I love smoking!

The first cigarette I ever fully consumed by myself was so ridiculously cliche I am embarassed to lay it out in print, but here goes. I was in eleventh grade, and my friends and I had adopted a local coffee shop downtown in which to spend our time. There was a Chinese restaurant right next door, and a record shop and thrift store down the street, so a good day would involve some shopping, inevitably for a new polyester shirt or greasy sweater (as most vintage sweaters sold in thrift stores tend to be) and the latest Smashing Pumpkins release. We'd head over to the Chinese place and get a pint of pork fried rice for the six or so of us in the group, head over to the coffee shop for silver tea (water, steamed milk, and vanilla... as close to mama's breast as a nearly-adult person could get), and station ourselves up in the balcony.

It was in this setting, surrounded by good friends and the bottomless container of fried rice, wearing a pair of men's size 36 green pants that clung to my 130-pound frame with a wide leather belt, that I smoked a clove cigarette for the first time.

If you've never tried a clove cigarette before, I suggest you do. They're wonderful, really. Tasty. Very clove-y. I heard somewhere that they're twice the potency of regular cigarettes, but I'm not sure if that's a fact. I never owned my own pack of cloves, nor did I smoke them often; mostly, they were reserved for special occasions, like when we were trying to outcool each other.

Four years later, I am working on a regular cigarette (Marb Red, I believe) on the balcony of my college apartment. It's from a pack I bought, but I'm not addicted, I'm just pissed off at a boy. When I finish, I hesitate to throw it down into the parking lot. I have visions of tossing it down still lit, and it landing smack dab in the middle of a gas leak, which would snake its way to a car, which would explode, which would then cause the building to catch on fire and burn to the ground, which would result in me having to go on the lam, but I'd eventually get caught and go to jail because I wasn't smart enough to stay out of the local papers after saving a kitten caught in a tree. Instead, I bring the butt into the apartment, run it under the sink, and toss it in the garbage can. My throat hurts and from somewhere under my seething rage I understand that I am way too obsessive-compulsive to deal with where to put cigarette butts and the overriding guilt about smoking in the first place to make it a habit. I think I eventually threw the rest of the pack away, but only after I determined that they were "too old" to smoke, anyway.

So last night the folks and I were talking about the total smoking ban bills that are floating around in the Minnesota and Wisconsin state assemblies, and I've surprised myself in how truly indifferent I feel about it. MPR has spent time on the subject. Secondhand smoke seems to be the problem, and the Minnesota senator in charge of authoring the bill lapses into cliche when she says that no one, not even the people working in the establishments, should be forced to be exposed to secondhand smoke. The guy who's in charge of the bar league of Minnesota says that, of course, the bars will lose all their business if smoking is banned, and it's not really about secondhand smoke, anyway; it's about stopping people from smoking, period. When I try to take a stance on the issue, though, I can't. I see everyone's points.

There was a time in my life when I secretly thought that it would be fun to be a bartender, but I knew it wasn't going to happen because I didn't want to be in all the smoke. I wasn't heartbroken about it, though. It's a choice, and choice is good. On the other hand, I'm going to a bar tonight for a birthday party, and it would be great if I didn't have to choose an outfit that'll have to immediately be washed afterwards.

I wonder if this is another issue that is like the gay marriage one... people can try to stop it, but it's inevitable that smoking will, indeed, end up being banned. Either way, I'm not going to cry myself to sleep over it. I'll just remember the good times... my clove cigarette an' me.

Waiting for love is like waiting for death; or, it's another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody

2:53 p.m. I call Pelof and Mary to see what’s going on tonight. They aren’t picking up, so I leave a message at the beep, and as soon as I hang up, my phone rings. It’s my sister-in-law, Dawn, and she and Jerimy want to know what I’m doing tonight. Nothing. She suggests dinner and we agree to talk about where later on. Excellent.

4:34 p.m. I’ve spent all day running errands, and I’m finally home when Jerimy calls. He wants to go somewhere where he can get a good dinner and a side salad. Very insistent on the side salad. He suggests The Shack, a supper club. I suggest a trendier pub. He wants to know if they serve side salads. I don’t know. We go back and forth, neither one of us liking the others’ suggestions, until I get frustrated and tell him to forget it. They can go without me.

5:37 p.m. My parents have an overstuffed leather chair where I’ve set up post under a blanket. My dog was at their house all day, so I headed down there to pick her up and ended up on the chair. I’m wearing a good outfit for going out, and I still have my bra on, even, in the odd chance that Jerimy will call and say that he changed his mind; the side salad isn’t all that important, after all. But I’ve hunkered down under the blanket, and my mom is asking me where we’re going, and when I tell her we’re not, she’s not happy. She tells me that I’m not going to meet anyone sitting at their house. I tell her that I’m not going to meet anyone eating a side salad at The Shack, where the average age of their patrons is 63.

