One of the problems is that it’s all so abstract, this environmentalism stuff. But it doesn’t have to be. It might help if you start thinking of every single thing you do in terms of its effect on the environment.

For example, if your kid has a bowl of cereal and throws away half a cup of milk every morning, he pours (oh shit, math again) a gallon of milk a month, 12 gallons a year (that wasn’t so hard) down the drain.

A lot of energy goes into a gallon of milk. (I’m too lazy to dig around and find out how much, but I did find stats about raising hamburger cows that you can look at in That was a nice turkey.) Things like growing and transporting cow feed. Running the dairy facility. Pasteurizing, packaging, and transporting the milk. Storing the milk till you buy it. Storing the milk after you buy it. Dealing with the milk container after you’re done with it (transporting it to a landfill or recycling facility; recycling it). All of the energy used in this process creates pollution. Then there’s the pollution caused by the cow itself, which we Californians have all heard of (most of the gas comes from the front end of the cow, contrary to popular belief). Then there are ozone-damaging gases given off by the manure of that cow, removal of the manure, processing of the manure… And then there’s the energy it takes to “dispose of” the cow when it’s milking days are over. (I won’t go into the making of Campbell’s Chunky Sirloin soup here.)

If every kid in America poured a gallon of milk down the drain every month, that would be [insert stats and do math here if you feel like it; I don't] gallons of milk poured down drains every year. Lots of gallons, basically. But if every kid in America didn’t do that, demand and supply would go down, thus reducing pollution.

So instead of letting your kid throw away a gallon of milk a month, discuss the implications of wasting food with him and set standards for your home. Teach your kids that their actions have consequences and that they have a responsibility to their planet.

The last time you thought about “where milk comes from” was probably in elementary school (or maybe when your kid was). We don’t put any thought into things like this anymore. We go through our daily lives on autopilot. But we have to turn off the autopilot and start paying attention to where we’re going. We need to get back in the driver’s seat.

Blind spot: Investigations into Bush administration suppression of global warming data

One of the problems is that it's all so abstract, this environmentalism stuff. But it doesn't have to be. It might help if you start thinking of every single thing you do in terms of its effect on the environment. For example, if your kid has a bowl of cereal and throws away half a cup of milk every morning, he pours (oh shit, math again) a gallon of milk a month, 12 gallons a year (that wasn't so hard) down the drain. A lot of energy goes into a gallon of milk. (I'm too lazy to dig around and find out how much, but I did find stats about raising hamburger cows that you can look at in That was a nice turkey.) Things like growing and transporting cow feed. Running the dairy facility. Pasteurizing, packaging, and transporting the milk. Storing the milk till you buy it. Storing the milk after you buy it. Dealing with the milk container after you're done with it (transporting it to a landfill or recycling facility; recycling it). All of the energy used in this process creates pollution. Then there's the

I don’t have much stuff, but I have enough. Most of my things have meaning. Like the pink silk piano shawl my great-grandmother draped over her baby grand in the 30s. Or the elephant bookend my dad made in metal shop in high school (my brother has the other one). Then there are the things I picked up here and there, usually in thrift stores. Things that appealed to me because they added a touch of humor or beauty to my world: a vintage plate in the shape of a cow, a yellow lampshade covered with beads. Of course, like everybody, I have things I need (or, more accurately, things I’d rather not go without), like a coffeemaker (which I make my tea in). The whole teapot thing is such a pain in the ass.

At this point in my life, I know what I need and want. I don’t want anybody to give me any more stuff. Furthermore, from now on, I’m applying the Golden Rule to my future gift giving; I’m not giving anybody else stuff either. Except kids.

I’ve come up with an alternative. Starting this year in December, the most stuff-giving time of the year, I’m going to donate money to environmental organizations in the names of my closest friends and family (the kids too). I’ll probably donate about what I’d ordinarily spend on gifts. No wrapping paper, ribbons, or tape wasted. No packages flown and driven around the world in polluting vehicles.

I’m really looking forward to this project. I’ll tailor my gifts to the person in whose name I’m making the donation. I’ll look for an organization that is working to preserve the Tasmanian forest for Ann, who grew up in Australia. One that is trying to save coral reefs for my brother, who spent half his boyhood in Guam and Hawaii.

If my friends were to continue to make donations to the organizations on their own after this year, maybe even increasing their contributions and, in turn, to use this strategy to encourage activism among the people they care about, imagine what we could achieve! (Actually, it’s more a question of math than imagination, so I have only the most general idea of what I’m talking about. But some of you can do math, so you know what I’m trying to say. I just get sleepy when I start thinking about numbers.) So if I donate $10 each in the names of 25 people, and each of them do the same, and so on (eyelids getting heavy…), you can see how, in the best of all possible worlds, we could make a difference.

It’s the perfect gift. When you make your donations, you’re giving your children a healthier planet. At the same time, you’re teaching them by example about responsibility and what’s really important. When you let loved ones know you’ve made donations in their names, and suggest they do the same for you, you’re giving them a gentle nudge in the right direction. If you can encourage them to then nudge others, you have done something meaningful. Can a sweater, a mixer, or a DVD do all that? Can socks? Power tools?

Our (American) society is known and generally scorned for its conspicuous consumption. Holiday gift-buying is a clearly defined consumer activity that can be measured and scrutinized. All kinds of conclusions about our society and economy are drawn from holiday sales figures, you know. If you examine your own gift-giving habits, you might find that they reflect your attitudes and assumptions about the importance of stuff in general.

