There are many things you can do for love. Who knew that simply flushing the toilet could be one of them? I love this planet, and so through various eco-conscious pursuits, I've tried to show Mother Earth that she's at the top of my list. But while I do in essence live with her, she's not the one with whom I share my small one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen. That would be my boyfriend/significant other/life partner, Matthew. So far, we've pretty much sailed along in domestic harmony with the help of a few tacit guidelines: He agrees with my protest that he actually doesn't need to keep two or more non-functioning computer monitors around, à la Sanford and Son, for some kind of future "fun project." I don't invite three of my girlfriends to stay the night in the apartment when they come to the city for a visit-that's what hotels are for. So on these day-to-day matters, we've struck a pretty good balance.

But how do you set the agenda for living green at home? At the risk of libeling my beloved, I am, I daresay, the more vigilant of the two of us when it comes to thinking sustainably about hearth and home. It's not as arbitrary a role as it sounds, either: He would tell you himself that I am the designated scrapper, scrimper, and saver. The tiniest tea bag wrapper? Into the recycling bin. His worn-out socks that are three stitches to the wind? They make great dust rags. That cast-off duvet cover? The possibilities are endless.

Matt understands my passionate efforts to further green our life, even if his tolerance wavers when it's his turn to haul out the recycling, and it takes 11.3 percent longer than otherwise because of the wayward scraps of foil or cardboard (which I've refused to put in the regular trash) buried at the bottom of the bin. It's just that, ever since I became aware of the impact of all our collective trash in this world, I've wanted to do my part. When I lived in Seattle, years before this present boom of green everything, you would practically get arrested for throwing an aluminum can in with the regular garbage. The question wasn't, "Do you have a recycling bin?" It was, "Where is your recycling bin?" Maybe all of that fresh air and invigorating rain sparked an eco-sensitivity very much ahead of the curve.

My point is that it's a bit ingrained in me now, this wanting to do what I can. That includes using my homemade vinegar-and-baking-soda concoction as a tub, sink, and toilet scrub, as well as using vinegar to clean the floors and pretty much anything else. Vinegar to me isn't off-putting-it reminds me of fish-and-chips. Better still, I know that I'm not poisoning the air (and our lungs) with toxic ammonia vapors.

But as far as Matt's concerned, I might just as well have swabbed the apartment with three-week-old water from a flower vase. He'll wrinkle his nose while turning on the air purifier at its highest setting, a gesture always followed by an accusatory, "It stinks in here." He wasn't exactly crazy for the rock-salt lamps I ordered online, either. Sure, they look a little bit like something E.T. would read the latest Harry Potter release by. And do they really purify the air? Probably not. But when you live right off the mini-freeway that is Ninth Avenue in New York City, you'll try anything. I've also lobbied for the purchase of a pine tree, which reportedly absorbs vehicle emissions, but as he is from Maine, the idea of actually buying something you can cut down in the woods behind your house is akin to ordering lobster in a restaurant instead of having some at home. You just don't do it.

Where my eco-fervor has put the biggest ding in our domestic dynamic, however, is the bathroom. It wasn't the recycled toilet paper, which is a menace no matter how much we would like to think otherwise. It was-and forgive me, because talking about this is admittedly another sort of potty mouth-the all-day, liquid-only leavings in the unflushed toilet, which I decided could be one more way we might "think globally, act locally" at home. We hear the words water shortage almost as much as we hear global warming. So I'm guessing that Al Gore, activist Laurie David, and even model Shalom Harlow (a fellow proponent of the "spare the flush" mentality who has admitted as much in the press) certainly would approve. After all, it takes 1.5 to 4 gallons of water each time you do flush the toilet.

I tried to reason with Matt. I told him we had to compensate for the inordinate amount of can't-be-recycled (and why is that?!) take-out containers we go through in any given week. I argued that it was our duty to restore the balance with a sacrifice in some other area. I pointed out that my friend Anne, for instance, regularly lugs a bucketful of compost on the subway from her apartment in Spanish Harlem all the way downtown to the Farmer's Market, where she can dump it.

Matt and I both know that's not what we're going to do with our weekends-not yet, anyway-so I pleaded for solidarity on the flushing front. I called my parents for backup. They were on his side: "Really, honey...no. That's just...no." Their vehemence got me thinking that maybe I could reconsider this one tiny thing and just flush. So now I do. Because sometimes, even the most ardent activist has to go with the flow.

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