On Prostitutes and Light Bulbs

I am absolutely appalled by Eliot Spitzer. Not because he (allegedly) paid over $4000 per session to a high priced $1000/hour call girl. Not because he publicly advocated moral integrity while he (allegedly) privately succumbed to carnal delights. Not because he (allegedly) spent more in total on prostitutes than I make in an entire year. I am appalled because Spitzer found the time to govern the state of New York, police Wall Street, spend time with friends and family, and still had enough energy to (allegedly) do the horizontal mambo for over four hours at a stretch with a paid professional!* Meanwhile, Working-Mom-Trish is falling asleep by seven o’clock. Forget ethanol; we should use Spitzer as an alternative to fossil fuels.

Speaking of energy savings, Scott went out and bought an enormous bag full of compact florescent light bulbs. Because I am not totally selfish (I am nominally selfish.), I thought this was a fantastic idea and applauded my husband’s concern for the environment. That is, until he installed them. Their strange luminescence makes it look like an alien spacecraft is landing in my garage. They make our basement look like a mad scientist’s lair. They make the interior of our closet look radioactive. And I am almost positive that their hyper-pigmented light waves are giving me eye cancer. I approached Scott with my eye cancer concerns and asked him how long these bulbs typically last:

“Nine years.”

“Nine years?? You can’t be serious! I will be completely blind by then! Change the sockets back to our regular bulbs.”

“No way.”

“Whoa. This is sooooooo ‘way!’ My retinas are peeling off as we debate this issue. You have to change them back.”

“These bulbs were expensive. Besides, they are good for the environment. And all the advertisements say they save us money on energy costs.”

“You know why they save money? Because their sick hue is so nauseating that people would rather feel around in the dark than turn the light on. Look, my sight is at stake here. I think I am getting a migraine, too. Oh no! Everything is going dim…. Scott? Scott, where are you? I can’t see….”

“Stop being over dramatic. The lights stay.”

I whined for awhile and stumbled around the kitchen for sympathy. When the baby needed changing, I clawed at my eyes and moaned my loss of sight. Scott remained unmoved-- which was amazing considering that the diaper was a seven-wiper, and he was the one who had to change it.

Unfortunately, all of the compact florescent light bulb locations in our home are too high for me to reach without the use of a step ladder. And, given my tendency towards lethargy, I am too lazy to drag out said step ladder and change the stupid bulbs myself. Blast.

…This isn’t over, Compact Florescents. I will prevail. May the vendetta begin.

*To be fair, from what I've seen on CNN, I spend much more time on my hair than Spitzer. That probably saves him a good 20 minutes right there.