De-Christmafied

Not so merry now, is it?

It's been twelve days since Christmas, and on the twelfth day my true love gave to me a house de-Christmafied. The wreaths are down, the ornaments have been boxed and put away until next year. And the tree has been kicked to the curb.

As I wrote about here a couple years ago, I've always had kind of a love/hate relationship with our Christmas tree. On one antler, I love the fun, hopeful and joyous spirit it brings to the house during the season.

On the other, I always see it taking the house down in flames.

I'm always sad to see the holidays end, but this time it was less of an ending and more an act of mercy. Our tree stopped drinking water about the third day we had it, and it was dry to the touch and slightly brown. Plus the needles had started to fall all over the place. And since Santa didn't bring me a new vacuum, I wasn't particularly excited about that development.

That's not our tree in the picture, but it may as well be. It's one of the many you'll see lining the curbs if you drive down my block today. All ghosts of Christmas past, they're waiting for the city trucks to come by tomorrow morning starting at 6:30 to pick them up.

There is of course still the matter of the lights that decorate the exterior of the house. The further away from Christmas we get, the fewer houses still have their lights on at night. We happen to be one of those houses. But the lights don't have a shelf life like the tree does, so they're always the final act in the de-Christmafying process.

So tomorrow, when the recycling truck driver takes the tree
Then gives his team a whistle
They'll fly past the homes like the down of a thistle
And I'm sure I'll hear him say as he drives until night
Merry Christmas to all, let's get this trash out of sight.

Can it

I believe the decline and eventual demise of the service culture started with gas stations (What is this, a blogpost or a masters thesis?!) For the most part that is. Unless you're shopping at Nordstrom - those people are awesome and completely disprove that part about the service culture dying. But let's not worry about that right now. Stay with me.

Where was I? Oh, right. At the risk of sounding like my parents, there was a time when the gas station attendant didn't live in a bullet-proof box, stocked to the rafters with Pepsi, motor oil, off-brand Kleenex, Gatorade and all sorts of heart-stoppin' salty snacks. They'd actually come out to your car, give you a wave and smile and ask you to pop the hood (no, that isn't a euphemism). Then they'd wash your windshield, fill the tank, check the oil - and the tires - all for the price of the gas. No add ons, no extra fees.

But those days, like gas for $1.29 a gallon, are long gone.

Now, consumers are asked - in some cases required - to do things we assumed were included in the cost of doing business.

Instead of the station attendant coming out of the office, we get out of our cars to pump our own fuel, clean our own windshields, check our own oil and tell that creepy guy hanging around the gas pumps that no, we don't have two bucks so he can get gas for his fictional car that ran out two blocks from here.

Despite twelve checkout counters, three of which are open, and one of those a 15 Items Or Less Express Lane, we check ourselves out (no, the other way) at the supermarket. And we put our groceries in bags that we've brought with us.

Thanks to the interwebs, former travel agents, whose value wasn't just in booking a trip, but in letting us know the secret hotels, best deals and off the beaten path places to stay or visit are now serving fries at McDonald's. That's because their occupation has been decimated since we started booking our own flights, picking our own seats and paying a la carte for any extras. Airlines even charge a fee for you to talk to an actual representative on the phone.

We can also diagnose what's ailing us online. Plug in the symptoms, and pages of unreliable, pharma-sponsored medical advice suddenly appears. (I told my doctor I was looking up something on the internet, to which he gave me a disapproving look and said, "Oh good. We HIGHLY recommend the internet.")

Under the camouflage of improving the customer experience, businesses have found ways to cut their costs dramatically by turning many of their job descriptions into do-it-yourself positions. The same way companies tell you how productive open office seating is.

Despite all the personal and intimate information I've shared on here over the years - and really, we have no secrets - you may not be aware I took a Consumer Law and Economics class in high school. It was taught by Mr. Blackman, and was basically a Ralph Nader-esque hour every day, instilling in me the squeaky wheel theory: my right as a consumer to complain and keep complaining until I get what I want. You know, like creative directors.

So in that spirit, I'm drawing a line in the sand, well, in the garbage, at sorting my own trash.

To start with, I have a trust issue with restaurants that ask me to separate landfill items from recyclables. Bless their well-intentioned little corporate hearts, but really, I don't want to work that hard after I eat. I'm too full and I usually need a nap. Besides, there are no guidelines about which trash goes into which bin. One man's recyclable is another man's landfill. I'd probably ignore the guidelines even if they had them, but you see where I'm going.

The best I'll do is not throw away plastic baskets the tacos come in, or the glass bowl for the salad. Silverware however is a cruel tease, sometimes hiding under a napkin and accidentally winding up in the trash. Which is where it stays, because if I want to go dumpster diving I'll do it in Tiffany's trash bins, not Rubio's.

Anyway, I'm done griping now about the way things used to be. I suppose the good outweighs the bad in the end, and the speed at which things can be accomplished by doing it myself is what's gained, even if personal interaction and a more leisurely paced world is lost.

Besides, as long as no one's asking me to do my own prostate exam I'm good.

Sustain this

When I was growing up - a process many who know me would say I have yet to accomplish - I remember in history class or social studies when we'd talk about the then Soviet Union. We'd laugh as only ugly Americans can at the plight of those people who, having yet to experience perestroika or come to their capitalist senses, were still living under a harsh communist regime.

One example of their state of despair that we talked about always, pardon the pun, stuck with me. It was their toilet paper. The teacher would make the observation that in communist countries, the toilet paper was always brown and had the silky smooth texture of sandpaper.

Clearly Mr. Whipple was not a communist.

I've never forgotten that image of square, brown sheets of paper. In fact, I couldn't even if I wanted to. I'm reminded of it every time I go into a restaurant where they use napkins made from recycled paper.

Absence of color me old-fashioned, but I miss the soft white napkins these environmentally correct ones have replaced. They brought an elegance to the dining establishment, even if the main course was burgers and fries.

And really, are we running out of trees to make paper? Trees are one of our most renewable and sustainable resources. While we may not be growing them as fast as we're cutting them down, are we really at the point we have to recycle paper that's been wiped across someone else's mouth?

The solution seems relatively clear - plant more trees, and make the ones we have now last a little longer.

Yeah, I know it takes electricity to run the mills, but the sandpaper napkins aren't making themselves either. Track it down and you'll find a brown plug somewhere.

Besides, when a restaurant like, for example California Pizza Kitchen, decides to trade down to recycled napkins, they may be making themselves feel good about their environmental efforts but they're also cheapening the currency when it comes to their brand. You can bet customers aren't hurling compliments at them for their proactive stance on the napkin issue. No one cares. The damage to the brand isn't worth the trade-off.

I have no doubt I'll be hearing from all my Earth Day-lovin', environmentally leanin', recycling supportin' friends about how wrong my position is and how I'm advocating wastefulness.

If it's any consolation, I love the Dyson Air dryers in the men's room.