I’m a bad citizen of the earth. I admit it. When I walk out the door, I don’t always know that I’m going to wind up at the grocery store and consequently, I don't have any sort of bag, basket, bowl, or tray with which to carry my groceries home. So sue me (or charge me that annoying 5 cents per bag that you're itching to).
Many days, I hunker down writing at a coffee shop that’s a block from the QFC, so I should probably wise up and just stick a market bag in my laptop case.
But I don’t.
So I’m left feeling like a total hosebag when I skulk—bagless—toward the cashier to ring up my snacklets. I start rationalizing and apologizing to the employee, who really could care less if I need to take home one or eleven plastic bags.
My carbon footprint is pretty damn small even if my hooves are a healthy 9 1/2. I use public transportation, my pad is tiny, I turn out the lights, I recycle. (But draw the line at organic deodorants. Call me crazy, but I like to slather on chemicals to mask my natural funk.)
I use plastic bags as trash can liners (now that Mac Daddy is no longer with me, I unfortunately can’t use “kitty litter bags” as an excuse for my bag consumption) and paper bags for recycling but yet my guilt persists, which seriously pisses me off. Living in Seattle doesn't help: There are a lot of green assholes—grassholes—ready to pass judgment on me and my bag stash. I've seen the stink eye in the checkout line, believe me.
I have taken steps toward assuaging my guilt. Over the past year or so, I've accumulated quite a few market bags. I bought one I thought was cute at Eat Local, I was given a couple, and I even made an adorable bag as a craft project for a book. But do I remember to take them with me?
So I'm left with a wad of plastic bags and a serious resentment toward my inner grasshole. Something must be done, and I think you know what I'm talking about: dropkicking my grocery bag guilt to the curb…in a recycling bin, of course.