by Romeo, the Virtuous Kitty

I’m one of three cats in this pet-loving family, though I bear the distinction of being the only one who dutifully uses his litter box. Arnie is 21 and can barely find his food bowl, let alone his litter box, so we’ll cut him some slack. And Bill Feral spends days (and nights when he can sneak out) outdoors so he does his business in the woods out back. Which leaves me, largely alone in my concern about my feline friends’ litter issues.
The thing is, clay litter is bad for us kitties. We’re clean creatures, as anyone who lives with us can attest. And we hate those little bits of litter between our toes. And so we lick. And nibble. And often swallow the litter bits.
Problem is, those bits are toxic. Especially the clumping kind. They’re designed to absorb moisture. Which is great until they’re lodged in our intestines and keep on absorbing moisture from our innard until we’re dehydrated. In fact, there are many tails…errr…tales of cats dying from ingesting clumping clay litters, especially kittens.
But we cats aren’t totally self-absorbed. We care about the planet too. And the mining of clay is a filthy, environmentally degrading business.
Clay litter or sodium bentonite (sometimes called diatomaceous earth) is the result of strip mining, which is as invasive as it sounds. Heavy machinery scrapes away the top layer of earth to get to the clay beneath. The land is rendered useless for other purposes. What’s more, the dust of the clay litter – being breathed in by us and our people – is a known carcinogen. And when it’s tossed, it sits for eternity in a landfill. Even our nine-lives can’t outlive clay litter.
Clearly, there must be a better, more virtuous material for we cats to relieve ourselves, yet remain fastitiously clean.
And indeed there is.
From milled corn to wheat to recycled newspaper pellets (there’s even an online contest right now to create the new “it” handbag based on the litter’s bag. But please, no handbags to carry cats in. We have more dignity than your average Chihuahua!) to pine dust or pellets, there’s plenty at your local pet store to fill the box.
My person, Leslie, has tried ‘em all, in the interest of research. My canine siblings loved the wheat stuff and nibbled on it all day like it was a bowl of peanuts. The resulting diarrheic mess ensured that wheat litter would never enter the house again.
Yesterday’s News was a bit smelly when I was done with it. Though Wilbur the Bunny uses it in his litter box. He kept eating the pine litter.
But Leslie gets me Feline Pine or Feline Fresh. Both offer up a great pine pellet litter. Smells like a walk in the forest (at least until I get there to make my…deposit), is a cinch to clean up and can even be composted. Though Leslie says to warn you that kitty poop can carry toxins so you never want to compost it unless you have municipal facilities that operate with high heat.
So there you have it. My first blog post (but not my last!) about something near and dear to my heart…and my rear.

Love…
Romeo The Virtuous Kitty

I went to my first “community” garage sale this morning. It’s an annual event and involves an entire neighborhood, putting their goodies curbside by 6 a.m., then waiting for the circus to come to town. Which it does very shortly after.
By the time I arrived at 7:30 to sell the two items I was desperate to get out my garage (and that my friend who lives in this neighborhood said I could sell along with her stuff), the bargaining was already in full swing.
I sold my jog/bike stroller fairly quickly, which put $40 in my wallet. And so I strolled, driveway to driveway, looking for treasure.
What I found was salad spinners. And hard-boiled egg slicers. And tea cups.
Rescue Heroes, teddy bears and My Little Ponies.
Cookbooks. Danielle Steel books. And VHS tapes.
It made me wonder exactly how many salad spinners exist in the world right now, languishing in people’s kitchens, basements, garages. Waiting to be sold or landfilled.
I actually use my salad spinner, but I’m in the minority, it seems. Most people buy their lettuce washed and bagged. Spinning has become redundant. A quaint chore from the old days.
I also picked up a few tips from garage sale veterans. One driveway in particular resembled a mob scene. It held some great finds. I picked up a couple of gorgeous, older wicker chairs that need nothing more than a new coat of pant. What’s more, all funds supported the London Grands, a local group of grandmothers that fundraise to support the untold grannies in South Africa raising their grandchildren, as a result of the AIDS pandemic. The combination of true treasure and genuine charity proved impossible to resist…not just for me.
And so…I share their advice:
•Don’t offer junk. If something is broken, useless or redundant, fix it, donate it or trash it (depending on chances of repair) rather than make the rest of your goodies look equally lousy.
•Don’t make people dig. Display your wares with the eye of a window dresser.
•Price things reasonably. Most novices price things based on what they paid for them rather than what they’re worth now.
•Fund-raise: If there’s a charity you want to fund, let buyers know that some proceeds will support it (pick a figure and stick to it). Might convince the undecided to open their wallets.
•Offer food or refreshments. One packed driveway was selling back bacon sandwiches ($3) and drinks for a dollar. People are more generous on a full stomach.
•Here’s a tip from me: Think long and hard before you buy that must-have kitchen utensil. After leaving the garage sale, I stopped for milk on my way home. There at the checkout? You betcha – salad spinners for as cheap as they were being sold second-hand and hard-boiled egg slicers.

