And then we have, of course, the miserable, wretched CFL bulb. I don’t think of myself as a connoisseur of pretty much anything. I can, for instance, identify good bread or good gin or sheets with a high thread count, but I can also very easily tolerate the crummy stuff if that’s what’s available, because it’s just me, right? I’m not a princess; I can deal.
Then the CFL bulbs came out, and I discovered that I am the snob to end all snobs . . . when it comes to light. Fluorescent lighting makes me feel like I’m dead, and am just haunting whatever room I happen to be in. It makes me feel like the top of my head has been replaced with something clammy and toxic. It makes me feel like filling up my 15-passenger van with overpriced gas and barreling nonstop to Al Gore’s house and smacking his silly, fat face around until he admits that his main goal is and always has been to make each and every day for the entire human race a little less bearable.
Now, I understand that these bulbs are better for the environment, because they save energy. But this is only true for overhead bulbs, because my kids can’t reach them for smashing purposes. Any other bulb in any other light fixture at our house works out to be much, much worse for the environment. Here’s how:
MY KIDS: Ooh, a lamp! Let’s kick it until it’s dead!
ME: (lying on the couch dying with morning sickness): . . .I didn’t hear anything. . . [promptly manages to actually forget about everything]
LAMP: I guess I’ll just lie here and bleed poison all over your house, you dirty breeders.
KIDS: Yay, let’s throw stuff around!
HUSBAND: Hi, I’m home! Hey, there’s broken glass all over the room. There’s mercury mixed in with the six bags of winter clothes you were sorting, and it’s all over the portacrib. Okay, well, you lie there, I’ll take care of it.
For the sake of propriety, I’ll just skip over the next two weeks and the marital unpleasantness therein. Suffice it to say that an overworked husband, a sick and mopey wife, several bundles of contaminated laundry, a crowded kitchen (which was, for some reason, being used to store said bundles of laundry), thoroughly ingrained habits of procrastination and monstrously ineffective patterns of communication in the face of stress, AND DEADLY MERCURY do not mix well.
So, thanks, Al Gore. Thanks for ruining my marriage. When my baby is born with mercury poisoning, we‘ll be sure to name one of its heads after you.
Read more: http://www.ncregister.com/blog/who-a/#ixzz1RQmrtM00
You can hardly buy incandescent bulbs any more. Last time I bought some, the only place I found them was Wal-Mart. But I'd rather have only one light on in the house and it be incandescent than a house full of light bulbs from hell.