Stop Protesting BP...

...unless you are living a life without petroleum, petrochemicals or natural gas. Because otherwise, you're a hypocrite.

Don't get me wrong; I'm horrified by the spill in the Gulf. Saddened by pictures of guck-covered pelicans struggling to fly. Angry to read that sea turtles are being burned alive inside open-water booms. Disgusted at the stories emerging that British Petroleum side-stepped safety procedures, which may have ultimately caused the blowout. Indignant that many of BP's "cleanup efforts" were staged photo-ops.

But I am also willing to admit that I personally have some culpability in the root causes that lead to a massive oil spill.
I drive a car that runs on gas.
My house is heated by natural gas, my kitchen stove runs on it.
Right now, within reaching distance, there are at least 14 things made of plastic. That's just on my desk. Hell, the keyboard I'm typing on is plastic. (Plastic is made from petroleum. We all know that, right?)
I use lotion and cosmetics.
I dust my house with a microfiber cloth, wrap up in a microfiber blankie when I'm chilly in the evening, wear clothes made of polyester, love my flip-flops.
Click here for some more things made of petroleum. Surprised?

My point is: Oil and its refined, manipulated and packaged byproducts are ubiquitous in our modern society. We're addicted to it, and not only because we love to drive. We also firmly believe that our food is only good if it comes sealed in plastic or is deposited safely in plastic baggies before going anywhere; that tap water is inferior to that which sloshes around in a plastic vessel from a store shelf; that products we buy are only "new" if they come sealed in blister-pack plastic that one risks personal injury opening; that our cars, cell phones, computers, hairbrushes, garbage cans, children's toys, cleaning products, storage bins, shall-I-go-on must be lightweight, indestructible, ergonomically convenient and above all disposable.
Recycle plastic? Sure! But where does it go then? Who cares! I feel better just tossing it into the bin with the triangle of chasing arrows. Does anyone think to look for products made from recycled plastic? Or choose to purchase items that don't come in plastic, if that option is available? Use refillable water bottles? Take your own grocery bags to the store? Walk to the store?
For some depressing mythbusting about recycling plastic, click HERE.

So back to BP and the other oil companies. What is their responsibility in all of this mess? They are simply applying the rules of capitalism: Give the people whatever they are willing to pay for. And as the universe always manages to show us: Accidents and mishaps will happen. Nothing is ever perfect. And there is never any one entity responsible, no matter how opportunistic and dishonest the service provider might be.

Just like the current US housing crisis that was caused by companies willing to use devious and unfair lending practices because every Joe and Jane Sixpack suddenly felt it was their God-given American Right to own a big new house, whether or not they actually earned enough money to pay for it. Someone gave them a loan for it. Then the Sixpacks were astonished and angry when they couldn't make their mortgage payments and the evil bank took away their house.
Just like everyone on facebook was shocked that their personal information was being given out to any and all advertisers and other web sites, even though they entered all of it themselves. On the Internet. Where nothing, ultimately, is private because we've all demanded to know everything about everything. But not our own everything. Just everyone else's everythings.

Et cetera, ad nauseum. Personal responsibility, anyone?

Everything has a cost, monetary or intangible. What are you willing to sacrifice, really, to show Big Oil that there needs to be a change?

Until you (and I) can answer that question and behave accordingly, put down your placard, get in your plastic car that runs on gas and go home.

Motherhood of Squirrels.

So, I'm a mom. Of one. Yes, on purpose (well, the One part, anyway). I love my daughter, I love being a mother, but I gotta tell ya: It hasn't been easy. I was terrified to become a mom, scared shitless that if I was left in charge of a small human being I'd probably wreck it, like I did my first car, or lose it like so many cell phones and keys. It's a learn-as-you go task, this Motherhood thing, and that in itself took me a while to figure out. But we soldier on. Just in case, along with her college fund, I've squirreled away a "therapy fund" for her as well. Because everything, as we all well know, will be my fault. Right?

Along with mothering my human child, I've raised several dogs, evil cats, rabbits, fish and hermit crabs. I've rescued wild birds.

And now I have squirrels. (Yay!)