Try this experiment. Think of it as an opportunity to examine these attitudes and assumptions and maybe make some changes. Use it as a starting point for living leaner and encouraging others to do so too.

Take responsibility. Share the burden. Spread the word. Be an example.

If you must: Recycled xmas wrapping paper and tags

I don’t have much stuff, but I have enough. Most of my things have meaning. Like the pink silk piano shawl my great-grandmother draped over her baby grand in the 30s. Or the elephant bookend my dad made in metal shop in high school (my brother has the other one). Then there are the things I picked up here and there, usually in thrift stores. Things that appealed to me because they added a touch of humor or beauty to my world: a vintage plate in the shape of a cow, a yellow lampshade covered with beads. Of course, like everybody, I have things I need (or, more accurately, things I’d rather not go without), like a coffeemaker (which I make my tea in). The whole teapot thing is such a pain in the ass. At this point in my life, I know what I need and want. I don’t want anybody to give me any more stuff. Furthermore, from now on, I’m applying the Golden Rule to my future gift giving; I’m not giving anybody else stuff either. Except kids. I’ve come up with an alternative. Starting this year in

One Thanksgiving at my mom’s, when Trevor was three, he came into the kitchen while I was stuffing the turkey. He walked up to the counter, where the giant (to him) carcass lay sprawled just above his eye level. I paused as he examined the pallid, bulbous object and the zootomical structures visible through the gaping hole, and watched him try to process what he was seeing. He was clearly fascinated and puzzled. When I explained what I was doing, his only comment was, “That was a nice turkey. It had a face.”

I could relate. After all, I had stopped eating red meat a few years before he was born (it’s now been 25 years), and the nice-cow-with-a-face factor played no small part in my decision.

Where am I going with this? I saw “An Inconvenient Truth,” Al Gore’s documentary on global warming the other day. It brought all the little pieces together in a very scary big picture and made me want to take stock of my greenness.

It’s pretty green to not eat red meat. I’ve known this since I read “Diet for a Small Planet” when I was 21. (It takes more than eight times the fossil-fuel energy to produce animal protein than it does to produce plant protein.) I’ve always been fairly green, but I can’t take credit for all of it. For most of my adult life, I didn’t have the money for the big car, sub-zero fridge, irrigated and artfully lit landscaping, or any of the bourgeois trimmings the middle and upper classes believe are their due. I did live like that for almost three years not long ago, and only felt a little guilty about it at the time. But due to certain events in my life, I shuffled off the material burdens of my class and started traveling light again. I’m more at home in a thrift store than at Nordstrom, never owned a new car, I’ve recycled compulsively for almost 15 years… And now I’m greener than ever, again due to circumstance rather than conscious choice. I don’t even have a car here in Paris and my fridge… Let’s just say every time I open it I expect to see tiny bottles of Jack in the door… But it probably uses a fifth of the electricity my last fridge used. Then again, there were the three and a half round-trip flights from California to Paris this year. I’m gonna have to turn out a lot of lights to make up for those. I generally don’t feel too bad about my track record, but there’s room for improvement.

In the movie, Al Gore said people have a tendency to go from denial straight to despair without stopping in between to try to fix the problem. You have to understand that this is just not an option. Americans produce 30% of the greenhouse gases in the atmosphere (and we make up five percent of the world’s population). It’s shameful. Right now, you need to take a good look at your own environmental footprint and start changing the way you live or your grandchildren, maybe even your children will not have a planet. This is not a drill.

This chart shows that Americans dump 5 and a half tons of carbon into the air every year per capita. Twice as much as Japan, Russia, or the European Union. More than five times the world average.

There are things we can do that will have a measurable impact in just a few years if enough of us do them. Start by watching the movie with your kids. Do the little things and think about trying some big things. Demand that your government face the facts and act. Educate and pressure those around you. Don’t tell yourself it’s not your business and don’t be nice. You (as a society) have no problem expressing your disdain for anyone who dares light a cigarette in your presence. Dish some of that out to people with (other) environmentally destructive habits. When someone lights up, you get angry and aggressive because your kid is breathing the secondhand smoke. It’s time for you to get pissed off when people show up at soccer practice in their Suburbans and Escalades.

It’s been 18 years since Trevor lost that little bit of innocence. It’s almost Thanksgiving again, and I told my French kids I’d make them a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. So I asked the lovely chicken lady at the marché if I could order a turkey in advance. She asked, with a big smile, if it was for “Sonksgeeveeng” and told me she had lots of American clients who ordered turkeys at this time of year. I’m going to have to get a turkey not much bigger than a biggish chicken if I want it to actually fit in what Vincent calls my Barbie-sized oven. He teases me about the hugeness of things American, and rightly so. Size does matter; big is bad.

I’m determined to do what I can to make sure Trevor and his kids have something to geeve sonks for. I hope you do the same.

One Thanksgiving at my mom's, when Trevor was three, he came into the kitchen while I was stuffing the turkey. He walked up to the counter, where the giant (to him) carcass lay sprawled just above his eye level. I paused as he examined the pallid, bulbous object and the zootomical structures visible through the gaping hole, and watched him try to process what he was seeing. He was clearly fascinated and puzzled. When I explained what I was doing, his only comment was, "That was a nice turkey. It had a face." I could relate. After all, I had stopped eating red meat a few years before he was born (it’s now been 25 years), and the nice-cow-with-a-face factor played no small part in my decision. Where am I going with this? I saw "An Inconvenient Truth," Al Gore’s documentary on global warming the other day. It brought all the little pieces together in a very scary big picture and made me want to take stock of my greenness. It's pretty green to not eat red meat. I’ve known this since I read "Die