Vice - Smoking: A Love Story

Due to a few stressful events of late, I have found myself once again turning to my old dear friend, cigarettes. Before you turn up your nose in horror and shock that any sane person in this day and age would dare turn to smoking as a way of dealing with anything, should hold their judgment.
Me and smoking have gone a long way back, and it is a love affair that can't just be thrown aside lightly. Smoking is my tortured romance. We were never meant to be, but fit so perfectly together. It is the Christopher to my Lorelai, the Angel to my Buffy, the Sawyer to my Kate (for a network change of pace.)
My love affair has nothing to do with the nicotine, or the habit, the additives, or the fact that the media makes it seem cool. I just like to smoke. I like the way it feels in my hand. I like the smell of a fresh pack when you first open it. I love trying different brands and could wander for hours in a tobacco store.
My favorite time to smoke is outside in the winter. I love it when the air is crisp, and the smoke hovers over and mingles with your foggy breath. At my first real job, I would stand outside the press room of the small newspaper and smoke as the snow fell around me. It was a time to be quiet and write my news stories in my head before I put them into the computer.
I started smoking when I was 14, because I had always wanted to smoke, but had never been ballsy enough to do it before. I knew girls that smoked when they were 11 and 12. Smoking in the bathroom in junior high. I never wanted to be these girls. It was not the allure of the “bad girl” that intrigued me. It was this romanticized idea that I carried with me about how I wanted to be when I was a grown up. Smoking to me was wrapped up in the idea of beatniks, songwriters. vagabonds and artists. I thought smoking would somehow transport me to coffeehouses in large cities and far far away from the farm that I was raised on. These fantasies were as real and important to me as wedding fantasies were to those girls who already had their kids names picked out in junior high. All the DARE programs, cancer warnings and PSAs on how smoking caused cancer was like listening to people tell me to vote when I was 18 or how I should join the ARMY for the GI Bill. I felt like none of it applied to me.
So 14 was when I decided that it was time. I knew a girl who was familiar with all the stores that sold cigarettes to minors. So I asked her to purchase a pack for me. Suddenly she started asking all these questions about what brand I wanted, what flavor, longs or shorts, box or soft pack and I didn't know what to tell her. I told her Marlboro, confident that was the brand I wanted. There was something about the logo and bold colors that attracted and dazzled me. Honestly I wanted the cigarettes made with the brown paper that smelled sweet, but I didn't know what they were called. But as far as flavor, long or shorts, box or soft pack - I developed those preferences later. I just told her to get me the regulars and threw a couple of bucks her way. The next day in band class she passed me a box of Marlboro Reds in a soft pack. I felt so grown up already. I had my very own secret. I told neither of my best friends, just hid the pack in my coat until my parents went to sleep.
My parents always went to sleep so incredibly early, that being sneaky was not difficult. However, they both woke sporadically throughout the night, so I had to be quick about it. I was more scared of getting caught to enjoy my first cigarette, so I can't say it was a moving or magical experience. Mostly, it was something that was mine.
There is this joke on Friends where Chandler is describing what smoking is like so Joey can score this part in this play, and the most apt part of his description was when he said, “It is the thing that has been missing from your hand.” That's what it was like. Suddenly I was complete. I had something to do with my hands. I had a reason to take breaks. I had a reason to talk to other people and a place to go when I wanted to be alone. It was a reason to run up to the store, and something specific to spend my money on. It was the reason to finally turn 18, so I didn't have to hope my friends were working at the gas stations that I frequented.
Now my friends were not always supportive, and my parents got pretty pissed on the few occasions I got busted. I'm pretty sure I have a nasty stomach condition from it, and I had a pretty rough cough for a while. I tried to quit a couple of times before. I tried to quit when I met a wonderful, funny woman who was diagnosed with cancer and only 6 months to live. I bought the gum. That lasted about a week, but I felt really bad about it. I tried to quit when my husband quit. I bought the patch. That too lasted a week. I also felt bad about it. The only thing that ever made me quit and stick with it was when I got pregnant. I smoked up to the moment I discovered I was pregnant. I had been sitting at the Steak and Shake the night before drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, and told my friend, “So, I am probably pregnant.” Not until I got the little pink like of confirmation on the pee stick did I call it quits. And I missed it every day after.
Occasional I would score a smoke when I was at a party or celebrating something really awesome or lamenting in something really horrible. But I had all these rules set up for myself so I wouldn't start back up again. I wouldn't smoke in the house. I wouldn't smoke in the car. I wouldn't smoke in the work break room. I didn't want it to be a habit again. And although my husband has been incredibly sweet and supportive with my latest slip-up, but I have the guilt. I feel guilty for giving in after fighting the urge to smoke for so long. But how can you fight something that feels so natural. Not good, that's like justifying a sweet tooth. Smoking doesn't feel good. It just feels right. Like something I was supposed to be doing all along, and should do everyday.
Again, please, no judgment. Quitting is harder than anything else I have ever attempted to do. So forgive me if it doesn't happen all at once.

