I’m the mom rolling her eyes at the “no- peanut signs”, thinking that if your kid is so allergic to nuts that my kid’s snack can make your sprog’s tongue inflate like a blimp than you really should be looking at the newest in bubble homes, not hanging out at kindergym. (The Moops! The Moops!). When the university I worked for banned perfume, I sulked for a month. Although I had suffered plenty over-Polo-infused elevator rides in my time, legislating smell seemed crazy. Eventually, though, and dutifully, my perfume found its dusty way to the back of my vanity drawer.
I had the same basic attitude towards colds, superbugs, germy germs. Nile Virus, Avian Flu, even SARS…ha and double ha. As with allergy epidemics, I couldn’t quite swallow that bugs are bigger and badder than they use to be; after all, human history is plagued, well, with plagues. Of course I have had intelligent, semi-informed conversations about modern society’s overuse of chemicals, cleaners, and antibiotics and concede that there are reasonable grounds to conclude that times they are a changin’, but I never really believed.
Norwalk made a believer out of me. Because last Sunday I learned what “The Norwalk” is: it’s the pathetic, bile-laden crawl you do across your bathroom tiles to the foot of your bed, where you lie for awhile until you need to make the return journey, back through bile, back to the basin. When the final count came through, our rousing St. Paddy’s party on Saturday night had resulted in 9 casualties, otherwise healthy adults hugging porcelain for several hours and bed-ridden for at least a couple of days. A fellow Walker laughed when I marveled aloud about how a human can choke on something as small as a peanut and die but when our bodies sense a teeny-tiny foreign molecule, our esophagus opens up like Old Faithful. 1-2 days after we had toasted each other, dug our fists into chip bowls and slopped Irish stew, we were, to use the vernacular, slayed. We were slayed by one of the most effective viruses I have ever had the displeasure of knowing, a “noro-virus”.
5 days into doctor-suggested but self-imposed quarantine later, I found myself carrying disinfectant wipes to the park so that I could wipe down the swings and merry-go-round after my toddler was finished. That same day, my husband rushed in and out of the store for food, touching only what was necessary, while the three of us waited on the sidewalk like wee waifs waiting for a handout. I went to bed the other night worrying about how I pay for a movie: which method would expose me and others the least? Swiping at a terminal would be best, then I could clean my card and the keypad afterwards. Real money? Oh God! Granny, now I know where it’s been; I’ve seen its travels; they resemble a red-water river ride through chunky canyon. How will I touch coins or paper money again? I covet the sanitation station outside the grocery store and wonder how I can make one at my front door look attractive. Perhaps top it with a flower basket.
When I think back to that fateful night, I’m shocked by my slack approach to hygiene. My son chewed some olives, then slopped them back into the bowl. I scooped the chewed ones out and went about my business. The two toddlers licked chips and double-dipped. The adults shared a bottle of Bushmill’s, the lazy man’s way, the rummy way. We dipped our potato cakes in communal gravy. One of the kids had diarrhea; we didn’t think anything of it. Cleaned her up, chucked the pants in the wash and cracked a Guinness. Did we wash our hands? I can’t remember. We kissed and hugged and wiped runny noses with our fingers, then onto our jeans. We walked on the beach and strange wet dogs licked our fingers; we had some more chips and veggies and dip. Norwalk was laughing its pants off and rubbing its nasty hands together with glee.
I now experiment with different measurements of bleach solutions. I do this because in my mind’s eye I can still see my throat wide as a fire hose spewing semi-digested Sunday dinner and gallons of reddish liquid. I can still feel my eyes bursting from my head and the uncertainty of which orifice my organs will get sucked through. I still have the pathetic image burned in my memory of my two-year old dry-heaving while I lay curled around his feet. 4 parts bleach, 10 parts water. Hot, hot water. Yes, that seems strong enough.
Disease control thanked me for calling and the emergency room (where you are NOT supposed to go if you think you have a noro-virus) was very accommodating. Bless IV Gravol. I learned some new medical terminology and that my husband, while he looks kind of cute in rubber gloves, brings new definition to the word “hurl”, as in all over the bathroom door, floor, and walls. Most importantly though, besides no longer mocking peanut-paranoid moms, I have learned that those big, bad bugs truly are everywhere and love normal, but sloppy families and party-goers just like us, and you. See you at the movies tonight.