5:56 p.m. The parents have gone to pick up a pizza and a movie. My job is to turn the oven on at 6:15 to preheat. I make hot chocolate, and then dump in some Peppermint Schnapps.

6:15 p.m. Top Chef on Bravo is rather engaging. Miraculously, I remember to turn on the oven.

7:22 p.m. Pelof calls, but I don’t answer. My parents have brought home the movie Click with Adam Sandler and we’re halfway through. When I finally listen to the message, he says that they’re heading to one of the fine local watering holes. I decide I’m too invested in the movie to go.

8:43 p.m. I am crying. The Adam Sandler character is dying and telling his son, “Family… family is what’s important…” and the tears are literally streaming down my face. I feel run over by a truck.

9:34 p.m. After running through several of the DVD’s special features, I decide it’s time to head home with the dog.

10:54 p.m. I’m tired, getting ready to do some recreational reading and then some sleeping. “The Jazz Image” is on MPR. In hindsight, maybe The Shack wouldn’t have been so bad. A 63-year-old is probably just about my speed.

Yeah, yeah, I know... 2007.

If you read my previous post, you already know that I was at a friend's house for New Year's Eve. As soon as the clock struck midnight and we all bleated out our varying forms of "Whoopee," I took off. Listen. I didn't want to stay up late, okay? I know it's a little loserish, considering the fact that I didn't have to work the next day or anything, but I get behind on my sleep schedule and... oh, forget it. Suffice it to say, I went home and hopped into bed just after midnight.

As I was laying there, I had the sudden realization that it was now 2007. If you're a loyal reader, you also know that I made a deal with myself last July that I was going to avoid men like the plague until 2007. Six months of alone time. Self-inflicted solitary confinement. To be honest, the six months have not been without their small dramas. It wouldn't be me if there wasn't someone, however fleeting or lame, that I am pondering. But I didn't NOT get into a relationship, and I'm damn proud of that.

But now it's 2007, and suddenly I feel like the call is not just "Game on!!" but also, "...and hurry the hell up!!" As I was lying in bed that night, a slow horror washed over me. The search is now back on, and I am not entirely thrilled about it. My mom and I decided yesterday that The Guy is, indeed, somewhere in the area, it's just a matter of finding him. This makes me feel panicky as well. Don't get me wrong, I'm a chronic people-watcher in general, but suddenly I'm looking around suspiciously, like The Guy might jump out from behind a wall and kill me, like he could be anywhere, like he's a stalker.

I know this is contrary to any logic. I also know that, as they say, love comes when you're not looking for it (which is why I am refusing to join any of those ridiculous dating websites), so the fact that I am actually feeling paranoid about finding The Guy and getting into yet another relationship is a sign that, despite it being 2007, I am not ready for it all. There's more work to be done, both at my job and on myself. There's more to be learned about getting along in relationships; how the hell do people actually do it?? And I am in desperate need of a haircut. I'm not ready!!!

On the other hand, it IS 2007, and I am a romantic at heart, so... maybe I could do a date or two to start things off. Maybe.

Yeah, this is totally to be continued.

What's Happening to Me???

Something strange is happening to me. Take right now, this second. I am sitting in a coffee shop that my friends and I haunted when I was in high school, in my hometown, drinking a cup of java and eating a blackberry muffin. My pants are from H&M in Washington, D.C. My laptop's open, I'm writing in my blog, and I have my headphones on. What am I listening to? MPR's coverage of Gerald Ford's funeral service. I wasn't even *alive* when Gerald Ford was president; when he died, I had to do a Google image search to remember what he looked like. I have since learned that he was the one who pardoned Nixon, he invited Emperor Hirohito to the White House when everyone was skeeved out by the Japanese, he got us, finally, out of Vietnam, and was generally a really nice guy. Knowing what I know, I started listening to the funeral at my house as I was eating breakfast, around 8:45, and it's almost 11 and I'm still listening. The church choir is singing. I haven't heard a church choir in a long time.

I wonder if other people feel this way, caught between two contradictory worlds, when they start to reach their late twenties and have their poop in a pile. I mean, I think I'm pretty cool still, and besides having a good job and my own house, I don't feel like I'm much different than when I was 20. But I'm listening to Ford's funeral, and that's not all. I was at a friend's house for New Year's Eve, and right after the clock struck midnight, I was out of there because I didn't want to go to bed too late. Another friend had a big party at his house, and I didn't go because he lives a half hour away and it had started to snow; I didn't want to get caught in any bad weather. If I stay at this coffee shop long enough, a bunch of dramatic high school students (probably no more dramatic than I was at that age) will show up and be annoying; I prefer the company of my 90-year-old grandmother and her friends.

The question hangs over me: what the hell is going on here?? I blame MPR. I am learning too much about the world to retain much self-interest that is the hallmark of the young. The more I learn, the less I'm sure about, including whether or not I am, indeed, still cool, and whether it's actually even important anymore.