Moment of clarity

Being stuck inside an apartment with no electricity, allows for some time for introspection. I started thinking about my habits, the habits that I don't let the outside world always see. I started thinking about vices. Technically vices are habits or behaviors that is considered immoral, depraved or degrading in normal society. That's pretty extreme. I was focusing more on the bad habits that we all carry around with us. Everyone has vices, things that they rely on that seems to bring them happiness that normal society or the AMA see as wrong. Or those little things you love that you wouldn't dare tell your mother. So while I was disconnected from the world, I decided to write about my vices. Enjoy.

Back on!

Today is the first full day of Internet service back in my own home. No more time thieving my company's Internet, no more spending time mooching off the library and nearest coffee-shop's Internet connection, no more playing solitaire and tetris on my laptop longing to update my Facebook profile or search for new craft projects.
The Internet outage did not effect me as much as it did the Love of My Life. The LOML has spent the last 18 days whining about all the knowledge circulating all over the world and he is not able to keep up with it all in the stolen moments at work. It took him a full eight hours to clear through his Blog Lines last night.
So this morning, I am getting my Internet on with my handy dandy laptop. Coffee beside me and my son happily watching Barnyard (again), I was ready to hop back on the Internet bus and catch up with the world as I see it. However, as soon as I would get into a hazy Internet trance, I would get an email messages from the LOML. Usually this is a pleasant interruption, however, I found it especially annoying because he was SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO ME.
I understand that we have embraced the technology in my household to a ridiculous extent. We fondly refer to our TiVo as our other child, spend most of the day texting back and forth instead of talking on the phone, and, yes, I hugged the UPS man when he delivered my brand new bread-maker. However, sending an email to a person sitting right next to you is taking that technology love to an almost creepy level.
But when I pointed this out to the LOML, he said he was only trying to spread happiness and joy with the funny articles, and thought reading it aloud to me would have been far more annoying that sending the email link.
Fine, I am horrible. Then, to add Valentine's Day bitchery on top of more Valentine's Day bitchery, I was reading the ooey gooey declarations of love on my Facebook exchanged between our coupled friends and called to him, "Don't bother with expressions of love on the Facebook." I was about to go into my diatribe about the yakfest that Valentine's Day is between our couple friends (one of which who was just recently engaged), and before I can get into it, he said, "Oh, I already did. Haven't you seen it?"
He posted, "Happy Valentine's Day. I love you. (A Statement of Fact)" So not only did he publicly declare his love for me in front of friends and neighbors, it was also an inside joke about the Office.
Once again, the LOML's attempts at sending his own version of love and affection was thwarted by my inability to understand him. I now understand that sending my a link about whether Joaquin Pheonix's recent David Letterman appearance or recipes for said new bread maker, was his version of sending chocolates or flowers.
I mean, it is a cliche that men and women do not communicate on the same level. My afternoon plan was to make him a homemade valentine, that he will no doubt except awkwardly with that, "How long do I have to let this sit on my desk before I can throw it away?" look on his face. And while other girls smiled about the flowers they received from their honeys at work yesterday, I was sad because I thought we couldn't afford frivolities like flowers. Turns out, he just thought I didn't like flowers.
So next year, we will all know better. He will know that tulips can make my heart sing, and I will know to dedicate a love song in a digital public forum to the LOML.
Wait! This is a digital public forum!