(As published in Monday Magazine, July 2007)
Showing posts with label consumerism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label consumerism. Show all posts
Friday, September 4, 2009
Saturday, June 23, 2007
The Dead Lamp Collection
I call it my dead lamp collection. A corner of my basement, a darkened hallway, behind the bookshelf, all repositories of my wanton consumerism. This is where the cheap lamps lie, $12.99 from Costco, 10 bucks from the Stupidstore. New, plastic-wrapped, boxed, and functional…at least for awhile.
Now I mean this as a bit of a confession. A confession because my neighbourhood and my conscience are filled with ardent recyclers and greener than the grass types. And “a bit of” because I am not really certain how guilty I should feel. The social measure, the checks and balances, confuses me. It was for sale after all. And on sale. Aren’t I supposed to buy it? I need a lamp or two to light my living room. Here’s a lamp, next to the 100-pack of white gym socks, of course, where else would it be. $12.99. I need it, it needs me. Cha-ching.
The downside, as you may have guessed, is that they are cheap for a reason, they don’t live long. Duh, you may say. Yet, how often are you shocked when something recently purchased doesn’t perform, or gasps its dying breath 4000 days before you expected it to? Cheap or expensive, “I can’t believe it…what a piece of sh#%” is a common refrain. If it was an expensive piece of shit, you try to get your money back. If it was cheap, you grow a graveyard. But my growing graveyard of bargain illumination haunts me. What do I do with it all?
Landfill. Yup, that’s all I can do. My husband has replaced the metal fixture thingy at the top of an Ikea lamp more times than I can count. It’s dead. Put down the paddles. Mark the chart. And my blue box doesn’t take dead Ikea lamps. Or dead Costco lamps. No dead lamps period. Love thy basement.
My lightless, uncoffined skeletons make me want to redeem myself in other ways. I yearn to find cool clothes at my local twice-around shop. Trouble is: they charge more than the “out-sourced” clothing available at the mall. Plus they never have my size, and tiger-striped skirts were never my style. And not to make a long story long, but how much time is reasonable to spend searching for that fab previously-loved garment? 2? 3 hours? I do have a life you know.
One redemptive item, no kidding, is the gargantuan plastic play structure in my backyard. It is chunky purple and yellow plastic, with a slide and a steering wheel. My toddler loves it. It’s redeeming because a neighbour was giving it away…just left it!! At the bottom of the street. A “for free” sign nestled against it. And I scooped it, my 16-month old and I dragging it six houses uphill like cats that ate the canary, a big canary, a 200-pound canary. O.k., o.k., my husband came by in the car and hauled it home, but still. And there it towers, my testament to re-use, to what my grandma called a “hand-me-down”. Apparently, a long long time ago, there was something called “poverty”, or in some families “conservation”, in others “practicality”. During this magical time, consumer products were built to last and people responded accordingly: they passed items they no longer needed onto those who did require or want them, to family, to friends, to friends of friends. No basement graveyards. This is what my big hunk of plastic feels like, that magical time. Ha, you say. Not so, say I. Family making is community building and community building means sharesies.
There are of course many types of consumer mother or father to consider, but these two seem clear: that parent who must purchase the newest, trendiest, most-coveted toy, article of clothing, diaper, whatever-of-all. And, the one who freely gives and exchanges items of all sorts, however well-loved or unworn the item may have been. As a first-time mother 11 years ago, I know I was a member of the former. 11 years on and a new arrival, my views, my needs, my expectations, call them what you will are…well, open. To stuff. Your stuff. Pre-loved stuff. Old stuff. Good old stuff. Is there something in between a mom using a toy library and one using ToysRUs?
A trite eco-message this may seem but the trick is that we all want the best for our children, and for ourselves. The real trick is that the best may be a hand-me-down, not a shiny new penny. Or a shiny new $12.99 something. Even in my green green neighbourhood, the mothers are of moderate to high-income and have moderate to high consumer needs and expectations, according to the social measure of course. And as soon as the social measure is a social-conscience measure, shopping and not shopping may get easier.
