Posted in Friendship, Relationships

Skinny Jeans

 

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Boo had skated around the fact that he was eating exactly what he wanted in spite of the doctor’s warning.  “Your blood sugar is getting higher.  You need to change your eating habits and get more exercise, and it would help if you lost a few pounds.”  Still, he had his stash of candy and cookies semi-hidden on the third shelf of the pantry behind the flour, brown sugar, and the grandkids’ Capri Sun.  I use the term ‘hidden’ loosely.

It took one more threat from the doctor for the message to click.  “If you don’t change your ways, I’ll be putting you on insulin shots.  Here’s the name of a dietitian to help get you started.”  I heard all of this second hand, mind you, and it took him a few hours to disclose what was actually said because he had stopped off at Starbucks for a Caramel Macchiato and pound cake, just a little reward for after the doctor.

Boo reluctantly relayed the information, grudgingly called the dietitian, and went about his way saying, “I’m going to eat whatever I want until I see this nutrition person.”

“I’m going with you to the dietitian,” I said.

“You just want to make sure I tell the truth,” he countered.

“That’s right, “ I said.  “I don’t trust you.”

boo

One week later, we saw the dietitian who was a beautiful, thirty-something, tall, slender nurse.  She was sweet on the outside, but it didn’t take her long to see through his antics.  Yes, I helped him answer her questions honestly.  Yes, I ratted him out on a few things, but I saw him really listening as she explained carbohydrates, sugars, and proteins.  Almost overnight Boo began watching his carbs, forgoing desserts, using sugar-free creamer, and walking 10,000 steps.  It was a miracle.  As the pounds dropped off, he started to envision himself quite the stud.  “I think I’m almost ready for skinny jeans, what do you think?” 

 “Maybe just five more pounds?” I offered.

We went from grilled ham and cheese sandwiches with a generous handful of chips at lunch, to baked fish and Charro beans.  We had berries for dessert instead of double stuffed oreo cookies and ice cream.  We even bought Fitbits.  In fact, Boo became a zealot, watching every bite he put in his mouth.

 When we walked together, I would come home angry.  I envisioned us walking hand in hand down the road of love and health; sharing goals and encouraging each other on our fitness journey.  His focus was to walk briskly and clock his miles, no time for idle chit chat, let alone hand-holding.  So, we opted to walk separately, allowing him to go faster and me to stay sweeter. 

 Six months later he was down thirty pounds and looking svelte.  I, on the other hand, was down three pounds and sneaking potato chips.   How is it that men can just put their minds to it and make this losing weight look so easy?  I think women just have slower metabolisms and don’t forget the whole hormone thing, we’re challenged at every turn.

This year at Christmas, Boo finally got his wish of skinny jeans!  As he pulled the jeans gleefully from the wrapping paper, he grinned like a little kid and stood up to hold the jeans next to his legs.  Even though he needed a little help to pull them on, once he zipped up they fit like a glove. (literally)  Truthfully, I never thought of Boo as skinny jeans material, but I wanted him to live the dream, and he is.

“Enjoy your new-found hotness!” I teased.

“Oh, I will,”  he smiled, as he turned around and checked out his rear end view.  “GQ has nothing on me!”

Posted in Friendship

Find Your Joy

Find Your Joy by Ginger Keller Gannaway
Babs 1

I’m revisiting Barbra Streisand’s discography during these stay-at-home covid times. Getting back to what I loved when I was a teen. I first listened to her albums over & over on a small record player in my room while wearing cheap plastic head phones so I could crank up the volume on “The Nearness of You” and “Happy Days Are Here Again.” In 1970 I was obsessed with records like Simply Streisand and My Name Is Barbra, full of old standards and Broadway show tunes. Barbra sang songs like they were three-minute plays with her one-of-a-kind enunciated phrasing and sustained belting. Her vocal bravado soothed my nervous, awkward, lonely thirteen-year-old soul. I hadn’t listened to these records in a long time and I’m now rediscovering the joy they still give me.

magnoliaSo if you have time to yourself (or not), find your joy in what you love. Read, watch t.v. or YouTube, cook, sing, meditate, talk with friends, write, juggle, draw or paint, play dominoes or cards, jog, shop online, do spring cleaning, look at old pictures, hone your video game skills, pamper your pets, take long walks, tickle your kids or grandkids, plant a garden, or learn to whistle. Do whatever makes you smile or fills you up with joy!

