where the writers are
Rescuing Earth

My bathroom needs a new toilet seat. Sitting on a cracked seat can get mighty painful if your bottom gets pinched in the crack (I can sorely attest to this). My son has fixed the problem by taping around it with duct tape. The dark silver strip holding it together jars with the marble and glass design of the bathroom, but my son doesn’t care. The problem is he won’t let me buy a new one. He is adamant about this.“But it looks ugly,” I tell him, appealing to his aesthetic sensibilities, which I’m beginning to suspect he has none.“It’s fine, Mom. I just don’t want it to end on some landfill for years,” he tells me.“But that’s not your problem,” I reply. But my son, who is on a one-man mission to rescue planet earth, shoots me one of those looks that imply I’m just a wastrel. “Sure it is. That’s the problem. People should care about the environment.”People means me. By this time, I’m starting to feel responsible for the Exxon Valdez oil spill, the deforestation in Brazil, Chernobyl, and the industrial mining of metals in India. Already, the mounds of stuff my son has rescued from neighbors’ trash piles over the years, waiting to be resurrected for some future recycled use, has overtaken the space in the garage. I can live with this because no one but me and my husband see it, but the toilet seat is another matter. Now the mania is slowly creeping into the house, into my territory. Enough! Next thing I know I’ll be the depository of all my neighbors toilet seats.“You have to think green, mom!”You bet I’m thinking, but I’ll be thinking red if you don’t change that seat PRONTO!