt sewing spree, partially inspired by these two ladies and partly inspired by the fact that SPRING IS ON ITS WAY, PEOPLE. And that also makes me smile.
No, I'm not preggers. The pic in the post below is OLD. My hub saw it and said, "whoa!" and I realized I may not have thought that particular image choice through fully.
Live and learn, right?
A weird thing happened on Tuesday. Like ghost-faced bat weird.
Before leaving Columbus for home, I spent all of Tuesday's naps working on editing videos and making DVDs for the grandparents. We don't take a ton of videos of Evan -- he doesn't really do a lot yet -- but when we do hit the record button, we tend to let it go awhile, hoping to capture a cute moment or two among all the nothing. Really this means we have hours and hours (and hours) of video of Evan lying on the ground, Evan sticking out his tongue, Evan grabing his feet, and maybe 20 minutes of actual cute things.
Rule Number One: If even I find it boring, no one else wants to see it.
Rule Number Two: When I think two minutes of a particular video are cute, I probably only need to include thirty seconds to one minute of that.
Values. Those things we believe as individuals and as cultures. Things we believe about morality and ethics, things we believe about religion and politics, things we believe about the way the social order should work, the things we believe about things like beauty, justice, and goodness.
I think of values as the things that tell me what I want to be like or how I want to live my life. Values are the things that help me make decisions. They’re ingrained in me so that I don’t need to weigh every option every single time I am presented with a choice – I use my values as a shortcut for deciding what to do, how to act, which path to take, etc.
Sometimes, our personal values differ from the values of those around us. Personal values may be influenced by cultural and societal values but they are also the result of a lifetime of our own interactions with the external world. Personal values evolve out of our experiences even as they help us shape those experiences (by influencing our choices, perceptions, attitudes). It’s a recursive process.
Every once in a while, though, the process doesn’t work the way it should. A situation arises in which two different values collide dead smack against one another. Or, I meet someone I admire and suddenly I can’t tell the difference between my own values and my admiration for someone else’s. Because I do think of values as “what I want to be like,” sometimes I find myself staring a problem or decision head on and wondering how and why I can want to be like two things at once. It’s a problem, I guess, of an undefined values hierarchy.
A case in point: the television. I am unclear how I feel about it. Sometimes I want to put ours in a closet and never let it see the light of day except, say, during the Tour de France when there are exciting doping scandals 21 days of crashes, break-aways, time trials, and good old fashioned rivalries. Other times, I wonder what the big deal is about watching TV and think, Isn't putting your TV in the closet sort of like cutting out all refined sugars -- sure there are probably valid reasons to do it but what's the fun?
Or how about gym attendance? I am wildly undecided about whether I want to go to the gym and, because I'm nothing if not metaphysically-minded, whether or not I want to be the sort of person who goes to the gym. I really don't like gyms, but at the same time I really admire the women in my life who go to the gym regularly. I hear them talk about this kickboxing class or that weights class or about running on the treadmill or something and I think, I want to be like that.
In my head, all these things bounce around like superballs on a rubber floor and I can no longer determine which way is up.
Why I must turn every minor thing into a statement on what kind of person I am is beyond me. I do not remember having role models as a child who couldn't make decisions or who were obsessed with self-portrayals so I really can't figure how I became one of these people.
A bit of irony? This is one of my few personality traits that I feel I have no choice about. Everything else in my living breathing life seems somehow up for grabs, mine to shape as I see fit.
More irony? I search and search for someone to model myself after who doesn't always have to model herself after someone else. I know; it's very postmodern of me, copies of copies and all.
I think I read or heard somewhere that depression is the result of being stuck at a crossroads and not knowing how to progress. I feel lucky that I’ve learned to keep my difficulty understanding my own values within a reasonable and manageable range. I can’t say that that has always been the case. And yet on any given day I still feel mildly tortured by decisions like whether to keep my gym membership, what kind of winter coat to buy, whether I am the kind of person who wears bright pink or birkenstock sandals.
In a world where, to quote a song I've always liked, "we know the difference between the font of twenty percent more and the font of teriyaki," I am the ultimate susceptible consumer. Everything for me is a sign of something else. Every action is a copy of some other action. Every choice I make is a statement about who I am and every single day is a new opportunity to be someone or something else.