As the pandemic makes a lot of us slow down and stay put, we should be kind to ourselves and spend time every day doing something that makes us feel joyful.

How do you find joy?

Posted in Friendship

Uncertain Times

Uncertain Times written by Ginger Keller Gannaway

These COVID19 days taunt me with uncertainty. When will it be safe: to visit a friend? to eat in a cafe? to schedule an appointment? to STOP WORRYING?

Uncertain times
Walking in Armadillo Park

All this reminds me of walking my high-strung dog. Since mid-March my neighborhood is crowded with folks walking their dogs, kids playing on sidewalks, teens whizzing by on skateboards, and cats lounging in yards with “I dare you” stares.

Black cat
A.J. (Almond Joy)
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Millie Biscuit

 

Walking Millie (a 60-pound shepherd) is like traveling with a string of firecrackers that could pop at any moment. She sniffs and pulls as we walk. So Gary walks ahead doing recon – looking down the sidewalk for other dogs or strollers that make us cross the street to give them space. I watch the ground for a discarded fried chicken bone or a smashed reptile my pet might gobble up. Millie can smell a bite of rotting pizza at least half a block away!  I carry treats for positive reinforcement when we avoid an explosion of barking and I hold the leash tightly. For we must venture outside for poops and “pee mail” and a bit of exercise.

Uncertain times call for diligence and distancing as we carry on through our nervousness and fear. Things will improve. Stay safe and sane, y’all!

Uncertain Times2

Posted in Friendship

Gratitude List in the Time of Coronavirus by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Gratitude List in the Time of Coronavirus

by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Every morning while I “sit ugly” and drink my coffee, I meditate and pray. Part of my routine is reading my gratitude list. However, in these crazy coronavirus times I cannot enjoy all the things from my recent past: “Live Music” “Movie Theaters” “Dinner with Friends and Family.” So now I slow down for a new gratitude list.

 

gratitude snail
Slow down

1. Netflix movies & Better Things on FX

better things

Indiewire Review of Better Things

2. Take-out from local restaurants(Cavalier’s burgers and deviled eggs)cavalier

https://www.thecavalieratx.com/menus

3. Hospice Angels who FaceTime me when they’re with my dadGratitude of hands

4. Bird Song & wild flowers on dog walksgratitude flowers

5. Nature WalksIMG_0524

6. Reading and Writing Time

giphy

What new things are you grateful for?

Posted in Friendship

Pock- Pock by Ginger Keller Gannaway

A Cajun Easter Tradition

Now in April, 2020 the coronavirus pandemic is keeping us from celebrating in the same ways with all of our loved ones this Easter. Here’s an essay I wrote awhile back about one of my favorite family traditions. Y’all be safe and sane!

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Evan & Mama Gerry

     Chubby fingers clutch a pale pink and green boiled egg.  Concerned eyes flick back and forth from the egg to the bowed head of the chubby-fingered 4-year-old girl’s 8-year-old brother, a boy with destruction in his eyes.  The boy firmly holds a bright blue egg, and as he quickly raises his egg a few inches above his sister’s egg, the girl muffles a scared squeak as the brother aims and delivers a decisive blow to his target. POCK! “Ah-ha!” the destructor declares as he witnesses the broken crown of his sister’s special Easter egg (the one that took her a full 6 minutes to dye because she patiently dyed the pink half before carefully turning her egg over and holding it in the green dye for several long minutes).  The girl juts out a “boudin lip,” yet she dutifully hands her victor brother the cracked egg.  “My egg’s the champion!” brags the boy as he tosses the pink and green egg into an overflowing basket of slightly cracked Easter eggs. He struts around the grassy backyard holding the blue egg over his head.  Other kids in church clothes throw sideways glances his way, but his sister simply reaches for a Goldbrick egg in her Easter basket to ease the loss of her two-toned egg.  MaMa Joe tells her cocky grandson, “Way to go, cha! You beat your cousins!” but PaPa Joe sulks in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and the purple guinea egg which he refused to give up to his grandson a few minutes earlier.

easter5
Momma Gerry & Emile

For now 8-year-old Claude Emile revels in his Pock-Pock Championship for an Easter in Ville Platte, Louisiana.

Such is the way in Cajun land on Easter morning.  Friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, moms, dads, grandmas and competitive grandpas compete with their multi-colored boiled eggs to win the title of Pock-Pock Champion on a bright spring day.

