Lukey and the City announced today a new initiative to make the city’s operations more green and to hire a coordinator to oversee it.
Forget the fact, for a moment at least, that I am sick and tired of the word “green.” Not the idea behind it. In fact, I recently began purchasing those pain in the ass spiraly light bulbs that take a second to flicker on. I like my light to be instantaneous. Bam! Light! None of this [pause pause flicker] crap. But I’m sucking it up like a big girl and being patient about it.
I also quit letting my faucet run while I brush my teeth and I’m seriously thinking about recycling. I’m thinking hard about it.
But the “green” thing. I’m going green. We need to be green. Is this building green? My house needs greened (ding!) And I’m pretty sure that this past television season every single show I watch, from Numb3rs to 30 Rock had an episode that featured a storyline about going green. Just ugh! Enough. I don’t need to turn my TV on to worship at the altar of Tina Fey and find Al Frickin’ Gore’s face staring accusingly back at me because I choose not to recycle my dog’s puke.
Forgetting all that, there’s this:
Greening the City-County Building alone could be a huge job, said Mr. Sloss. “Right now, we are hemorrhaging energy,” he said. “You can go in some offices with air conditioning on and a personal heater on under the desk.”
Um. I’m doing that right this second. Swear it.
But come on, you’re going to put the office AC at sixty-eight frickin’ degrees so that all the men who apparently sweat 24/7/365 can stay cool and you expect little me, whose body has way less insulation, to sit here and be able to type through the shivers? And if I chose to do what some colleagues do which is to wear turtlenecks year round, I would have to hear almost every week from my mother, “It IS summer, you know, PittGirl!”
If my mother sat in my office for six seconds, she’d be all, “Do you have any hot chocolate or an electric blanket or a small flame I could use?”
I figure my stupidly slow light bulbs are making up for this wee waste of energy.
Finally, I know exactly who they should hire. The chick at the Arts Festival eating area who is reponsible for telling people what to throw in which trash can. She basically said to me, “Ok. Let’s see what you have here. Separate your trash and you can throw the paper plate in here, the soda can in there, the fork here, then unwrap the pita bread that you didn’t eat so that you can throw the foil over there, and then you are going to have to eat everything else.”
I’m surprised she didn’t ask me to deposit some poop somewhere for fertilizer.