What I find most interesting, though, is that I don't think people see me this way. I think people see me as stable and unchanging. I can't even wrap my head around that because I feel like I am a new person everyday. A new and improved version of myself.
And I wonder, of course, whether all of this is normal. I suspect that other people don’t turn each and every daily decision into a question of what they believe, but maybe I am completely wrong about this. My husband told me Friday, over so much yummy sushi, that he thinks this is more normal than I would ever imagine. No one would ever grow if we weren't always testing our values, changing our minds, he told me.
Are we all daily self-reformers? Are we all performing our identities with each item of clothing worn, each morsel of food consumer, each show watched or unwatched? Are you?
Evan is officially a good, sweet-tempered, adaptable baby. There have been moments, days, even, when I doubted this. I am sure there will be moments, days, in the future when I question my own declaration. But I now declare Evan officially a Good Baby.
This weekend we went home for a funeral. Home as in 400 miles from where we live now. Home as in seven-plus hours in the car.
Friday, we drove at night hoping Evan might sleep. Sleep he did. The whole way. He woke once one hour into the ride and cried for about five minutes and then he slept the rest of the way, even through gas stops and bathroom breaks during which Brian and I took turns opening our car doors so quietly and then running in to take care of business before returning to open our doors so quietly again.
When we arrived at my mother's house, I feared we'd be in for one awake little baby, but smile as he did as we peeled him from his car seat and changed a diaper that weighed at least as much as he did, he went right back down to sleep for the rest of the night. Six more hours.
For three days subsequent, Evan slept his usual 12 hours a night despite having those days be totally and completely disrupted from his typical routine. His naps were cut short, moved around, or neglected entirely. He was surrounded upon waking from what naps he did take by six smiling grandparents, parents, and aunts who all wanted their chance to hold, feed, and play with the baby.
And yet he kept on smiling back. While there were fussy moments, Evan was more or less an angel the entire time we were away. He let people pass him around the circle of chairs and sofas as if he were a joint and my family a bunch of stoners. He smiled at each face that smiled at him. He giggled his first real, hearty giggles. He obliged grandmas with adorable pictures and plenty of snuggles.
Of course I kept thinking, he's not this good for Mommy. But that's not really true -- he's usually just about this good for mommy. I'm a lucky mommy.
Yesterday was our return trip. We couldn't leave at night because we had lots to do back home before returning today to sitters, school, and work. So we left at 9:40 after getting Evan all ready and then sticking him in a playpen to fend for himself while we packed our own stuff and filled the trunk. To our great relief and pride, the wailing in the playpen was the worst part of the whole day. Evan was an angel in the car, sleeping in two-hour stretches before needing to stop at some unsuspecting restaurant for an angry diaper change and a happy bottle and an hour free of the carseat straps. Evan wooed McDonald's patrons and adopted many nice ladies as grandmothers of the moment, flashing them smiles and hiding coyly, so coyly, on my shoulder.
We arrived home at 5:40, just in time for some play, a bath, and bottle, and bedtime. We feared, of course, that bedtime would be a big fight since Evan had slept so much of the day away, but he went down peacefully and without a struggle or even a peep at 7:00, just 30 minutes past his bedtime.
He slept quietly until 7:00 this morning and woke happier than ever, cooing and shrieking with joy at every tickle, every kiss. He is officially the sweetest baby who ever lived. I can't wait to get home to him this afternoon.
********************
Note: I'm so sorry I haven't been reading or commenting, but Evan was sleeping in my mom's computer room so naptime and bedtime computing was off limits. I promise I haven't forgotten you, dear Internet friends. I'll be by soon to say hi.
Now that I have those three garbage bags full of clean, gently used clothing, it's time to get them out of my house and into the right hands. Last night I did a little bit of research and discovered that if I want to donate them, I have two main options:
The girls, now 16 months old, are developing a nice little repertoire of new words. Lizzie’s first word was “car” and Cate’s was “cracker” (or vice versa – I’m somewhat surprised I remember the words let alone who said them – it was back in May, which was the last time we saw them). Since then, they’ve learned many more.
