By Ally Polly

Mike from Indiana and I are babysitting at my sister’s house for the weekend. I wouldn’t be doing this under normal circumstances, since we’ve only been dating for two months, but my sister’s uncompromising gallbladder had to be removed this weekend, and her husband is away on business. Mike from Indiana is all excited about playing touch football with my nephews, and considering I have four of them, my new favorite former collegiate jock, might just break a sweat.

We almost broke up before we even hit the turnpike. I could not believe he spent $40 at the Plaza Hotel’s lux and noxious dry cleaners (Located conveniently adjacent to the Harry Winston Outlet Store, in case he needs to pick up any last minute “make-up” gifts.) to dry clean his college football jersey, which he was packing up for “Game Day.” I told him I could wash the shirt by hand with my Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap. He clutched the fraying jersey to his chest, reminding me it’s not just a ‘shirt’ and any soap that works on heavy grease cutting jobs and can still be used as a toothpaste, is not for him or his jersey.”

“Global Re-Heating,” as I am now calling it, has covered the Northeast Corridor with more consecutive days of rain than in Seattle. My ten-year-old twin nephews have been in the living room all morning, tossing a pig-skin projectile and warming up for the “dominating defense” Mike from Indiana promises to present.

Thankfully, the eight year old, whom I’ve nicknamed “TMI,” is away at camp, so my secrets, as well as those of other family members, are safe for another summer season. Last, but not allowing itself to be forgotten, is the tiny newborn. This baby is a miracle of life, and a junior perpetrator of all that is wrong with over-the-counter baby products and recycling. His diaper rash is controlled by a pharmaceutical nightmare that glows in the dark and his non-biodegradable diapers will outlive us all by at least 500 years.

I love my sister and most of her family dearly, but this is a house where fresh groceries means new boxes of Velveeta cheese and mashed potatoes from KFC are the closest these kids get to eating vegetables. Just this morning I found one of the twins in bed, having fallen asleep on a plate of grated cheese, while playing Wii. I did note the cheesy side of his face looked uncharacteristically supple. Mike from Indiana (or “Uncle Mike” as they are now calling him) thinks I’m overreacting. Fine. Let him defrost and microwave the next 8 pack of riblets and do the twice-daily loads of soiled whites that rival what coal miners must bring home from the depths of West Virginia. I didn’t give up P.J. Clarke burgers and Balthazar fries for this!

My sister, for whom “sustainability” is limited to a surprisingly long-term marriage, has forbidden me from talking to her children about “anything to do with meat” since the last time I gave TMI an overview of food supply chain management, he went on a hunger strike and passed out while waiting for the school bus. Our holiday conversations about saving the planet didn’t go much better…The next day he ran around the neighborhood calling his friends ‘murderers,’ for not cutting up the plastic rings that held their six packs of Yoo-hoo together. My sister is still trying to get back on good terms with some of the soda-slurping mothers.

It’s taken me the better part of a carb-loaded weekend, but I have finally made my peace with all this. Unfortunately, to find this serenity I ended up sitting peacefully in the back of my sister’s closet, sipping wine out of a box, with a Flexi-bender straw. It was either that or the 80-proof McCormick Vanilla Extract. If it weren’t “imitation” extract I would have given it a shot. I can hear the twins shrieking with excitement and fear as Uncle Mike reveals his faded power plays.

There are high-sucrose, brownies baking in the oven, the smell of which is wafting through the house like a tempting chocolate soufflé at Pastis. I might just have to try a little piece…maybe just a tiny corner, with a cold glass of organic milk, of course. Who am I kidding? I’ll wash three of them down with this not even “two-buck chuck” wine, before those stinky boys come in for the riblets I’m nuking in the microwave. What can I say? I’m in the suburbs with someone else’s kids and my boyfriend is having way more fun than I’m comfortable with.

SCORE! Uncle Mike cheers. If he wakes the Tiny One he’s going to have to spend some serious time with me in the penalty box when we get home.

It’s our second day in Madoff-stricken West Palm Beach, where the sun is hotter than I remember and the rates are now lower than the height of Hurricane Season in New Orleans. Mike from Indiana missed me, and invited me to join him for the weekend at his conference.  I can hear him singing in the shower, and even though he’s been rinsing and repeating for more than ten minutes, and 20 gallons of water, I’m going to look the other way. I must get my neti pot out of the hotel safe, and it’s far too cool to dry brush my skin out on the balcony. I just might have to skip applying my buckroot body balm this morning. It has a strong odor and it’s not worth blowing my cover.

