Brita's Wreck of the Exxon Valdez

Preface: So this summer, I made three purchases in the name of joyful living that are relevant to the tale I'm about to tell. I bought a deep fat fryer, in the hope of feeding my chilluns healthier versions of the foods they love: french fries, chicken nuggets, et al. I bought some nice annuals to plant in my little planters that I put on our balcony, and had a few left over to plant on the little patch of dirt down below it. And I bought a pair of very cute Mary Jane style Danskos, that I found at a yard sale for $20, which if you know anything about Danskos, that's really great. They'd never been worn.

So this morning, after dropping off the kids at school, I come home and look over at the vat of used oil on the stove, which I need to take out to be recycled. There is a recently emptied milk jug there too, and I think to myself, that's my cue to pour the oil in and get rid of it. So I clear out the sink and very carefully pour the oil into the milk jug; after all, I want to keep this stuff contained. They pick up recycling routinely by our dumpster, and so I carefully wipe off the side of the jug where I dripped a little, wash my hands, and head out the door. I'm wearing my Mary Janes and my favorite gray pants, because today is my first day of classes.

For those of you who don't know, I live in a second story apartment with outdoor stairs, the kind you can see through, so I'm walking down the stairs and I feel something wet on my leg. My first thought is, something creepy has come through the stairs. Rational me says, No. Then, I'm thinking it must be water from where I washed my hands, I look down, wondering if what I'd wiped there had really been that much, when to my horror, I see the jug has sprung a leak and is drizzling down my leg onto the stairs and all over my shoes. I make an "eep" sound and try to balance one of the empty boxes I was also taking down to the dumpster with me under the leak, but only end up making the oil spew all over. I try to hustle my buns to the dumpster, and toss the jug and boxes in their respective spots, then look down at the mess of my pants and shoes and groan.

My horror only grows, however, as I walk back to the building and up the stairs, following a trail of what looks like blood splatter in the dim cloudy morning light. I follow it all the way up, through the front door, and across the kitchen floor. This will not be a quick cleanup job. What cleans up oil? I get out the dish soap.

The kitchen floor does go fairly quickly. I suds it up, wipe up the excess water, and head out to the balcony. It seriously looks like a crime scene, but more importantly, I'm worried about the kids playing out there and slipping on the oil. I hesitate for a moment, thinking of what this might be doing to the environment, then worrying about broken necks again, start to drip dish soap over the gruesome puddles of goo. I follow suit down the stairs and up the sidewalk.... don't want a lawsuit on my hands when some neighbor happens by and does a slip and slam. Time is getting away from me, much to do today, so I weigh my options and decide getting the garden hose out to finish the job will be quickest.

It is not until the spray starts to make huge foamy puddles over the sidewalk that I start to wonder if I've really made the best choice, but I've chosen my course, can't turn back now. I work my way up the steps, spraying the suds and the oil (I hope) away. Then it dawns on me the kids bikes are under the stairs, and I look down in horror as I see them being covered with oily soapy goo. I groan again, then the hose gets caught on the side of the building, so I give it a tug, and it slips from my hands, falling down to my feet. You think it would have occurred to me to take off the shoes at some point, but no. As the hose lands on my foot, both shoes rapidly fill up with water. At this point I have no choice but to start laughing like a crazy person. This just can't get any better, I think to myself.

Trying to get a grip, I work my way up the stairs, then start to spray down the balcony. Again, I am frozen in horror as I watch the tainted gooey runoff slide down to the front of the porch where my planters are. I allow myself a sigh of relief as I realize that they do, in fact, have protective trays underneath, so they are probably okay, but then I watch as the water starts to drip down off of the porch onto the very spot where I'd planted the remaining flowers. This is the point at which I actually facepalmed.

In resignation, I go back down the stairs, try to hose off the kids bikes a little, then look around me at the swathe of environmental damage. The sidewalks in front of and behind the apartment building are piled with foamy goo, the grass on the edges is already starting to look a little said. The flowers that got dripped on are drooping and appear to be at death's door. Gripped by guilt, I try to dilute the water more, but seem to only make more foam, then it occurs to me how much water I've just wasted. I half expect the EPA to arrive at any moment and arrest me. I drop the hose in defeat, go turn it off, and head upstairs to peel off my sodden apparel and hang my head in shame in private.

The moral of the story? Sometimes, humans, even with the best of intentions, are just hard on nature. I'm not signing on with Edward Abbey or anything, death to humanity, not gonna spike trees or try to live off locusts and honey. But you know, best laid plans of mice and men or whatever. I really was just trying to recycle... honest.

Epilogue: The good news is that my Danskos apparently like vegetable oil.... not so much being drenched though. And it's raining now.