  Our family’s Pock-Pock Rules:

  1. Two folks each choose an unbroken Easter egg.
    easter7
    Ryan and Andrew face off!

     

  2. One person holds his/her egg with the fat side up and faces the opponent.
  3. The opponent holds his/her egg with the small end towards the other egg.
  4. The egg-holder on top taps the other’s egg until one of the eggs cracks.  (Most folks prefer a soft, slow tapping motion that makes a “pock-pock” sound and that keeps the game going longer. * Emile’s quick, hard hammer-like hit irks me).
  5. After a few pocks, both folks will hear a deeper sort of cracking sound that signals the breaking of one egg. They pause at this point and examine their eggs’ ends; however, sometimes the crack is not visible and a few more pocks are needed to reveal the definitive cracks that label one of the egg-holders a loser.
  6. The holder of the uncracked egg is that round’s winner and he/she gets to keep the broken egg. (Unless you’ve pocked-pocked with Papa Joe and his favorite egg)

     

easter4
Caseman &Big Papa

My momma learned from her dad (Papa Joe) that guinea  and duck eggs were harder than regular chicken eggs, but this was not always the case.  Cajuns can be very competitive (even when the prize is a grubby boiled egg), and some have resorted to cheating.  One Easter Emile made a plaster of Paris egg and painted it yellow.  He managed to trick the younger cousins and the older relatives with poor eyesight, but when cousin Kenneth discovered the trick, the final pock-pock sounds came from Kenneth whacking Emile’s “tete dure.”

 

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Kelly Ann & Ginger

 

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Casey & Jana

I have always enjoyed this Cajun tradition, and even though Emile’s grandkids don’t particularly like or even want to keep boiled Easter eggs (They prefer the plastic eggs filled with jellybeans or chocolates), the kids still enjoy the pock-pock competition.  This Easter I look forward to  spitfire Amos (age 5) going up against his calm cousin Evan (age 24) and may the best egg win!

easter2
Easter in Eunice, 1985
Posted in Friendship

Relativity

Relativity

by Ginger Keller Gannaway

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An old tree stump in my hood that reminds me of myself.

When visiting a fellow teacher’s high school classroom last week, I overheard a student tell her friend, “I hate those old teachers.”  The teen answered, “They shouldn’t let them keep teaching.” Then the first girl noticed my old self in the back of the room and apologetically added, “Just the ones with grey hairs, ya know.” (I’ve dyed my hair for eleven years.)

Teens. So entertaining. So hip and quick and yet so slow. They have razor sharp radar for any kind of prejudice except ageism.

Of course, we over-sixty folks are quick to judge as well: “My new doctor is twelve!”  “My grandson is addicted to his phone.” “See those tattoos all over our waitress?”

Ageism is relative.

My favorite part about teaching teenagers is their funny, honest spitfire comments:

“Miss, your skirt got a stain from your hippy days,” or “Did the Civil War happen before or after you went to college?”

Our youth-obsessed culture may have persuaded me to dye my hair and update my 1970’s wardrobe; however, do I not now judge my 90-year-old dad who lives with us?

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Dad’s birthday last June, 2019

His grunts, sighs, belches, moans, and creaks annoy me almost as much as the messes he leaves in the bathroom. How does someone grunge-up the sink, mirror, countertop and floor just by brushing his teeth?  But the worst part is the adult diaper crap. Seeing him shuffle to and from the bathroom in his pull-ups makes me dread my own scary future. It makes me want to hide out on a remote island alone where I leave my bungalow only to sit in my cozy backyard and listen to birds, watch squirrels, read a book and forget I’m wearing Pampers.

Dad-guilt consumes me when I complain. He’s trying hard not to annoy us. He apologizes when we spend six hours at the VA clinic. He’s learning to take the short bus to the senior center for bridge lessons, and each night he says, “Good night, sweet princess” before he goes off to bed.

Still the saying “We all turn into our parents” never sounded so ominous. I worry and I pray and I warn my husband, “If you die before my dad, I will kill you!”

I tell my head to stop judging Dad the way teens judge “those teachers with grey hair.”  My heart thumps “Be patient. Be kind” but my bratty brain answers, “Damnit! Dad’s fresh sheets got another poop smear down the middle.”IMG_0367

I need to change my heart’s chant to, “Be real. Be strong’” because one day my three sons might say, “Damn! Mom tried covering her bald spot with a Magic Marker again.”