It is Valentine's Day. I love you. (That is a statement of fact.)
And I dedicate Mushaboom by Feist. It reminds me of us.

Ice Storm disconnect

For the past week and a half I have been living Internet free at home due to a monster of an ice storm in Paducah. The entire area was left without power. My family camped out in our growing colder by the minute apartment for two days eating only peanut butter sandwiches and applesauce. We were treking into work just to recharge cell phones, laptops and scam off the Internet. On the third day we fled to the north to stay with a hot shower supplied by our friends. I thought about keeping a log, like a climbing log or captains log with passages such as, "Day Two: Wonder what the name of the Parker Posey movie was where she thought she was Jackie Kennedy. Must Imdb when rescued."
Most of the area has been restored, but we are still without Internet.
I've found that my work productivity has taken a huge downturn because instead of making sales calls, I am constantly checking my Google reader, Facebook and randomly surfing for everything I wanted to look up the night before but couldn't.
Even this post is slighted because I keep wondering how much trouble I could get into for blogging when I should be making sales calls. The guilt is choking me, but the compulsion has been too great. This love affair to too strong. And once I get Internet in my own home, I will splurge for a few days, and then be bored with it again. That's how flings are.

Merry Craftmas

This year, for the Holidays I embarked on something incredible. I dared to make as many gifts by hand as possible. It started off with a few very simple embroidered Christmas ornaments, but soon grew to include hats, wrist-warmers, neck-warmers and embroidered pieces.
I went into this mass craft producing frenzy. Every time I had more that two minutes sitting still, I whipped out a pair of knitting needles or my embroidery hoop. I crafted in front of the TV, I crafted in my work lunchroom, I crafted in the car, which was not an easy feat. And when I wasn't working on a project, I was thinking about the next one. I was surfing craft sites for new patterns and cruising Hobby Lobby for supplies. Right before I slipped into a craft coma, the holidays came and gave me the first official day off I had had in weeks.
Now I can't stop. Since I have retreated home from the turkey and ham fest that was the family Christmas and New Year's celebrations, I have logged even more hours on Whip Up, been to Michaels so many times I have the inventory memorized and knitted two washcloths. I stood in my favorite coffee shop and demonstrated to the owner how to fold a 8x11 piece of paper into an 8 page journal booklet. There is no methadone for embroidery floss.
Here is a sampling of some of my holiday projects. Everyone thought they were awesome, which is only enabling my addiction.
Wish me luck.
This was a quote from the write Kay Thompson that I made for my friend K.

Everyone needs a nice cock

My pop in his new hat. In his hand, is a "fart machine" my mother gave him. These are a few of his favorite things

Sweet dreams cousin B.

Maw loves her neck warmer








*please excuse the poor quality of some of the photos. The blackberry is not perfect you know.