Gorgeous day – perfect for riding my bike to a meeting. On my way out the door, I grab a lip-gloss and apply it. Thick. And gooey. I imagined it would make me look polished and professional, despite arriving a wee bit sweaty.
Thing is, it’s hard to look polished with five small bugs stuck to your lips. Lesson? Take the wheels, dump the gooey gloss. Higher purpose for gloss? Use as fly-paper at the picnic table…

I’m a great fan of second-hand. I love garage sales and antique shops, vintage stores and salvage companies.
Other people’s castaways often delight me and I’ve been known to garbage pick when I spot something good! I’m also frequently astounded at what I see curbside. Perfectly good furniture. Toys. Bikes.
Things that, though I don’t need or want them, would certainly prove useful to someone else. And with so many great organizations happy to claim our cast-offs and redistribute them, I’m baffled why anyone simply tosses good stuff.
But this story, in particular, makes my heart ache: a tale of an injured dog that was caged, then put out with the trash.
I’m unfailingly astonished at the cruelty humans are capable of – toward each other, but toward benign animals as well.
I’m inevitably spurred to action, too, which accounts for the seven pets with whom my family and I share our home. They come from different circumstances but all share one trait: they’re used. Sometimes not so gently.
Such as Polar, a rescue dog whom I often say rescued me from the grief of losing my dog Gunther. Polar was seized after reports of neglect and possible abuse. He’s enormous (hence his name), but gentle and smart. We still have to work with him. He’s easily stressed and often wary of certain people.

There’s Kira, dropped at a shelter, along with a litter-mate and her mother. She’s sweet, manic and lucky to be alive.

Suki, our newest dog, who, at 75 pounds and six months, shows signs of becoming a Goliath. We refer to her as our “privileged rescue” – she was taken to a Newfoundland breed rescue group where she was fostered with a caring couple and has never known hunger or hardship.

On the feline side, there’s Arnie, whom a friend gave up when her son developed allergies. He’s 21, skeletal, but shows no signs of slowing down.

Romeo is toothless and overweight, though far slimmer than when he was brought to us. He was headed toward a filthy shelter with a bad reputation when I said I’d offer him temporary refuge. Six months later, he’s still with us and adored by all. My nine-year-old son refers to him as “Sexy Chick” (Thank-you, David Guetta!!) in an effort to “make him feel good about himself.”

And there’s Bill, a one-year-old wild boy. A feral cat who found his way into foster care, then into our family.

And finally, there’s the lone rabbit: Wilbur. Adopted from our local shelter by my now-12-year-old daughter.

A house full, to be sure.
And though they contribute enormously to the hustle, bustle and love-bursting energy of our home, each one is the product, not of careful planning and care, but accident and neglect.
If you’re in the market for a pet, please consider someone else’s “mistake”. You might just be saving a life – and injecting new life into your home.

My childhood summers were spent under the blazing sun. My teen tans were the product of baby oil and a “tanning blanket”. And now, my 40s are marked by wearing SPF of a similar number.
My kids, sadly, know nothing of days deliriously oblivious of melanoma and wafer-thin ozone layers. Their earliest memories of the beach are of Mommy chasing them down to slather them in sunscreen as they squirmed and squawked.
But sunscreen, though its intent is to protect us from skin cancer, might actually be exacerbating skin cancer, say some studies. What’s more, some evidence shows it might be exposing us to other cancers…and a host of other health concerns. It’s generally a chemical cocktail, offering up “areas of concern” according to the Environmental Working Group’s extensive analysis, including that favorite of personal care products, hormone disruption. And, of course, many of these products wash off to some degree in our waterways, wreaking havoc with marine life and water quality.
The best, or perhaps I should simply say “better”, sunscreens available to us in North America (as usual, Europe is way out in front in its offering of sunscreen products that are effective and safer) are those that sit on top of the skin – titanium dioxide and zinc oxide.
My fave block? All Terrain, which is available at many outdoor/camping stores and online. What’s more, the company is green to the core, packaging its products in recycled, recyclable or biodegradable packaging and insisting on all natural ingredients.