Mike from Indiana warned me he would be in meetings all day, so I’m agreeing to my first golf lesson. He thinks I will be a natural since I am coordinated and athletic, but I’m not sure my bamboo undergarments are going to survive all that swinging. Maybe I’ll feign a temporary lower G.I. series so, I can sit by the pool with the rest of the Real Housewives of “It’s a Good Excuse to Get Away for the Weekend,” apply my 750 SPF sunscreen, and finish the rest of this new romance novel that’s printed on tree-free paper.

Joanne is already texting me for the fourth time this morning, which I don’t mind except that I’m trying to download the new Eucalyptus iPhone App. It synchronizes with your GPS and tells you when your Chakras are becoming inflamed. She’s bugging me to ‘maintain an air of mystery,’ which is going to be hard to do since I’m spending most of the day in a bandeau with matching wheat grass pareo. I write back that as soon as I finish the rest of the milk chocolate dinner mints I found on the floor from last nights’ Turn Down Service, I promise to be aloof and mysterious.Mike from Indiana emerges from the bathroom all clean and fresh, but I yearn for the musky smell of a round of nine holes, cigar ash and filet mignon that he wore last night.

“Check this out,” he says turning to show me the raw sunburnt skin at the base of his neck. I rush over to examine it.  “ Don’t touch it” he squeals. “ Just look!” I insist that he lie down, worried that his shower was too hot and he’s going to blister. “That crap stinks,” he comments on my application of an aloe vera-infused yak placenta gel.

“Did I ever tell you I spent a summer working for Doctors without Borders?” I lied, determined to build an aura of the unexpected.  “Shhh, you rest now, my big man,” I said, pulling a cool sheet over his Nancy Reagan-Red farmer’s tan.

From the balcony, off in the distance, I could see Brooks and his Brothers trailing their golf carts. They’re probably still making fun of my outfit from last night, since I’m not only the sole non-wife here, but also the only woman not wearing bespoke Lilly Pulitzer.

No, I wore the latest from the YSL Vintage collection – new summer classics cut from the unused cloth of past collections. It’s his homage to recycling, plus it has extra large side pockets, which I need to transport dinner rolls and extra butter patties back to the room. Mike from Indiana would have been crushed if he knew the steamed vegetarian plate he pre-ordered for me left me ravenous and cranky.

I look at my cruelty-free leather watch and dial room service again, hoping the menu really meant you could order “ anything, anytime.”
Now I just have to figure out how to intercept the delivery tray before they ring the bell, so I can eat my cheeseburger, medium-well, but not too well, side order of onion rings, and a large diet coke with vanilla syrup in peace.

By Ally Polly

Where do I begin? It’s been quite a month. It started with my very first Earth Day, during which  I treated myself to an oxygen infused facial, a ‘living salad’ at Bliss, and a car service to get me home in time to turn out my lights for an hour with the rest of the world. My month continued with my Last Supper with Will at JGMelon, where I ate a side order of pickles and a small draft beer (my only vegan options) while Will relished a juicy medium-well, bacon cheeseburger, which I’m convinced he ordered out of spite since he knows I love bacon and I had just told him I met ‘ someone else’ who liked me and my ‘greenness.’ Will’s parting words were: “You’ll be back.” I’m not sure if he meant back to the world where meat patties roam free, or back to him.  But I’m holding steady, on both counts.

The month came to a grateful close with a freelance writing assignment from a colleague I haven’t heard from in years who ‘tagged me’ in a photo on Facebook. She said she thought she saw me squeezing melons at the Outdoor Green Market on 77th and Columbus but wasn’t sure it was me, or my eco-friendly twin. And so a well-paying project ensued. Who says this green life can’t pay-off like a slot machine? I promise not to spend it all in one place, and like a good disciple of Suzie Orman (even though I really think she needs to update her hair color), I will use my new riches wisely and begin to rebuild my mulch cushion.

Mike from Indiana is away at some conference in Florida this weekend. And the good news is I miss him. Before he left we had our First Kiss, and I am pleased to report that Tom’s of Maine Anti-plaque Toothpaste with Dandelion Stem Brulee came through in the clutch, and kept my mouth as fresh as the now-dreaded Satan-infused Crest once did.  The kiss was the highlight of the month, in every way, and certainly more momentous than finding work during a 9% unemployment rate. He held me tight with those calloused former-college wide-receiver hands and just as I had hoped, the touch of his lips left me breathless.

