When replacing traditional, power-gulping light bulbs with environmentally friendly coiled fluorescent bulbs, the treehugger must move stealthily, being careful not to attract the attention of nearby spousal units. These units do not like having their natural habitats disturbed, and can be quite menacing when surprised with changes to their environment. If a spousal unit finds itself cornered by unfamiliar coiled objects, it is likely to react in unpredictable and potentially violent ways. In extreme cases, the treehugger may find itself exiting a spousal encounter with compromised reproductive capabilities.
The treehugger must therefore exercise extraordinary caution while engaging in activities related to bulb substitution, temporarily ceasing normal treehuggerish activities that could attract unwanted attention, such as munching on granola or mashing up homemade hummus to sell in jam band concert parking lots. Using a towel to dampen the sound of bulb removal helps the treehugger to remain undetected at its most vulnerable, as nowhere is the likelihood of physical harm greater than when the treehugger is caught bulb-handed.
Actually, the transition to coiled fluorescent bulbs has gone fairly smoothly in our household. My wife Kara doesn’t really care one way or the other, and two bucks is a small price to pay for the reward that being environmentally responsible ultimately bestows: a smug sense of superiority. And who can really put a price on that, anyway? I haven’t been this proud of myself since that time we played Taboo with a bunch of our friends and Kara didn’t know what the word flaccid meant.
Whatever their buzzy and cold shortcomings may be, fluorescent bulbs are perfect for those of us who revere laziness above all else. They last so long that if my buddy Josh had put one of those bulbs into a lamp when he started college, he could have still been using the same bulb when he graduated seven years later with his four-year degree.
These days, changing light bulbs is about the only way I can keep myself entertained, seeing as we don’t have phone, cable or internet at our new place yet. It’s like being stuck on Gilligan’s Island, except Kara didn’t pack any sequined dresses and nobody here knows how to make a ham radio out of coconuts and fishing line. Earlier today, we actually dusted off the phonebook and used a cell phone to call the local theater for movie times instead of just looking it up online. It was so quaint, like drinking Ovaltine and riding in a horse-drawn buggy to a milkman convention.
I keep firing up my computer, thinking that I’ll be able to find some entertainment there. A computer with no internet is every bit as entertaining as an Etch-a-Sketch with the knobs torn off. Your options are pretty much limited to opening up Excel spreadsheets or discovering that you’re still not smart enough to beat Minesweeper on expert. Or you can play sadistic solitaire games that make you click the “I’m a complete loser” button before they’ll let you close the program. Later in life, if I ever need my self-esteem taken down a peg, it’s good to know that I’ll always have FreeCell there waiting for me.
Another hobby I’ve developed in the absence of modern communications technology is punching the thermostat up when Kara’s not looking. I’ve found that our air conditioner is much more cost effective when the number on the thermostat is higher than the temperature outside. Kara seems to have developed a similar thermostat-related hobby, whereby she attempts to discover what happens to our marital relations at absolute zero. These hobbies should keep us fairly entertained through the rest of the summer. Then in the fall, we’ll trade arrows on the thermostat and start all over again.
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