Time to suck it up, folks, and take a look at the myriad ways we have a hand in our world’s addiction to oil…

I can barely look. For weeks, I’ve avoided news of BP except for snippets here and there, which was all I could stomach. I basically wanted to know one thing only: Have they stopped it. The news, repeatedly, was…no.
But I couldn’t ignore the photo on the front page of Saturday’s Toronto Star. Or today’s.
From all accounts, it’s a mess. It’s hard to get an accurate measure of just how big the Gulf oil spill really is. Though the leak has been somewhat stemmed, it nonetheless bled oil at 200,000 gallons daily, or roughly 5,000 barrels/day from April 20 til mid last week. Most reports simply call it “big”, “unprecedented”, “massive.”
There’s plenty of predictable outrage. Finger pointing. Blame-shifting.
But while Washington dickers over whose fault the initial blow-up is and just how, exactly, to stop it up then mop it up, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at the role we play in this ecological disaster. Even if you ride your bike and eschew plastic, you’re likely as addicted to oil as the rest of us.
It’s hard to believe but petroleum isn’t just the fuel of choice of our automobiles and airplanes. I confess the multi-tasker in me is incredibly impressed. Less than half of a 42-gallon barrel of oil is used to fuel transportation. Which means that more than half – roughly 22.6 gallons – is used to create an astounding assortment of day-to-day products. Such as? Well, just look at the bizarre places you’ll find oil in your own home…

Your kids’ room: Those crayons that smell like childhood? That’s right. Petroleum.

Your office: The ink you use to sign your name? Uh-huh. (Which finally explains why eco-biz supply companies tout their use of soy-based ink.)

The medicine cabinet: Got a headache? Pop aspirin (with its unique blend of benzene and petroleum) for your pain. If allergies are your issue, petroleum to the rescue again – in the form of antihistamines.

The dresser drawer: Those panty-hose? “Satin” undies? Let’s just call them petro-panties…

The kitchen: Those vitamin capsules pack a lot of synthetic nutrients…er…petroleum.

The bathroom: Keep cavities at bay with a dab of petroleum-slash-toothpaste.

The dining room: Make dinner romantic by lighting a little scented petroleum – in the form of a candle – for ambience.

Your purse: Freshen your mouth with a quick chew of – you guessed it – petroleum-based polymers in your gum.

The stereo: Your CD? You guessed it.

Your makeup bag: You’ll find plenty of petroleum here…starting with your lipstick.

And the list goes on. And on. Just like the oil spewing into the Gulf…

I confess I loved Barbie. LOVED her. And all her friends – mod-hair Ken (though I never did understand the appeal of stick-on facial hair), little sister Skipper, and African-American friend (though I was Canadian and lived in a world of white faces) Christie.
I had Barbie’s Porsche and tent-trailer. Her RV.
In fact, I still do, tucked away in a closet at the family cottage, where my own two daughters retrieve all-things-Barbie and indulge in hours of play with my childhood toys.
So my ambivalence about Barbie – and what she represents – surprises me.
On some level, I was aware of Barbie’s impossible body shape, though I didn’t develop an eating disorder. I shamefully admit to an unhealthy desire to be only infected with germs that render me nauseous and too weak to eat, in the hopes that I can drop five pounds while flat on my back. But that’s more the fault of laziness than Barbie.
I suppose, thanks to Barbie, I set my future employment standards high – fully anticipating a straight rise to fame and fortune as a writer (ha!) seeing as Barbie easily moved from being a rock star, to a teacher, to an astronaut on a marketer’s whim. And she could afford a Porsche. Clearly, for 70s-era girls, the world was our oyster.
And, of course, there was her Dream Home. No cat barf on the carpet. Grilled cheese mashed into the sofa cushions. Or unopened, overdue bills on her desk. Must be a dream cause it sure ain’t my reality.
But honestly, is Barbie to blame?
Perhaps my ambivalence owes not so much to what Barbie is…but what she’s not.
Barbie, as far as I know, has never attended a rally against climate change. Or signed a petition to keep gays from being incarcerated based on sexual orientation.
Her material possessions show little signs of a conscience. For example, why doesn’t she decorate her Dream Home with fair-trade handicrafts. Nope, it’s all new. It’s all flashy. It’s all toxic.
And her clothes. No second-hand threads for Barbie and friends (unless you’re playing with Mommy’s hand-me-downs). From faux-fur coats (in hot pink) to vinyl thigh-high boots, there’s not an eco-outfit in the closet. Organic cotton? Nope. Hemp? Ha!
And, of course, there’s Barbie herself, offgassing (sorry Barbie…but it’s true) toxins to our tots, though more recent versions are ostensibly PVC-free. In the recent past, even Barbie’s pets have been implicated in leaching lead.
But even the squeaky green Barbie can’t re-ignite my former loyalty.
Unless.
Unless Mattel offers up Activist Barbie, who carries placards and stages sit-ins and preaches non-violence in a Ghandi-esque way. Who organizes donations to homeless shelters, marches in Take Back the Night events and donates her Porsche to charity. Perhaps then she’ll have a fan in me once again.

Let me remove my rose-colored glasses and My Name Is…Pollyanna sticker for just a moment while I try to restore my heart rate and blood pressure to normal. I just got off my bike, after riding my three kids – two older ones on their bikes, youngest one on a tandem attachment to mine – to school. In that short distance, roughly two kilometers, my mortality was tested no less than thrice. That’s three times, for those of you who don’t love Shakespeare.