Posted in Friendship

Vive la France


quote-in-department-stores-so-much-kitchen-equipment-is-bought-indiscriminately-by-people-julia-child-5-48-25

Written by Nancy Malcolm

“Babe,”  I hollered from the bedroom while folding laundry.  “You really need new underwear. I can almost read the newspaper through these!”

I heard his footsteps and felt him lean against the door frame as he sighed,  “They’re O.K. But, I guess you could get me another pair whenever you’re out.  You know what I like. The usuals.”

And that, my friends, is how a simple conversation prompted an international experience.

Full coverage?  Mid-rise? Boxers, briefs or compression?  Silk? Cotton or polyester? These were the choices as I stood in the men’s department at Kohl’s among the stacks of underwear.  I knew my husband had said ‘the usuals,’ but I was thinking this was a perfect time to spice things up. When I returned home with an assortment of new silky, multicolored, longer length undies, I really thought he would embrace the change.  Instead, with a deer in the headlights look, he asked,   “Didn’t they have mine?” 

I dumped out the new packages and said, “Please? Try it, you might like it .”                471909-070818

I have to give him credit, seeing that he tried to envision himself as the model on the front of the package:  slim, flat stomach and handsome. He stood in front of the mirror holding his stomach in and flexing his biceps.  “O.K.,” he said, and agreed to give it a go. Truthfully, what else could I ask for?     “Hubba-hubba,” I crooned and then gave a little whistle just to seal the deal.

As the days went on, he would incorporate a new pair here and there, but I could tell he missed his tighty whities.  “These are a little too slick (aka silky) and too long. And, aren’t they too tight?”  

“They might feel tight to someone who has been wearing underwear with questionable elastic,” I countered.

Finally, one morning he sauntered into the kitchen, where I was pouring my coffee.  “Hey now,” he sang. “These are very snazzy!”

“Those?”  I asked.

“Yea, these sexy French ones,”  he said.

“French ones?  Did I buy those?” I asked.

“Yea, see the tag?  Sen~ah’ I like these.  They’re perfect.”

“Babe,”  I said. “You’ve got them on inside out.  It’s HANES.    Sen~ah’ is Hanes backward.”

And with a sheepish grin he said, “You know I’ve never been good with too many choices, and besides, I hate change.”

Suddenly, I realized I may have pushed him out of his comfort zone, away from the security of his tighty-whities, but it was worth it.  My little puffed pastry was trying something new, even if it was inside out.

Viva la Hanes!! Baby, Viva la Hanes!!

Posted in Friendship

Money Money Money

Money Money Money (1)

 

Written by Nancy Malcolm

 

Boo and I have been married for fifteen years and while we rarely disagree, the main times we do are when he tries to tell me something I already know.

Because this isn’t our first marriage, we decided from the beginning to have separate checking accounts.  I feel very strongly about my money management skills and my ability to handle my affairs. But, so does he.

He is so old school that he still wants to receive his paycheck in the mail so he can deposit it himself. 

 “Direct deposit feels risky,” he says.  “So many things could go wrong, and besides, I like to see and feel my money.” 

 The man doesn’t even use an ATM machine.  He withdraws his cash from the drive-through bank cashier or he goes inside the bank to speak with a real person.

Once, I tried to show him how to deposit a check using his phone and I thought he was having a heart attack.  When I explained how easy it was and that he could just check his account at any time, he begged me to stop. “That’s crazy!  Someone could just hack in and take all of our money.”

“Yes, but that’s why you have passwords and safety features.  I’m telling you this will save you time and the stress of driving to the bank,” I said.

Boo just shook his head, “I don’t know you anymore.  You’re just willy-nilly with this online banking shenanigans.  I like real people, not machines and phones,” he said and added, “You charlatan!”

Needless to say, our household bills are divided between the two of us.  Boo pays his bills the same day they arrive in the mail, and although I have never been withdrawn or had a late fee, he worries that I will forget or miss a payment.  

“Don’t forget to pay the mortgage,” says the worrywart.

“I won’t.”

“I see the mortgage payment is here,” says Mr. Passive aggressive.

“Yup.”

“You know there’s only a five day grace period for the mortgage,” he scolds.

“I know.”

Seriously, the mortgage just arrived in the mail and he says all of this during the first twenty-four hours.

  I have NEVER forgotten to pay the mortgage or any bill, but he cannot trust my process.

I have to admit, sometimes I let it sit out just to make him ask questions and sweat a little.  If he gives me cash for something or just slips me a twenty, he will worry and watch until that twenty-dollar bill is safely in my wallet.  “All of my bills face the same direction,” he proudly proclaims. “That way I can tell at a glance how much money I have.”

