the procrastinating girl

Green Day

Last Saturday, in my town where there is usually a LOT of nothing, there was something.  Fox Lane High School (which my daughters will attend in about a decade, but I can't even go there) played host to the first-ever Bedford Environmental Summit.  There was a full agenda of workshops concerning sustainability, recycling, slow food and other green buzzwords, not to mention a keynote by Bob Woodruff and closing remarks from neighbor Chevy Chase.  On top of that, my father has been working pretty tirelessly on this cause since his retirement, a day that we were worried would only be measured by the depth of the dent on his preferred couch cushion.  But my dad, and my brother, bring true passion about the environment and climate change to local level politics.  I thought the least I could do was show up.  The least.  The step up is that this area is of great interest to my family and me as well.  All I needed was a ticket which, as of that Friday, I had yet to buy.  So just hours before kick-off, I found out that I was shut-out.  The Summit was sold out.  Disappointed, I continued with my Saturday as workshops went on down the road.  But all was not lost.  Dad promised he would collect brochures for us, particularly those on composting.  I know the important work is what we actually do with our little piece of the planet.  But that could have started on Sunday.

Death Notice

Things have sunk to a new low here at TPG.  Yesterday I received a piece of mail from the Westchester LIbrary System.  It's more of a computer print-out than a true letter.  And it bears this statement, "The following materials are long overdue and assumed to be lost.  Your account has been billed."  Underneath it lists the names of two children's books that are totally unrecognizable to me and shows that I owe $13.94 to be paid immediately.  I guess I can't handle the responsibility of the library.  Others can.  These are the same people who always use paper towels as paper towels, napkins as napkins and toilet paper as toilet paper.  Well, in my house, it's a paper product free-for-all.  And I suppose it's time to acknowledge my shortcomings in a more public way.  I am banning myself from checking out any books for the next few months.  I don't want to visit the unintentionally donated Oringel Wing of the Bedford Village Library.

Heavy Trash

So this week is a biggie for the Jews.  Last week we had Rosh Hashanah, and next Thursday we will mark Yom Kippur, our holiest day on the calendar.  For the few days in between, life is normal.  No funky dietary restrictions.  No unforeseen mandatory trips to synagogue.  When you do attend services on the holidays themselves, you have to show tickets.  Ours are especially thorough, listing the date, time and location for the duration of the 'High Holy Day period'.  It's like JazzFest.  And our tickets are necessary.  They are checked by board members before you and your potentially knife-wielding family are allowed to enter the sanctuary.  So my job post-Rosh and pre-Yom was to put these tickets, each bearing our individual names, in a safe place until the holidays had finished.  Yes, it's something a monkey could do.  Well, this monkey came home after Rosh Hashanah and threw them right into the garbage.  In my head, the holiday was over!  After Madonna exits the stage, you throw out the tickets, no?  So now I have until Wednesday night to make good with the temple office and somehow get my family back into our house of worship.  Or we are shut out from the Day of Atonement.  Or did I subconsciously want to be shut out in the first place?  That's a whole different story...

Return to Sender

Usually during my day, I realize there's something I need around the house to make it function better, faster, easier.  At times I'm slow on the uptake (it took me years to buy those tongs you use to take corn out of scalding hot water).  Others, the lightbulb is more obvious (my empty living room).  This week, I stumbled across a wonderful addition to my dysfunctional little universe.  Unfortunately, it's not mine.  And I'm late giving it back.  Say hello to my new best friend, the US Postal Service Mail Bin.  When we got back from vacation, we had about 50 pounds of mail through which to sort (about two pounds of it necessary).  It all was handed to me by the bitter-for-no-apparent-reason postwoman (Postal carrier person? She's just postal?) in this clear plastic box.  Once its contents were emptied, it moved naturally to the side of our couch where, I must say, it's a perfect fit in front of our small side table.  And it has already made itself useful, holding discarded catalogs from the post-vacation haul and new ones from this past week.  And I love its modern typeface and clean lines, really a standalone art piece.  Don't you think?

Kismet

As of last night, I had today's post all planned out.  I was going to write about my total hatred for all things 'fast' in our society, including my moral opposition to fast food.  If I was on a desert island and the golden arches miraculously appeared, I would order water.  With a side of... water.  And then I was going to say that the exception is my local Presto Lube.  I had planned my morning around getting my car serviced, three months and several thousand miles late, naturally.  And that was going to be that.  But something happened that defies explanation (but you know I'm going to try).  The Presto Lube owner, a friendly, stout man with thick stubble and a thick Eastern European accent, but whose name interestingly enough is Jeff, called to me as my car was being overhauled, 'You, weeth zis Subaru?'  Apparently, my inspection expired TODAY.  And I had no idea.  I had randomly chosen the last day of this month to have my lubes presto'ed.  And I managed to save my hide in the process.  I begged Jeff to do the inspection right then and he took pity on me.  After I paid, he smiled and reminded me that I have to 'schedule yer eenspection every July.'  Oh Jeff, I will try.