But this week, we learned about one of the cutest vocabulary idiosyncrasies I’ve ever heard of. Ever.
Cate has learned to say yes, and Lizzie has learned to say no.
Whenever Cate is asked a question whose answer is no, she just doesn’t answer. It’s the opposite for Lizzie. The only way this could get cuter is if they would start answering one another’s questions: Mom says, "Cate, are you hungry?" Lizzie answers, "No."
I’ll bet that’s not far off.
The girls turned one year old two weeks ago, and this feat was celebrated, Korean-style, with a big celebration. The foster mother in Korea had given Mere and Joe a gift of two elaborate first-birthday outfits for the girls (Cate is pictured in hers in the above picture, Lizzie in the lower one), complete with a polaroid marked with sharpie numbering the garments' items in the order in which they are to be put on the girls. I think there were eight pieces in all, and dressing the babies up in these outfits it something of a ceremony. Meredith was already nervous about it back in March when I visited, worrying because she'd promised to send pictures to the foster mother in Korea and wanted to get everything just right.
Unfortunately, Brian and I were unable to make it to the birthday celebration, but from what I heard about it (and from some research I conducted afterwards), it's really interesting. Historically, death rates of children were really high. Many children died before their first birthdays. After the age of one, however, the survival rate increased dramatically, making the first birthday a milestone worthy of happy celebration. The first birthday celebration, called the Tol, is a time of prayer, thanksgiving, ornamentation, ceremony, and celebration. The hilight of the celebration for my little nieces, other than the outfits, was the Toljabee.
I wondered, of course, what the book symbolizes. I asked Brian when he told me all about the girls' birthday party, and his answer was "indecision and instability." The "real" answer is that choosing the book means that the child will become a successful scholar, but I thought Brian's answer was especially appropriate. After all, how many of us who "chose the book," so to speak, have struggled to figured out what to do with our lives, how to be happy and successful, how to pay the rent, whether what we're doing is the right thing?
Brian and I (more him, less me, given my maternal bluge) are about to embark on one last pre-baby home improvement project. When we redid our upstairs bathroom because of a faulty tub the Christmas before last, we installed a toilet (and a toilet only) in the basement, which was already rough-plumbed, so that we wouldn't be sans-toilet during the week-long remodeling. The toilet-in-the-middle-of-the-room thing is cool, sure, but when we go to sell this place, we're guessing it won't be the draw it would be, say, for us. In addition, we have had to punch three holes in the ridiculously-poorly-engineered drop ceiling we have in the finished side of the basement over the years (to install a heating duct and to find the source of a leak) which would not be a draw even for us. With baby on the way, we thought now would be better than later for making the repairs/improvements. So we're finally finishing the second bathroom and replacing the drop ceiling.
This has all led me to ponder a very perplexing question. Why are commercial two-by-fours are called two-by-fours, despite being only 1.5" by 3.5"?
After typing the title for this post, I can suggest that one possible reason is that a more accurate name would be exhausting. However, wisegeek.com provides a more informed explanation of why this is so:
"Indeed, at one point in the milling process, two by fours actually do measure two inches by four inches. This is the measurement of the planks just before they are run through a machine called a planer. A planer uses sharp blades to shave off all of the imperfect edges left behind by the rough sawing process. Commercial lumber mills may have to plane off as much as 1/2 inch of length and width from two by fours to provide a quality product for carpenters, roofers and homeowners.Older boards recovered from 100-year-old homes and other buildings may actually be true two by fours, however. Carpenters routinely planed their own two by fours onsite to create a better fit between individual boards. Sawmills did not always use planers to create perfect two by fours - framers and carpenters were accustomed to working with rough-sawn planks of variable thickness and appearance. Planks were generally cut to standard measurements such as eight by eights, two by eights, two by fours and one by twos. The measuring terms still remain a popular reference, even if the actual dimensions are not entirely accurate."
With my own fantasies of new homes and paid off mortgages, and of course with a baby on the way, I found the following article quite amusing. For his sake, I hope it works out. I don't know that I would have the patience for such an endeavor, but more power to Brad Ziss for attempting the seemingly impossible (and yet, history tells us, not impossible).