What’s more, my child’s mortality was tested. And while I’m wearing my big-girl Lycra cycling pants and can face certain threats, my little girl is seven. Wearing pig-tails.

Instead of seeing humanity in the faces of my fellow folk, today I saw only stupidity. And nothing pisses off a mother more than some idiot jeopardizing the health and safety of her child.

What’s surprising to me, though perhaps not to people less delusional about human nature, is that our cycling mishaps occurred in the wake of a spate of cyclists’ deaths this past week. I expected drivers to be more aware of cyclists than usual, but…no.

A just-proposed Ontario law would give cyclists a bit more room on the roads. And though the bill has been criticized as unenforceable and “utopian”, if it gets motorists thinking…and considering what a cyclist faces when they’re on the road (potholes, uneven pavement, rocks and debris, even a strong breeze can blow you off-course…), how can it be a bad thing?

And to date, I’ve been (mostly except for the occasional incident in my 20s) a law-abiding citizen; but I’m not waiting for this law to take effect.

On behalf of pissed off moms everywhere, I’m resorting to vigilante justice. A former pacifist, I’ve determined to arm myself with a water pistol, ready to aim and fire at the windshield of any driver doing something stupidly life-threatening. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll let loose with a stream of invective, censored only to protect my child’s notion of her mother as a nice person. (My GreenDrinks’ buddies and I considered, and then discarded, shooting people’s tires…my lawlessness has limits.)

It’s a shame when an otherwise nice mommy must resort to weapons of mass instruction to teach drivers how to share the road. And by share, I mean give me the space I need to arrive at my destination safely. Blood pressure normal. Heart rate fine. And no new expletives in my seven-year-old’s vocabulary.

(This blog ran originally on GreenMuze.)

I’m crazy about hemp. I wear it. Wash myself with it. Moisturize with it. Eat it. Treat insect bites and scrapes with it.
I’m astounded by its applications in building. I’m amazed by its multi-tasking abilities – a backyard plot of hemp and a little ingenuity and one could arguably produce everything necessary to live: clothing, shelter, food, medicine.
I’m appalled, however, by hemp’s inability to shed its connection to its counter-culture cousin, marijuana. I can barely mention hemp without someone giving me a wink and a nudge and offering up some lame joke about the munchies.
As the Ontario Hemp Alliance phrases it (rather drily) on its site: “Although both hemp and marijuana are categorized as Cannabis Sativa, marijuana has an average potency of 5-15% THC (the chemical substance which gives marijuana its psychoactive properties) whereas hemp has less than 0.3%THC. At this concentration, hemp has no psychoactive properties.”
In other words, hemp won’t get you high.
However, even I, who knows better, hesitated last week before offering my father a slice of homemade bread containing hemp seed.
He had an appointment later that morning at the Ministry of Transportation. At 80, he was required to reapply for his license, to be tested to ensure that he was still capable of driving. I worried that part of the process might be drug-testing. I erred on the side of caution, an old tale about a government employee being fired after eating a poppyseed bagel and testing positive for heroine, weighing on my mind. Instead, I offered Dad a cup of herbal tea.
In hindsight, of course, it would seem I was on drugs. Which, for the record, I wasn’t.
Still, my love affair with hemp continues unabated. I will continue to enjoy it in myriad forms. I will also continue to give it to my young children (who, incidentally, are too young to drive). Indeed, there are days when I wish hemp did offer some “pharmacological” benefits, such as rendering my three high-energy progeny incapable of little more than sitting on the sofa feeling mellow, something I’m not sure any of the three has ever experienced. “Mellow” doesn’t seem to be in their psychological makeup so much as high-strung and determined. I could simply whip them up a pizza or two, sit back and contemplate the eco-perfection that is…hemp.

(This blog entry was originally published here.)

March 20 is Meatout, which despite the fact that it sounds kinda like a campout with steak, is in fact about encouraging us to eat less meat. It’s hard to argue with the facts, laid out in 2006 by the UN which determined that our love of meat is more harmful to the planet than our love of cars. Or by Jonathan Safran Foer, whose recent “Eating Animals” is stomach-churningly effective at making factory farmed meat less than appetizing.

I walked the vegetarian path for a few years and, except for the occasional whiff of bacon that make me question my choice, felt quite happy…and healthy. But surrounded as I was by committed carnivores, I eventually sourced grassfed, pasture-raised, organic meat for all of us…though we (especially I) eat far less than most. Which not only helps keep us trim, but our food bills as well.

Give Meatout a try. Then give it another try. My guess is you’ll hardly miss meat once a week. Or twice a week. And your body will rejoice at the increased plant-based foods making their way through.