And so I am going to have a nice quiet weekend at home with my new wind ionic air purifier and leg-waxing kit from QVC. I’m starting with officially turning my closets from “ Winter” straight into “Summer,” since it appears Earth is seeking revenge on Isaac Mizrahi’s having more than nine lives in the fashion business, and has punished all of us by eliminating Spring after a 2000 year trend. Being plunged directly into 90-degree weather without any lead-time is not fun. My solar-powered espresso pot is scorched on the bottom, and I’m not sure the biodegradable deodorant I’ve been using (that doubles as a vegetable wash) is going to hold up.

My housekeeper is convinced these natural products I am using are all “ propaganda.” I recently caught her whipping out her own supply of Windex when I wasn’t looking. The truth is she’s from Cuba, and she covers my television with a towel as she cleans my apartment to avoid radioactive emissions, so she’s either categorically paranoid about society in general, and my cleaning products, or she’ll outlive us all.
I am waiting patiently for the phone to ring. I left Mike from Indiana four messages since last night, and want to hear the voice from the mouth that kissed me. He said he might have to go away next week too. Something about hunting….I didn’t ask for what. I don’t really want to know.

Joanne called. She’s been burning sage in her apartment all morning, to get rid of any Italian toxins she might have carried across the Atlantic Ocean. She wanted to know if my place could use a sage once-over. Sure, I say. Why not?
Joanne said she’s also bringing her copy of Feng-Shui for Dummies and is going to help me ‘define the bagua’ in my apartment and find my love corner. She said every home has eight energy areas, which only helps me if I can squeeze that vertical washer and dryer I have my eye on, into one of them. Joanne said I didn’t need to do anything to get ready but I vacuumed just the same.

The anemic solar powered vacuum that came with the espresso pot is not very effective at sucking up the lint and city-dust that apparently accumulates from doing nothing, but feeling confident the 45 minutes of sun my apartment receives every day will adequately recharge it by the end of the summer, I run it around the place. The phone rings again. I’m not surprised. Joanne is always late.

But no, it’s Mike from Indiana calling from Florida!

My hero! He needs to stay the whole week and wants me to fly down for the weekend!
Yikes!
Where’s that Tempeh Soleil Self-Tanning Gelee I bought? I hope that wasn’t what I put on top of my organic frisee salad in the dark last week.

Send your questions and comments to HYPERLINK “mailto:greengirl@nugreencity.com” greengirl@nugreencity.com.

Ally Polly’s Summer in the City
Buying new houseplants at street fairs. Scoring a good table at DaSilvano’s on a Saturday night. Going to the U.S. Open.

By Ally Polly

His name was Mike, and he hailed from Indiana. He ‘tweeted ‘ me for a week after I agreed to give him my email.  He graciously paid for my afternoon cocktail series at The Oak Bar and was polite enough to listen to my ranting and ravings about my current financial hardships.

Not that I’m accustomed to playing a “ woman in need,” but I do remember someone telling me that men like women who are vulnerable.  So I was more than happy to take one for the team. Is tweeting the new version of courting – or the precursor of stalking. Only time will tell.

We were meeting tonight for our first proper date and while I had slid into a seamless “pick-up” scenario (like Derek Jeter rounding third to ‘bring it home’), when it came to the actual day of the date, I was surprisingly nervous. The last time I met a man I really liked (who wasn’t Will) I slipped walking out of a bar where I had met him, fell off the side of the curb and broke my leg in two places. By the time I was scheduled for the surgery to insert screws and a plate in my leg, he had vanished from the Upper East Side. I guess you can only push this vulnerability thing so far.

My girlfriend Joanne, fluent in Italian tales of infidelity, was of no help – having sworn off men. Like a perfectly crafted P.D. James mystery novel, Joanne was busy scheming revenge on her soon-to-be-ex-husband. “Expect nothing,” she advised me between nicotine exhales…My poor jaded Signora.

Mike has never been married. This is either great news, as it will allow us freedom to take long trips or the first of many red flags.   He told me he bought a condo upstairs at the new Plaza, since he was  “tired of staying in hotels.”  And he’d grown accustomed to grabbing a drink downstairs since he “doesn’t like to drink alone.”  While I’m not exactly sure where Indiana is, Mike assures me it’s not humid, which means my hair and I will be fine living there for at least part of the year.

I haven’t eaten all day in anticipation of our dinner.  And since I’m trying to make it on $20 a day, as recommended by a segment on The Today Show, it’s exciting to think about the endless possibilities for my  $40 tomorrow.  Unfortunately, I’m putting on the ‘Recession Fifteen’ – it’s just too much to ask to be unemployed and slim at the same time.