From the Columbus Dispatch, January 6, 2007 : "Trading Up: Dad-to-be hopes barter system will help pay off mortgage"
(Summarized by me) Brad Ziss, a Worthington, Ohio resident, aims to pay off his $159,000 mortgage by bartering. He has converted lawn darts into a car, California Raisins into a boat and two dolls into a set of Amish furniture. His wife is pregnant and he wants to stay at home fulltime with the baby. This 2002 OSU graduate is attempting to follow in the footsteps of Kyle MacDonald of Montreal who started with a red paper clip (see his blog at http://oneredpaperclip.blogspot.com/) and, by trading one item after another, ended up with a house. Ziss began in October "with six objects and a blog" (www.stayathomebrad.com) where he posts what he's got to trade and what he's looking to trade for next. The website also shows the progression of his trades so far.
As of January 21, 2007, he was 4% of the way to his goal. Sadly, he is now, several weeks later, only at 3.6%.
I don't have much to say today. I missed my deadline in the name of meeting my new nieces over Thanksgiving. They were so cute the missed deadline was well worth it. And today I got nearly caught up so that I should reach my goal by tomorrow. Three days late isn't too bad.
I did take a break today to try to vote on the new world trade center memorial. While home my sister told me that you could vote for one of the eight or so finalists by going to buildthememorial.org. Unfortunately, I missed the deadline. But I did get to see a picture of the memorial design that won, and I have to say, it's pretty amazing.
The design is called "Reflecting Absence" and was created by architect Michael Arad and landscape architect Peter Walker. It was selected from a competition which included more than 5,200 entrants from 63 nations. The Memorial will consist of two massive voids with waterfalls cascading down their sides.
Here, the architects describe the memorial in their own words:
This memorial proposes a space that resonates with the feelings of loss and absence that were generated by the destruction of the World Trade Center and the taking of thousands of lives on September 11, 2001 and February 26, 1993. It is located in a field of trees that is interrupted by two large voids containing recessed pools. The pools and the ramps that surround them encompass the footprints of the twin towers. A cascade of water that describes the perimeter of each square feeds the pools with a continuous stream. They are large voids, open and visible reminders of the absence.The surface of the memorial plaza is punctuated by the linear rhythms of rows of deciduous trees, forming informal clusters, clearings and groves. This surface consists of a composition of stone pavers, plantings and low ground cover. Through its annual cycle of rebirth, the living park extends and deepens the experience of the memorial.
Bordering each pool is a pair of ramps that lead down to the memorial spaces. Descending into the memorial, visitors are removed from the sights and sounds of the city and immersed in a cool darkness. As they proceed, the sound of water falling grows louder, and more daylight filters in from below. At the bottom of their descent, they find themselves behind a thin curtain of water, staring out at an enormous pool. Surrounding this pool is a continuous ribbon of names. The enormity of this space and the multitude of names that form this endless ribbon underscore the vast scope of the destruction. Standing there at the water's edge, looking at a pool of water that is flowing away into an abyss, a visitor to the site can sense that what is beyond this curtain of water and ribbon of names is inaccessible.
The names of the deceased will be arranged in no particular order around the pools. After carefully considering different arrangements, I have found that any arrangement that tries to impose meaning through physical adjacency will cause grief and anguish to people who might be excluded from that process, furthering the sense of loss that they are already suffering.
The haphazard brutality of the attacks is reflected in the arrangement of names, and no attempt is made to impose order upon this suffering. The selfless sacrifices of rescue workers could be acknowledged with their agency's insignia next to their names. Visitors to the site, including family members and friends of the deceased, would be guided by on-site staff or a printed directory to the specific location of each name. For those whose deceased were never physically identified, the location of the name marks a spot that is their own.
In between the two pools is a short passageway that links them at this lower level. A single alcove is located along this passageway, containing a small dais where visitors can light a candle or leave an artifact in memory of loved ones. Across from it, in a small chamber, visitors might pause and contemplate. This space provides for gatherings, quiet reflection, and memorial services.
Along the western edge of the site, a deep fissure exposes the slurry wall from plaza level to bedrock and provides access via a stairway. Descending alongside its battered surfaces, visitors will witness the massive expanse of the original foundations. The entrance to the underground interpretive center is located at bedrock. Here visitors could view many preserved artifacts from the twin towers: twisted steel beams, a crushed fire truck, and personal effects. The underground interpretive center would contain exhibition areas as well as lecture halls and a research library.