“I’m happy for you, Wells Fargo.”  I egg him on, while secretly mine are too.

He saves all of his change and is keeping it in one of those old, large water cooler bottles.   Once I put some extra coins into the jug, thinking he would be happy and he completely freaked out because I had included pennies.  He only likes silver.    

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The man has money hidden in all kinds of places.  I’m quite sure that the garage alone has a couple hundred and his desk is probably packed with wads of cash hidden in the bottom of drawers or folded in stashed envelopes. I haven’t checked between the mattresses yet, but I wouldn’t rule it out.   His cash hoarding is endearing and yet perplexing.  But one thing is absolutely true; he is generous and loves giving gifts, especially to his grandkids.  His heart is pure gold. (or should I say silver.)

It must be hard to be Boo and have so many rules about money.  He stresses a lot because he wants to be in total control and secretly, I guess I do too.  But, my Boo is a fabulous money manager and even if his practices are antiquated; even if he causes me angst, and questions my techniques; he is thrifty, loyal, helpful, kind and brave just like a Boy Scout.  He’s my JPMorgan and Citi Bank all rolled into one.

Posted in Friendship

My Dad, My Cat

written by Ginger Keller Gannaway

These days my dRAad reminds me of my cat. As he ages, he resembles more and more my cat J.T.  Both are very old. She is 16 or 17 (no one recalls exactly when we got her from a friend at work). My dad is 92. They move in slow, deliberate ways anJTd show little interest in the world at large. 

Both make annoying sounds. The cat meows incessantly. She starts crying at three a.m. and goes until five. Her vocalizations can be pleading and helpless or demanding and stressed. She starts with short, emphatic, “Meow. Meow. Meow.” If I don’t heed her call for food, she tries sick-sounding, “Meeereow, Meeereow!” and will mix the short cries with the drawn-out ones at uneven intervals. After seven or eight cries,  four minutes of silence might convince me that she’s given up. I smile and settle deeper into my pillow when, “Meertchkmrowww,” assaults me.

Dad’s sounds are more predictable. He moans any time he is conscious. It’s a low steady moan, almost a hum but void of any musicality. It has a pinch of pain in it and a rhythmic quality that is in sync with his breathing. Once my dad’s roommate’s wife told me, “Your dad sorta sounds like he’s purring.” (a weird coincidence of phrasing, for sure). But Dad’s moans have no satisfying feel, and he’s unaware he’s making any sound at all. After he assured me he was not hurting anywhere, I pleaded with him: “Please stop moaning, Dad.”

“What?” he asked.

“Moaning. You’re always moaning.”

He paused, stared at me, and said, “Am I off key?”

My cat, on the other hand, knows she’s meowing. She wants food. “She’s a cat,” explains my husband. “She just wants a taste.” Maybe so, but we can’t leave food out all the time because our dog will devour any morsel she walks away from, and in three minutes she meows for more. I refuse to cow-tow to her unreasonable, middle-of-the-night cravings! I sometimes get up, act like I’m going to the kitchen to shake out some Tender Vittles, and then fake her out and rush back to my room and shut the door on her. 

JT asleep

Perhaps my dad and cat moan and meow to let the world know they are still here. 

Thankfully, both Dad and the cat love to sleep. True to her feline nature, our J.T. sleeps at least seventeen hours a day. She curls up on the sofa arm, the window ledge that gets afternoon sun, or the blanket-covered bench at the foot of our bed for the best sleep.  Likewise, Dad is asleep way more than he’s awake. Every time I visit, I find him napping – mouth wide open and snoring instead of moaning. My, “Hey, Dad!” makes him sputter awake, force his eyes open, and give me a smile, so happy to have a visitor. He drinks some of the smoothie I bring him and soon dozes on and off for the rest of my visit. Even when we watched the champion LSU Tigers take care of ALL their opponents, he’d nod off until our “Geaux, Tigers!” yells roused him. He is as much an LSU fan as he’s a fan of  saying, “Any time is nap time.”

Both J.T. and Dad are picky eaters. Our pet now only wants soft food and gets sick if she eats too quickly. Dad is at the soup, yogurt, and ice cream time of his life with pudding and milkshakes as snacks. Both look skinny and act tired.