Plus it’s kind of hard to buy organic when you’re grocery shopping at Duane Reade. As soon as my co-op board president returns from her second home in Majorca, I’m going to ask if I can plant organic vegetables in front of the apartment building, like Michelle did at The White House.

The buzzer buzzed. Mike was downstairs, right on time.  Amazing: a man with good manners, and disposable cash during a recession. I grab my palm kernel oil lip-gloss, my new Motorola cell phone (made entirely from recycled water bottles), down a quick shot of organic Tequila, and head for the elevator.

“ You don’t eat any meat?” he asked me from across the table at La Grenouille.  “I didn’t know you were vegetarian.”
“Oh, I just have a lot of food allergies.”
“You New York City girls are cute. You’re all so high maintenance.”
“No I’m not…Not really.  I’m just trying to be carbon neutral.”
Mike reached across the table, taking my hand, as he shot me a big, toothy, Indiana smile, “Is that like ‘The Zone?’

Send your questions and comments to greengirl@nugreencity.com

By Ally Polly

Spending the day in a movie theater, having been pink-slipped with the rest of the world (Why is it so easy to be downsized in the economy, but not in a dress size?) is a great escape, keeping me from sales racks, and enabling me to inhale faux butter. The ticket-taker, my former life coach, tries to tell me about a new theory from Wayne Dyer’s infomercial, but today I suggest to him that instead of previews they should have representatives from the unemployment office come in and hold a training session about the claim forms. Actually, I am more joyful than usual because it’s Tuesday, and this is the day I allow myself to have one Extra Large Diet Coke instead of the kale lemonade I have been toting around to other half-priced matinees and complimentary screenings.

I have no desire to see this film – I am simply killing time until I meet Joanne later for drinks. I thought it was an April Fool’s joke when I picked up the phone. Joanne’s been living in Rome for the past three years, and we all thought she’d gleefully converted to Catholicism by now, and would be nursing a son named after the Saint for Match.com, which is where she met “The Husband.” But no, she arrived in NY this morning, and needed to see me desperately. “Not good” was all I could get out of her. The theater lights went down slowly, as did my coveted bucket-sized beverage, and while the movie did its sensaround best to hold my attention, visions of my dear friend’s “Roman (not a) Holiday” took center stage.
I stepped out of the theater into a much better real life movie: “Spring Time in New York.” Spring is that fleeting 
season when the air smells sweet and you can let yourself fully inhale. I was meeting Joanne at the new Oak Bar in the new Plaza. I was curious to see the ghastly $400 million dollar overhaul – another self-indulgent facelift, symptomatic of the excess that got our country into this mess. I walked due east, admiring the cheerful tulips and daffodils, and after making sure there were no cops around, almost ripped a small handful out of the earth to cheer up Joanne (someone told me daffodils have healing powers), but my new green ways got the best of me and I left the flowers in the ground. The streets were packed with people. These days there is no good time to get anything done, or anywhere quickly. The recession took care of that. Everyone is everywhere all the time…Except Joanne, who texted she fell asleep and could we meet in the morning instead. The Plaza stood before me. How could I possibly expect to give up my long-term career goals, my NuBrite teeth bleaching trays, and cocktail hour, all in the same month? Impossible. Old habits truly do die hard.

I texted back ‘sure’ as I fought my way through the crowd in the lobby and entered the famed Oak Bar, where like an eagle searching for prey, I scouted a seat all the way at the end, that came with a great view of the cherry garnishes, my favorite amuse-bouche: a cold wet delicious nugget of red dye. Will would be vindicated if he saw me. I’ve been dating Will on and off for the past six months, actually more off than on lately, especially since my “greenification.” He thinks it’s a fad and frivolous. Will’s charming, but too critical, and besides, my doorman thinks he’s a player. I keep planning on breaking up with him, but being newly unemployed, I sadly need the meals.

“Call me when you wake up,” I typed to Joanne, alternately looking up from my bb so the bartender would catch my eye. An unusually handsome man, wearing the smell of a lingering cigar, reached over my left shoulder for a cocktail napkin. Left hand. No ring. I ask the bartender, “Do you have any organic vodka?”

Another year, another birthday… Another evening of self-indulgent revelry, high sodium appetizers, and unnecessary must-have items. The truth is there was nothing I needed.