In contrast with the public mandate of the underground interpretive center is the very private nature of the room for unidentified remains. It is situated at bedrock at the north tower footprint. Here a large stone vessel forms a centerpiece for the unidentified remains. A large opening in the ceiling connects this space to the sky above, and the sound of water shelters the space from the city. Family members can gather here for moments of private contemplation. It is a personal space for remembrance.
The memorial plaza is designed to be a mediating space; it belongs both to the city and to the memorial. Located at street level to allow for its integration into the fabric of the city, the plaza encourages the use of this space by New Yorkers on a daily basis. The memorial grounds will not be isolated from the rest of the city; they will be a living part of it.
-- Michael Arad and Peter Walker, from http://www.wtcsitememorial.org/fin7.html
After all my snide comments about golf, I actually went golfing for what I consider the first time ever this past weekend (there was one time when our whole training class had a golf outing when I worked for PricewaterhouseCoopers as an IT consultant, though I wouldn't say that what I did that day counts as golfing).
I didn't keep track of shots on each hole, but I did count the number of attempts it took to get from the tee to the hole on a couple of holes. Surprisingly, I made contact with the ball at least 95% of the time; the shots just didn't get much air or distance, so I had to take a lot of shots. I averaged about 20 shots per hole. We walked nine holes, so I figure I golfed about a 180. Which, I now realize, is not a "round of 180" as my title indiactes, because a "round of golf" is 18 holes. So I golfed a round of 360! That's five times par for those of you keeping score at home.
I figure starting out so very poorly only leaves room for improvement. Next time, I'm shooting for a 350. Tiger better watch out.
I'm not great, but I try to be as earth-friendly as I can. I drive a Honda Civic and try to walk or ride my bike whenever possible. I stay home to study, most days, instead of heading out to Starbucks or someplace. We recycle like crazy in our house. Since we started paying for recycling at the house (it's not free here in Columbus like it was home), our trash has been at least halved and our recycling bin is always overflowing into other bags or boxes.
I also try to learn as much as I can. Because sometimes, things that seem right aren't always. I've become a big huge proponent of paper bags at the grocery stores because I always thought, "Hey! Trees are renewable and petroleum (what makes plastic) isn't. Plus, paper's biodegradable and plastic's not."
My grocery store absolutely HATES this. Whenever I request paper instead of plastic I get a sigh and this really exaggerated removal of the plastic bags and supposed search for the paper ones. I try to look at the tabloids during this process to avoid giving what some people say is a certain look I give.
When I used to live in Ithaca, I used cloth bags and no one cared. They loved it. I get the feeling that if I tried that here, I'd be asked to leave.
Anyway, after my mid-week run to the store for the things I forgot or needed fresh (shrimp), I got to thinking about how I'd really love to have some statistics to back me up in my crusade to replace plastic bags with paper ones.
I am here to admit that I may be wrong. Consider the following:
ILEA, The Institute for Lifecycle Assessment, after a lengthy and detailed study, concluded the following:
"Through a lifecycle energy analysis, plastic is the better bag. At current recycling rates two plastic bags use less energy and produce less solid, atmospheric, and waterborne waste than a single paper bag. Moreover future improvements only increase preference in plastic bags. Increasing recycling rates and reducing the 2-to-1 ratio through proper bagging techniques would further the energy preference for plastic bags."
"Although plastics do not biodegrade, modern landfills are designed in such a way that nothing biodegrades, because the waste is isolated from air and water in order to prevent groundwater contamination and air pollution. As manufacturers have continued to make their plastic packaging thinner and lighter to save materials, the percentage of landfill volume taken up by plastics has remained steady since 1970 even as plastics have become more widely used."
"In 2002, Bangladesh banned plastic bags after drains blocked by bags contributed to widespread monsoon flooding in 1988 and 1998. Ireland has decreased plastic bag consumption by placing a consumer tax on plastic bags. Perhaps the most strict plastic bag regulations are found in the Indian province of Himachal Pradesh, where people caught with plastic bags are fined $2000. "
