SO. Us here on the south shore of Long Island may have noticed that we are in the midst of a thunderstorm or as weather reporters would say, t-storm. The real feel averages 78 degrees. Did you get that? Real feel? LOVE weather reporter lingo. Anyway. Who was out in it? Yours truly. Why? Digging smokes out of the garbage of course. WHY ELSE?
Come back with me. My arms around your shoulder, we're strolling back to Mexico in December, we're at the airport. We bought three cartons of cigarettes at the Duty Free because although I was pregnant and only smoking like four butts a day ( hah! gottcha. I didn't smoke four butts a day! I smoked four packs a day! gottcha again.) Okay, so we bought cartons of cigs for those in my hubs family who smoke because we didn't want Jen Anistons perfume or a Longchamp bag and can't pass up free duty. But when we tried to give the cartons of cigs to Danny's family they said they quit again and preferred to buy by the pack as a deterent to smoking. Okay. Pay ten bucks for a pack when we bought you a carton for free. Guess we should have brought back silver or something lame like that. Whatever.
So. As a foreward thinker I presumed, "Well I do like to smoke every now and then and whence this baby is out, that'd probably be a good time."
But when I had my baby nothing felt grosser. But then my father passed and the baby wouldn't sleep and the kids want to beat the hell out of each other anxety kicked in and those smokes started calling me. I tell ya! I could just feel them in their plastic duty free bag, up there all sexy on the top shelf of Danny's closet, "Come on Suze, light my fire."' Jim Morrison sang.
Oh fine. What's one? And since then, I've gone through packs. About one every two weeks.I even put them in a shopping bag to donate to a real smoker. Cause for me, it's not a daily grind, I'm not hanging outside under awnings, yet. Well, I wasn't. Until tonight.
But let's go back. Walk with me, talk with me. Now it's Tuesday night, we're reaching for the smokes, just gonna sneak one outside while everybody's asleep, brush our teeth real quick and take a bath in the sink before we get back into bed. Instead, we stop, grab the bag, the one we filled thinking we'd donate them to Good Will, and decide we should chuck 'em. Throw these dirties in the garbage, who needs donated smokes anyway? What kind of a death gift is that? Them being in the house is too much of a temptation.
I threw them out. I'm free. I'm never smoking a cigarette again. That was so easy. Yeay me!!
As I'm driving home tonight I see that Danny has gotten home before me. The garbage is already out. The shopping bag with the goods is in the garbage. By the curb. It's thundering, it's lightening. The infant needs a bath. The kids need baths and story and bedtime. S%$#!!. How am I going to rescue my garbage before the storm hits the curb. By rushing. By acting peculiar and overly stressed and even more bizarre, sweet.
It all gets done. The storm is looming. I don a trench coat over my nightgown and put on a straw cowboy hat made for my three year old and run to the puffs. I should have some dignity and roll the trash cans to the back of the house but then the lightening is so bad and its raining I decide who needs dignity and dig right there on our busy road, cars passing, the name Julian, written across my puny cowboy hat in glitter, the rain drizzling down my legs and find the Lord & Taylor bag, coffee grinds and mango peels scaling the once proud carry all. I dash back up to the house.
And all of the doors are locked. No joke. I felt like Meg Ryan in A Man Loves A Woman. Because that's where addiction takes us. From I'll have just one, to standing in an electrical storm holding a sloppy bag and ringing the doorbell, playing it off. Like its some kinds of normal. I imagine this conversation as I wait, biting the insides of my cheeks, holding my bag, in Julian's hat, in the rain and thunder and lightning, nightgown dry, trenchcoat soaking wet.
I imagine he answers the door.
"What's up?"
"What's up with me? What's up with you?" I say, "Who puts the garbage out the night before? A nerd? What did you do take a prep course for the SAT's? Call your mom on her birthday?"
"Um, Yeah, and you did/do too."
"Whatever, I'm cool. I was cool when I smoked and now that its not cool, I don't."
"Pretty sure you do. "
"Pretty sure, I'm only saving these hundred dollars worth of cigs to donate to those in need."