Hard to admit, even in the privacy of my own home. Except for a stacked washer and dryer set or a Metro-Cardvalid in perpetuity, I was good to go. And so, I decided, while collapsing gift boxes in the incinerator room of my apartment building, that this year would be different. Yes, enough about me and that virtual measuring stick we beat ourselves up with when thinking about where we thought we’d be by now…It can’t be about trying to get it right in love, or losing ten pounds. I can’t even fake-promise myself that I will rebuild my 401k. It was time to be honest about my limitations.

I don’t look good in yellow. I can only do Atkins for an hour a day. And though I have the best intentions, my volunteering gene usually kicks into remission, after that initial burst of feeling grateful subsides. So I guess I can forget about that free cup of Starbucks.

This year, on my birthday, there are far more important needs at hand than those in my 450 square foot life I’ve leased for two years. It’s about time I grew up and started paying attention to them. This is the year I will GO GREEN!
It’s not going to be easy, but I know it will help the planet and maybe even make me a better person.

Buying those new light bulbs was relatively painless, although it made me more than a little nervous to commit to anything with a 15,000-hour lifespan. That’s longer than most marriages. How could I bring this new apparently long staying stranger into my home, without so much as a trial period…or a first date?

Throwing out all my beauty products that contained the word “paraben,” or any of its evil derivatives, was satisfying, even liberating. Of course, I couldn’t part with my Crème de la Mer since the bottle says it’s from the sea, and the price tag says it’s from the glory days of the “Old” economy.

I think I now have the hang of grabbing my 100% organic hemp-infused tote bag (that doubles as a key chain), in case I get the sudden urge to go grocery shopping and need a large receptacle for whatever all that healthy stuff is I see people carrying around.

And last week, I even left my financial advisor an ex-plicit voicemail authorizing him to purchase 500 shares of wind. But still I wanted to do more.

Short of discovering the formula for time-release Botox, I realized the biggest  contribution I could make to mankind, was a continued examination of my own life. So instead of succumbing to the lure of rechecking my Body Fat Index, I did the next bravest thing and logged online to take the Carbon Footprint Calculator Quiz.

By answering twenty simple questions, I would learn exactly how badly my selfish habits and I were harming the oblate spheroid we call Planet Earth. I donned a cage-free cotton t-shirt and legging set I’d purchased from a soulful man named Kuma on Waverly Place, downed a quick espresso, and logged on to face the moment of my own inconvenient truth. YIKES!

Is it possible that my callous-free and regularly-pedicured footprint was responsible for emitting 200 grams of carbon into the atmosphere every day?   That on an annual basis, 12.56 tons of carbon, spinning high above the West Side Highway, had my name on it?  Had my reckless and thoughtless behaviors exhibited the notions of someone who delusionally thought we had 3.15 planets, instead of one? It was all there in black and white – I was a wasteful, ungrateful, planetary slut!

By not unplugging appliances, ordering-in food served in Styrofoam containers, and eating with forks made of plastic, I was merely in the “glutton” territory of wanton consumption. But it was the cumulative effect of throwing away batteries, and last season’s cell phones, and even worse, the gallons of formaldehyde-flavored nail polish I had worn for decades that put my score over the top. And to make matters more dire, I didn’t even buy used books, let alone go paperless. How in God’s name do you accessorize an Amazon Kinder? I never recycled – unless I was on a first date! I was guilty on more eco-fronts than I ever knew existed.

I was a global nightmare, leaving giant carbon footprints with each step of my Laboutin-clad feet. And now with this birthday, that I loathed to admit to anyone not providing a gift, I had to become part of the solution. Fortunately for us all, the promise of change is very much in the air, as I moved toward spring and a new way of living.

I discovered that if I really have to, I can carry around a travel mug for my coffee (as long as no one I know sees me).

And I’m sure my housekeeper will be okay with washing my clothes in warm-cold water instead of boiling hot. I guess I can take the bus and the subway, whenever possible…As long as I’m not really late or wearing those sexy Manolo boots, with the ridiculously high heels that make it impossible to tackle subway stairs. And if I set my mind to it, I can convince myself that Green and Black Organic Chocolate tastes as good as a Twix bar.

I can do this. I WILL do this. My people have overcome worse. Look how long we’ve endured Alternate Side of the Street Parking. I am hearty, determined, and now I will be Green. Quick, someone hand me a promise ring of sod, before I change my mind. I finally vow to do my part to keep the Arctic from having its first ice-free summer.
Send your questions and comments to Ally Polly and   Green Girl at: greengirl@nugreencity.com