Danger is my Middle Name

I got a bike.  No, this one isn’t my bike — but I wanted it, BAD, as you can tell from my expression.  Look at how awesome it is: yellow, wide handles, big fluffy seat, bike satchel included.  I had just flicked the bike bell by accident, and its stereotypical  “ting-a-ling!” absolutely delighted me.  Can you believe someone gave such a bike away?

My eyes fell on this beauty on the town’s bike recycling day, and I couldn’t believe my luck.  This was just what I wanted: It’s the type of bike that you ride down tree-lined streets while wearing a sundress and holding a giant lollipop.  When you ride this bike, children with cowlicks play ball in suburban driveways, and store-owners pause in their sidewalk sweeping to wave.  The sun makes sure to shine on yellow-bike-riding days, and cars pause respectfully when you cross the street.  A bike like this is magic; the only thing that could have made it better was if it came with a wicker basket to carry fruit from the farmer’s market and a freshly-baked baguette.

My bike doesn’t look anything like this.

My bike is red and petite, and made for speed.  It’s a little care-worn, but it fits me (unlike the magic yellow bike).  It looks something like this:

This one is not my actual bike, but close enough that I feel good posting it.  Mine doesn’t have a bottle holder (though the person I stole it from does).  I also do not have a helmet, but I’ve been riding anyway, which is why Danger is my middle name.  Savvy DANGER Christine.  I plan on getting a helmet soon.  And a bike rack, and a tire pump, and a little bell of my very own.

Beating the System

About four years ago, Seth and I bought a PUR water filter pitcher for our apartment in Center Harbor.  The water always tasted flat and dull, and the filter helped.  And then we stopped using it because we moved and the water tasted fine for two years.

And then we moved here, and we found out that there are water contamination issues that may or may not have been resolved.  Wonderful.  So we started using the PUR filter again.

PUR filters are $10 each.  Brita filters are $8 each, or a five-pack for $25.  And right around the time when we considered switching to Brita, I started reading Fake Plastic Fish, and it made me want to never buy plastic again.  So… still stuck with the PUR pitcher.  But then I found out that Brita takes back their filters for recycling, and PUR doesn’t.  Crap.  Now what?

Finally, last week I went to buy a new filter for the pitcher.  The grocery store was out of PUR filters.  Those bastards.  I bought a single Brita filter instead and figured if it didn’t fit my pitcher, I could Freecycle it or just bite the bullet and buy a Brita pitcher.

But it fit!  Hurray!  Now we use Brita filters in our PUR pitcher, and I feel like we’re giving PUR a giant f-you kind of deal in the process.  Is it wrong that that makes me so happy?

Almost Wordless Wednesday

What do you get when your coworker’s orchid plant has 11 blooms?

Gift Wrapping Bah Humbug

Yesterday, Seth and I wrapped gifts at a store on behalf of my non-profit job.  It was a volunteer thing, and a nice way to spend a few hours — or so I thought.  Have you ever gift wrapped at a popular store two days before Christmas?

Customers were nicer than I expected, although there was this one man who wouldn’t stop harping on the woman before him who wanted to learn about my nonprofit’s disease.  I was more than happy to talk to her.  He was less than happy to be next in line.

The point of this is not to get grouchy about inconsiderate customers, though.  It was the sheer amount of wrapping paper we used that makes me sad.  Because we had to wrap so fast, there wasn’t time to try and fit the presents to the scraps of wrapping paper we had left, and we couldn’t accurately measure the paper out, so every gift had a little extra that needed to be cut off.  And it all went right into the trash bin.  They emptied the big trash barrel twice in the four hours I was there, and we had volunteers working for 12 hours total.

I know it’s bad when I start to calculate the cubic feet of wrapping paper trash we generated (it’s 24, in case you’re curious).  At least I haven’t started figuring out the price of all that paper we threw away.

The Recycling Bandit

The people in our building don’t know how to recycle.  Maybe it’s because we live in the “geriatric wing,” with all the old people.  I find the weirdest things in the communal recycling bin, like books, clementine crates mixed in with the paper, orange juice cartons…things that can’t be recycled.

Massachusetts is progressive, and probably good about our recycling, but I found out that if there’s one thing, one item that can’t be recycled mixed in with everything else, some recycling centers will throw away the whole load rather than sorting through it all.

I made these fliers a few weeks ago.  They list everything that can and can’t be recycled in my town.  I wasn’t sure if I would be allowed to post these, and I didn’t want to go ask permission to put something up — I guess so I wouldn’t get turned down.  I hate that.

Yesterday, I decided I didn’t want them on a pile on the dining room table in their tired blue folder anymore, and I went ahead and posted them without asking permission.  Seth didn’t come along; two people running amok with orange paper and scotch tape are more noticeable than one.  Also, Seth has this annoying habit wonderful quirk where he refuses to accompany me when I’m afraid to go somewhere or do something.  Yes, I was afraid — or rather nervous that I would get caught and then yelled at.  How ridiculous is that?  I’m a grown a woman, and yet I can’t argue my case when I get caught red-handed doing something that may or may not be against the rules.  I get tongue-tied.

Well, I hung them, and I found out that some of the floors have glass and plastic recycling bins, but no paper.  One floor has nothing at all.  What do those residents do?