Steamy

A friend of mine, Mr. A , after reading the Fabulous Madame M.'s vampire book Nice Girls Don't have Fangs (available for pre-order at here), discovered that romance novels have some pretty hot and racy sex scenes in them. And that he was even more shocked when he was told by his fiance that she read these books in high school. Having discovered the sexy nature of the romance novel at the age of 13, I found it shocking that he did not realize this long before now.
My favorite babysitter growing up spent a large amount of the money she made watching after me and my little sister on Zebra Romances, the big thick books with the rippling muscles and heaving bosoms on the cover. You knew it was a Zebra from the tell-tale holograph sticker on the top right hand corner. You also knew it was a good one if my babysitter sent us to our rooms to play.
She read everywhere, in the car when her parents took her to church, to the country music dances that my dad used to play at and even at the rodeo that our families attended together. "Nose in a book," my mom always commented. If my mom knew what was in these books, her nose would be there as well.
We all knew what was in those soap opera novels. Later on, when I reached a certain age, I devoured them as well. Not only did I read them, but I passed certain passages around to my friends at school.
So, in addition to being surprised that the books were so detailed and steamy, Mr. A. said he felt a huge double standard because not too long ago he had been called a perverted horn-dog for reading Maxim magazine.
What girls have you been hanging out with? The sisters from Pride and Prejudice?
The boys I hung out with were not shy about their fondness for the female form. Finding a Maxim magazine at one of my guy friend's homes was a relief. At least I didn't stumble upon a copy of Lesbian Spank Inferno or find barelylegalfarmgirls.com bookmarked on their computer.
And then I started thinking about it. Which is really worse in created a false idea of the opposite sex: Romance novels or the Penthouse Forum? It is well known that the Penthouse letters are a little more than racy, but primarily due to their use of language. When you get right down to it, the male Penthouse reader's fantasies boil down to women who are willing, open-minded sexually and are hot. And really, the willing and open-minded part is what makes these women especially hot. In those letters they will mention the female participant's enormous "bosom," but might fail to mention her mustache or missing teeth.
However, the romance novel spins a laundry list of qualifications for a man to live up to before the female protagonist finally succumbs to the love-making. The heroes are dashing, well employed (or in some cases millionaires), courageous, have a nice body and are almost always well endowed enough to give the heroine her first "real" orgasm. Maxim, Playboy and the others might depict women as unrealistically hairless and airbrushed, but romance novels set up a scenario that no man (or woman) could possibly ever live up to.
I would like to imagine that my fellow sisters have wised up and noted these books as merely fantasy. That they have figured out a way to be their own knight in shining armor and then I remember that the Twilight movie has brought in $173.6 million worldwide. Oh well.

Oh, to be young and in heat

"You know I don't really like big boobs. I much prefer little ones because when the girl gets older the big ones get all saggy, but the little ones are still right up there."
This is a direct quote.
Now if this had been my friend who had said this, I probably would have way-layed him for being superficial. If he had been a friend's boyfriend, I probably would have said, "You know what I like, a really nice sized cock."
But instead I was out having drinks with my dear friend K. who invited the dreaded Mr. T to join us.
Now everyone knows Mr. T, he's that guy who gets invited out a lot because he is always available, knows where all the decent places are to hang out, and almost always has weed. But in exchange of all those things, you have to listen to him be a tool.
Mr. T is that guy you tolerate because you don't want to disturb the dynamic of the group, and he always gets invited because someone thinks, "he's an alright guy."
Maybe he is an alright guy, but he's also a TOOL.
So Mr. T came out to met us all for drinks because he has a thing for my dear friend K., who God love her, is 23 and has an infuriating positive "I like everyone" attitude toward the world. However, the beauty of having to sit there and listen to innane statements like the one at the top, is being able to culturally observe the cliche pick-up artist at work.
He did every textbook manuver that you read about in Esquire, Maxim and every other male propaganda piece that makes guys feel cool.

Slightly insult her to take her off any pedistol she might be on: "Girl, You've gained some weight." he tells her as she removes her coat. "I mean your not fat, but you've gotten bigger since we saw each other last."

Befriend the running mate: He instantly bonded with the girl who was crashing with K. because if you befriend the friend, then it's a lot easier to ask her to leave for the booty call later.

Bemoans the dating scene: (Especially effective if the girl is from out of town) All the girls who live here are either completely ugly or they are already married. We don't get a lot of good looking girls around here.

Develops a nostalgia: "Don't you remember the last time you were in town you were so smashed you had a pizza order delivered to the bar." This also works to subtly remind the girl that she was probably so drunk not to remember that we could have hooked up that night.

It was all so fascinating, because being out of the dating scene, I haven't seen these ploys at work, and also because when I was in the dating scene, I was usually working my own ploys to get some boy to go home with me. So it was like watching a nature film or science experiment unfold.
The really sad part is before he showed up K. had told me that she was pretty sure he was gay.