After watching several of the Fingered Rodentates visit our oak trees every fall, I decided I wanted one of my very own. So I got a feeder and had The Husband attach it with large screws to our big messy pine tree in the back yard, filled it with peanuts and sat back to watch. It didn't take long for a bushy-tailed visitor to figure out this was a gold mine and take up residence in the tree. She was quick, cute and oh, so very bossy. Being territorial, she would promptly yell at any other squirrel who tried to belly up to the buffet. The dogs, cats and people in our yard are berated regularly for existing. Sometimes she will deign to grace us with her presence, resting comfortably on top of the feeder box, stretched out, little prehensile feet hanging off the corners. And every time she's there, you're guaranteed to see me standing entranced, quivering and giggling and wanting to love it and hug it and squeeze it and call it George. (But we named her Peach, instead). We watched as she, being compulsively squirrelish, stashed everything she could find in various caches around the yard. When I, in a rare show of industry, tried to rake up the leaves and pine needles last Autumn, she promptly ran to the branch above my head and held out her little paw, chittering anxiously as I turned over stashed acorns, peanuts and sunflower seeds. If I could have super slow-mo'd the audio I'm pretty sure it was an action-movie "NOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooo!!!!!!" I apologized, stopped raking and poured a drink. Yard work is overrated anyway, right?

This Spring, Ms. Peach showed up at the feeder with teeny faucets on her belly. Been whorin' around, had Peach. Oh, Rapture! To think there might be baby squirrels! Teensy nekkid blind baby squirrels nesting somewhere above my head! Oh!

Having watched more than my fair share of Nature episodes, I know how perilous it is to be a baby in the wild. Watching her, that knowledge was confirmed. Peach has been an exemplary example of the Trials of Motherhood. I am a mother. Everything Peach has been through, I have shared in empathy.

Nursing babies is no picnic. Peach would regularly sit on the feeder, belly exposed, as if too cool off the radioactive nipples. Then she would frantically cram as much food as she could down her pie-hole. Been there, done that.
Kids eat. Kids eat a piggin' lot. She was in perpetual motion, gathering treats I left on the feeder, digging up her remaining autumnal stashes, back and forth, up and down, tightrope running across the power lines precariously with her mouth full. I would sigh and wave to her as I walked to my car, again, to go to Costco or Smith's or Big Lots or Shopko or Harmon's. Again.
Late one night last week as I sat watching something brainless on the boob-tube refusing to go to bed because going to bed means I have to wake up to another chore/errand/mess-filled day, I was alerted to Peach's signature chitter. But not her usual "Get-outta-my-sight" ranting, but a more distressed lament. Arming myself with a flashlight, I went to the back yard to see if I could find out what she was upset about, stepping gingerly in case my worst fear of fallen babies had come true. My search was fruitless, I have no idea what she was so upset about and my presence only seemed to fuel her fire. So I went back in, had another glass of wine to calm down, and listened to her yell for another hour. I can only imagine that one of her precious brood had possibly woken her in the middle of a good dream, had wet the bed, had a nightmare, needed a drink of water, wanted to write their Santa list, something. Motherhood, by definition, means very little sleep.

I've watched her for the past month run frazzled up and down that tree. No sign of the babies, the venerable pine kept them hidden. Until today.

The Girl had a sleepover at my parents' last night, and I almost slept in. But my Mom alarm went off at 7:30, so I was up. Feeling rebellious at not having to make anyone breakfast, I went out to read the paper at the patio table. And saw a squirrel at the feeder. A teeny one. He was unsure, clumsy, and hyperactive. Biting everything to see what was food and what was not. I froze, thinking I should grab the camera, knowing that if I did he'd probably disappear. He was soon joined by a teeny sibling, also clumsy and determined. Then a third. Three babies! Aw. They're striking out on their own now, nibbling sunflower seeds and trying to figure out how to open a peanut. One very brashly tried to carry the strawberry top I'd put out up to another branch. He made it, but only barely. He sat proudly, stuffing his gob and pushing away his little sister.
And the whole time, Peach was a wreck. She ran to the edges of her turf, chittering and swinging and yelling, looking like she would remove the face from anyone who got too close, looking like she really really needed a drink, chiding her babies when they explored too far. Finally, she got them back to the nest for a nap and sat on the feeder, gratefully nibbling the apple core I provided.

The Girl finished second grade this week. Now there's talk of her walking to school with friends, sans parents, next year. She wants a phone. She wants to go to overnight camp this summer. I think there's a boy she likes at school and another one down the block.

Sigh.

*lifting my martini* Here's to Motherhood, Peach.

Button it!