The two do share a calm air of acceptance. Their wants are few: a comfortable place to rest, small bits of food and drink, and regular signs of love/attention. Maybe Daddy’s moaning really is his version of purring. He prefers to close his eyes, hold a loved one’s hand, and listen to the conversations from his visitors that make him nod and smile. Satisfied and comfortable, he moans (purrs) and reminds me that he (and cats) understands the joy of serene relaxation.

NOTE:  A year after my mom died, my dad moved in with my husband and me in Texas. Two years later after a couple of falls, he switched to assisted living. Now he’s bed-ridden and in a skilled nursing facility. I visit him several times a week, and I love him way more than my cat.

happy papa

Posted in Friendship

Smokin’ Hot

Smokin' Hot

Once when my girls were over for dinner, one of them asked, “Where’s the big salad bowl?”  I replied, “Look up on the top shelf in the cabinet.”

“Oh”, they laughed. “Where you used to hide your cigarettes?”

How did you know that?”  I knew it was too late to deny.

“Mom”, they said, “Everybody knew that!”

I’m not proud of it, in fact, I hate to rat myself out, #IwishIneverhad, but I used to smoke cigarettes. Of course, not in public.  Never in public, but I was definitely a full-blown closet smoker.  I would go hours out of my way just to have 10 minutes with a Kent 100 Golden Lite.  I had guidelines, mind you. I wasn’t just a ‘willy-nilly’ smoker, I had rules for my closet smoking,  that were strictly enforced.

Rule #1

I never smoked during the school day.  I didn’t want my students to smell it on me and think I condoned smoking.  Self-righteous and hypocritical? Of course.

 

Rule #2

I never smoked around my parents.  Once, I was in Amarillo visiting my dad and it was cold, windy and slated to snow.  I had been cooped up in their small Assisted Living apartment all day, when at bedtime, I abruptly said, “Oops, I left something in the car, I’ll be back.”  Of course, I had been planning my ciggy break for hours, so I had one cigarette, (no room for error) a lighter, car keys and a breath mint stuffed into my bra.

Next, I debated on whether to put on a coat and draw more attention to my outing, or just sprint to the car.  I decided to sprint. Once outside, I realized it was sleeting. I got into my car, turned it on and cracked the window.  I don’t know why, but I decided to lay down in the front seat so no one would see me. (what? A snitch in the Assisted Living?)  I lay there in the freezing cold, shivering, waiting for the car to warm up and puffing away.

Pretty soon I hear a car drive up and park next to me.  I hear two men get out and begin discussing the fact that a car (mine) was running and no one was in it and then they peeked in the window.  Can I tell you that cigarettes make you do some crazy stuff? One of the men asked through the cracked window, “You OK?” I sheepishly said, “Oh yes, just taking a break.”  ugh…..

So, I put out the cig, stood outside to get the smoke smell off and popped my breath mint before heading in.  When I got back to my parents’ apartment, I just casually kept walking to the bathroom to wash my hands, when my step-mother said, “We were worried about you, we can see your car from the front window.”  Ugh…..my walk of shame was now complete and to make matters worse, I did not enjoy one puff of my stolen moment.

You would think a grown woman could just tell the truth, but I could not.  Cigarettes made me lie, cheat, steal and hide. I began to smoke thinking it was cool and here I was slithering around in the snow and lying to my folks.

Oh, the tangled webs we weave…

 

Rule #3

Never drive and smoke.  It wasn’t so much a rule as a safety feature.  For some reason, I could never drive, puff and flick the ash at the same time.  I learned that the hard way when I flicked an ash and it flew back into the back seat.  This happened to me while crossing the big bridge going to Corpus Christi. Everything turned out fine except for that little burn mark on the floorboard.

Rule #4

Last but not least was “Thou shalt deny.”  I never admitted that I smoked, never carried cigarettes in my purse and always acted sanctimonious when catching a student with tobacco. My picture is next to hypocrite in the dictionary.

 

The good news is that closet smoking does cut down on your habit.  It was too hard to sneak around to ever smoke more than 5 in one day.  The best news is that I truly am now a non-smoker. The birth of my grandson was the catalyst.  I never wanted to be a little old granny hiding out behind buildings or standing in alleyways, puffing a ciggy.  My cold turkey quit was perilous at best but so worth the pain.

I want to be an active granny even in the nursing home.  Not pulling my oxygen tank trying to sneak a smoke without blowing up the building.  I’m not a hater, you’all. I truly understand the pull toward that green-eyed monster called tobacco.  And if you really want to know the secret to break that habit, I’ll be happy to share.