My dead lamp collection is my dawning consumer-conscience. Their sad, skinny silhouettes in the half-lit cellar are constant reminders of my lack of common sense and short-sightedness. So, I propose my own one-tonne challenge, one Rick Mercer never spewed: Buy less crap. And covet the ass thy neighbour no longer wants. Or something like that.
Now I mean this as a bit of a confession. A confession because my neighbourhood and my conscience are filled with ardent recyclers and greener than the grass types. And “a bit of” because I am not really certain how guilty I should feel. The social measure, the checks and balances, confuses me. It was for sale after all. And on sale. Aren’t I supposed to buy it? I need a lamp or two to light my living room. Here’s a lamp, next to the 100-pack of white gym socks, of course, where else would it be. $12.99. I need it, it needs me. Cha-ching.
The downside, as you may have guessed, is that they are cheap for a reason, they don’t live long. Duh, you may say. Yet, how often are you shocked when something recently purchased doesn’t perform, or gasps its dying breath 4000 days before you expected it to? Cheap or expensive, “I can’t believe it…what a piece of sh#%” is a common refrain. If it was an expensive piece of shit, you try to get your money back. If it was cheap, you grow a graveyard. But my growing graveyard of bargain illumination haunts me. What do I do with it all?
Landfill. Yup, that’s all I can do. My husband has replaced the metal fixture thingy at the top of an Ikea lamp more times than I can count. It’s dead. Put down the paddles. Mark the chart. And my blue box doesn’t take dead Ikea lamps. Or dead Costco lamps. No dead lamps period. Love thy basement.
My lightless, uncoffined skeletons make me want to redeem myself in other ways. I yearn to find cool clothes at my local twice-around shop. Trouble is: they charge more than the “out-sourced” clothing available at the mall. Plus they never have my size, and tiger-striped skirts were never my style. And not to make a long story long, but how much time is reasonable to spend searching for that fab previously-loved garment? 2? 3 hours? I do have a life you know.
One redemptive item, no kidding, is the gargantuan plastic play structure in my backyard. It is chunky purple and yellow plastic, with a slide and a steering wheel. My toddler loves it. It’s redeeming because a neighbour was giving it away…just left it!! At the bottom of the street. A “for free” sign nestled against it. And I scooped it, my 16-month old and I dragging it six houses uphill like cats that ate the canary, a big canary, a 200-pound canary. O.k., o.k., my husband came by in the car and hauled it home, but still. And there it towers, my testament to re-use, to what my grandma called a “hand-me-down”. Apparently, a long long time ago, there was something called “poverty”, or in some families “conservation”, in others “practicality”. During this magical time, consumer products were built to last and people responded accordingly: they passed items they no longer needed onto those who did require or want them, to family, to friends, to friends of friends. No basement graveyards. This is what my big hunk of plastic feels like, that magical time. Ha, you say. Not so, say I. Family making is community building and community building means sharesies.
There are of course many types of consumer mother or father to consider, but these two seem clear: that parent who must purchase the newest, trendiest, most-coveted toy, article of clothing, diaper, whatever-of-all. And, the one who freely gives and exchanges items of all sorts, however well-loved or unworn the item may have been. As a first-time mother 11 years ago, I know I was a member of the former. 11 years on and a new arrival, my views, my needs, my expectations, call them what you will are…well, open. To stuff. Your stuff. Pre-loved stuff. Old stuff. Good old stuff. Is there something in between a mom using a toy library and one using ToysRUs?
A trite eco-message this may seem but the trick is that we all want the best for our children, and for ourselves. The real trick is that the best may be a hand-me-down, not a shiny new penny. Or a shiny new $12.99 something. Even in my green green neighbourhood, the mothers are of moderate to high-income and have moderate to high consumer needs and expectations, according to the social measure of course. And as soon as the social measure is a social-conscience measure, shopping and not shopping may get easier.
My dead lamp collection is my dawning consumer-conscience. Their sad, skinny silhouettes in the half-lit cellar are constant reminders of my lack of common sense and short-sightedness. So, I propose my own one-tonne challenge, one Rick Mercer never spewed: Buy less crap. And covet the ass thy neighbour no longer wants. Or something like that.
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