We've all had it happen to us, right? We go about our day, interacting with people, maybe even engaging in some kind of large public event at which we may or may not be a focal person, only later to discover to our horror that we've been parading around with some small yet infinitely embarrassing physical gaff. Your fly is unzipped. There's a prominent booger boogying out of a nostril. The front of your hair is doing some sort of levitating trick (this applies mostly to me and my fellow cowlick-infected BFF). Something like that. Something that, once you've stepped in front of the mirror, makes you feel like never going in public again.
Good Lord, how many people noticed THAT?Was that there when I was talking with______________?(fill in the blank with appropriately important personage whom you really, really thought you'd impressed today).

Yeah. Yesterday was my turn.

I wore a very cute shirt-dress with leggings. Very outside my normal lazy-housewife-uniform of a t-shirt and possibly clean capri jeans with flip-flops, but I was feeling sassy. And I'd had to work that morning at my ever-so-demanding one hour per week job as a story-lady at an largish bookstore. They frown on my wearing something that might or might not have been purchased at Costco, so I dressed up a little.

Feeling ever so stylish and kicky, I left the outfit on even after having returned home from the exhausting hour of reading books to small people and making them color. I had a few hours before picking up The Girl from school, so I put on the good old iPod (which is never not on my body) and may or may not have attempted to clean something. Or fold things. I dunno, housework is all one big blur to me.
Anywho, for the safety of My Precious, I dropped it down the front of my shirt and threaded it through an opening between the buttons of my shirt-dress so it could rest comfortably in my pocket with the cord tucked away while I did those housewifey-type things. (Too many times has My Precious been ripped from my ears and person by the crafty cord-grabbings of drawer corners and vacuum handles. It's a dangerous game for the iPod, this cleaning gig).

When it was time to get The Girl, I jumped in my car, unthreaded the cord from my garments and went on my merry way. The earbud jack kind of caught on one of my buttons, but I was late as usual, so I yanked and drove on. I then talked to three of my daughter's classmates. Chatted with her teacher. Discussed the camping trip with my friend Lisa. Took The Girl to flute lesson and sat on the teacher's sofa brimming with pride at my budding musical prodigy. Went to see the flute teacher's new parrot, which was downstairs with the teacher's husband and three kids. Stopped at the pet store on the way home. BS'ed with the neighbor about the power outage. Went in to powder my nose and upon washing my hands glanced in the mirror to see:

My bra. And my belly button.

And came to the sinking realization that they had been having their world premiere for about the last 3 hours.

My first reaction: humiliation. Might as well go ahead with the big L tattoo on the forehead that I've been contemplating for the last few years. No wonder the pet store guy wouldn't make eye contact. I just thought he was one of those weird lizard people who disdain us bunny-food-buying folk. No, no: he was trying not to look at the blue lace and the mole I should have checked.

Sigh.

Then: indignation. What the Fuck?! Why didn't anyone SAY ANYTHING? A discreet "Hey, V, you're giving the kids a show" from someone in the hall at school? "Um, your button has come undone" from the flute teacher? Something? ANYFUCKINGTHING? No! These people let me wander around all day looking like either I'd lost the plot, or that I'd finally gone completely round the cougar bend to one of those desperate-to-still-be-sexy middle aged women who resort to getting their jollies by exposing their aging saggy boobs to any hapless passersby. (Ohhhh...is that what people think? Then that makes sense). See? THIS is why I live in t-shirts. Long enough to cover my zipper, no less.

Then I thought about the girl I'd seen in the largish bookstore earlier that day. She was with her big hunky boyfriend, buying coffee. She had pretty hair. Straight and layered and styled...except for the frizzy fuck-bump on the back of her head that she'd neglected to smooth after their afternoon delight. I could have said something to her, right? Whispered in her ear, smoothed it myself while pretending to bump into her, something. Save her from the whole of humanity knowing that she had gotten freaky with her man just moments ago.

Or the fellow housewife in Costco's parking lot last week who had the foot-long plastic size sticker still attached to her pants. Could have walked over and discreetly yanked it for her. I've been on the other side of that exact scenario and am endlessly thankful to the kind stranger who saved me. But I had not the courage to be her hero.

Why not? Why is it so hard sometimes for us to help someone save themselves from looking like more of a moron? Well, we're afraid we'll embarrass them, right? Even if we know that embarrassing them for a moment has got to be better than letting them be an embarrassment to their children and/or friends or possibly breaking some decency laws, it's just too awkward to intervene sometimes.

Well, not anymore, not for me. From now on I will point out every booger. I will XYZ every old man. I will yank tags and desticker cargo pants. I will smooth flyaway tresses (yes, my dear Sara, I mean you too). I will giggle at toupees. Can't help it.

But mostly, I will always, ALWAYS double check my buttons. Always.