And then in real life, Danny answers the door.
"Hey, baby."
"Hi."
"He finally went to sleep." He said. "Nice hat."
Come back with me. My arms around your shoulder, we're strolling back to Mexico in December, we're at the airport. We bought three cartons of cigarettes at the Duty Free because although I was pregnant and only smoking like four butts a day ( hah! gottcha. I didn't smoke four butts a day! I smoked four packs a day! gottcha again.) Okay, so we bought cartons of cigs for those in my hubs family who smoke because we didn't want Jen Anistons perfume or a Longchamp bag and can't pass up free duty. But when we tried to give the cartons of cigs to Danny's family they said they quit again and preferred to buy by the pack as a deterent to smoking. Okay. Pay ten bucks for a pack when we bought you a carton for free. Guess we should have brought back silver or something lame like that. Whatever.
So. As a foreward thinker I presumed, "Well I do like to smoke every now and then and whence this baby is out, that'd probably be a good time."
But when I had my baby nothing felt grosser. But then my father passed and the baby wouldn't sleep and the kids want to beat the hell out of each other anxety kicked in and those smokes started calling me. I tell ya! I could just feel them in their plastic duty free bag, up there all sexy on the top shelf of Danny's closet, "Come on Suze, light my fire."' Jim Morrison sang.
Oh fine. What's one? And since then, I've gone through packs. About one every two weeks.I even put them in a shopping bag to donate to a real smoker. Cause for me, it's not a daily grind, I'm not hanging outside under awnings, yet. Well, I wasn't. Until tonight.
But let's go back. Walk with me, talk with me. Now it's Tuesday night, we're reaching for the smokes, just gonna sneak one outside while everybody's asleep, brush our teeth real quick and take a bath in the sink before we get back into bed. Instead, we stop, grab the bag, the one we filled thinking we'd donate them to Good Will, and decide we should chuck 'em. Throw these dirties in the garbage, who needs donated smokes anyway? What kind of a death gift is that? Them being in the house is too much of a temptation.
I threw them out. I'm free. I'm never smoking a cigarette again. That was so easy. Yeay me!!
As I'm driving home tonight I see that Danny has gotten home before me. The garbage is already out. The shopping bag with the goods is in the garbage. By the curb. It's thundering, it's lightening. The infant needs a bath. The kids need baths and story and bedtime. S%$#!!. How am I going to rescue my garbage before the storm hits the curb. By rushing. By acting peculiar and overly stressed and even more bizarre, sweet.
It all gets done. The storm is looming. I don a trench coat over my nightgown and put on a straw cowboy hat made for my three year old and run to the puffs. I should have some dignity and roll the trash cans to the back of the house but then the lightening is so bad and its raining I decide who needs dignity and dig right there on our busy road, cars passing, the name Julian, written across my puny cowboy hat in glitter, the rain drizzling down my legs and find the Lord & Taylor bag, coffee grinds and mango peels scaling the once proud carry all. I dash back up to the house.
And all of the doors are locked. No joke. I felt like Meg Ryan in A Man Loves A Woman. Because that's where addiction takes us. From I'll have just one, to standing in an electrical storm holding a sloppy bag and ringing the doorbell, playing it off. Like its some kinds of normal. I imagine this conversation as I wait, biting the insides of my cheeks, holding my bag, in Julian's hat, in the rain and thunder and lightning, nightgown dry, trenchcoat soaking wet.
I imagine he answers the door.
"What's up?"
"What's up with me? What's up with you?" I say, "Who puts the garbage out the night before? A nerd? What did you do take a prep course for the SAT's? Call your mom on her birthday?"
"Um, Yeah, and you did/do too."
"Whatever, I'm cool. I was cool when I smoked and now that its not cool, I don't."
"Pretty sure you do. "
"Pretty sure, I'm only saving these hundred dollars worth of cigs to donate to those in need."
And then in real life, Danny answers the door.
"Hey, baby."
"Hi."
"He finally went to sleep." He said. "Nice hat."
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