Liars.

INTEGRITY

in·teg·ri·ty 

[in-teg-ri-tee]

–noun

1. adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty.

How important is this to you?  If it is important for you to maintain a certain level of integrity yourself, then how important is it that others around you do the same?  I had this type discussion last night and it proved to be a bit challenging for me to relate to the poor person on the other end having to listen to my blabber. 

To me, integrity is a very important thing to expect both from myself but also the people around me.  I don't mean to judge those complicated situations which would require more sincere contemplation to fully understand and sit in a gray area.  That's too relative for me.  I mean let's talk about blatant, purposeful, compulsive liars.  That is the most simple, obvious assault on one's own integrity there is. 

To break it down further, I used the word purposeful because I'd like to make  a distinction between someone who truly believes what they are saying and are simply mistaken and those who are very well aware that they are lying. 

You know these people.  I don't have to give examples.  These empty shells spew out whatever they think you want to hear at the time, even if they have no basis for what they are saying.  They know EVERYTHING.  That's why they are so important, you see?  They have heard everything, they have already done everything you're doing, they always have a juicy story, everyone always wants them and they ALWAYS get laid. 

Someone said to me that they can forgive an offender's tall tales if they are nice.  I would like to ask you guys, how do you know that?  How do you know if someone is nice or not if every word out of their dicktrap is so obviously a lie?  How do you know if someone is truly nice if you see them routinely kiss people's ass that you know they don't care for?   If they are consistently betraying others, how do you know they are nice to you? 

Here's the thing.  They if they are lying to other's they are lying to you.  If they are spreading lies about others, they are doing it to you.  If they are manipulating other's they are manipulating you.  You are not special to these people.  They are only loyal to whomever is in front of them at the time.  I have had to learn this lesson the hard way a few times in life.  Yes, I may have been a slow learner to have been burned multiple times.  But I am SO GLAD I DID! 

I can't just- as some people would do- turn a blind, glossy eye at this sort of thing.  How can you build a relationship on that?  If you are hanging out with them talking, how can you decipher what's real and what is pulled out of thin air to make them look more important, or bad ass, or hotter, or more innocent, or more guilty, or rebellious, etc...  I can tell you this, if I want to head to fantasy land, I can simply drop a couple sugar cubes soaked in lysergic acid and come up with some friends way more interesting and real than that of a compulsive liar. 

I fear I have gotten off on a tangent.  I like tangents so I will keep going.  Click away from my page if you are offended by this post.  Although, if you are, I probably don't want you around anyway. 

There was another question of the group hanging out process.  The word 'boycott' was thrown out there.  I was asked if I would boycott someone.  My answer is a resounding YES.  I mean, why the fuck not?  Am I losing anything?  Shall I choose to be around them to subject myself to my own torment?

Here is my solution.  A larger group setting is clearly not as unbearable as an intimate dinner and walk in the park with one of these.  So, I say, the bigger the group, the more likely I am to take a break from the boycott.  The more watered down they can be, the better.  I don't need them full strength.  I can't take it and if you ask me to, you just run the risk of me being a total bitch to them at some point. 

There is also what I call the 'special occasion clause'.  If a special occasion rolls through, as they always do, then exceptions can be made given at least some dilution.  One on one is absolutely out of the question at all times, even during a special occasion.  (this would never happen anyway because if I have boycotted you, you are probably not going to ask me to buddy up with you in the first place)

There aren't too many things I do in life that I don't want to do.  I just don't encounter it much.  Feeling obligated to hang out with a person I can't bear is foreign to me.  My point is, sometimes these dreadful people are kept around, even when the people around them detest their company.  That is not fair to anyone and strips away at one's own integrity.  Stop enabling the liars, please. 

The average lifespan of a woman is 79 years.  That is nothing, a speck, a tiny glimmer, a grain of sand in the sahara, nothing, nothing, nothing.  Unlike some, I believe this is my only life. I only have that teeny tiny speck of sand in which to operate within and I am telling you, I am not spending any part of it indulging someone I can't trust, can't stand, or find appalingly artificial. 

This is a GREAT thing because at least of I am hanging out with you, you know I WANT to be there! 

A long ass blog about drunk girls in NOLA

Wow.  There are so many things to talk about in recalling this most wonderful trip.  I didn't even get pics of the best shit and I could go on forever and bore you but I won't.  I will just have to try to tell the story in pictures. 

Day one (Thursday)- We arrive at our couch surfing destination to find an AMAZING place to crash the first day.  I don't really know what I expected, but this was definitely not it.  What a nice surprise.

 I cannot believe we had this place all to ourselves while the most gracious owner of this property was working in Birmingham!  It was 2 blocks off Bourbon Street  in the lavender area so you know we had to get our party on immediately.

Once we got settled in, we immediately made our way to Bourbon Street in search of food and drink.  We started out at Pat O'Briens courtyard for some fried alligator and a nice shrimp salad.  Monte had a Hurricane and I had a mint julep.  It was a very nice, touristy way to set it off and relax after a long drive.  After that, we simply walked the streets until it was time to go home and get ready to go out.  Here are some man barbies in ladies' clothes.

                                            

That evening, we spent most of our time around the Bourbon Street Pub rubbing elbows with the sweaty little boys that got there a day early for the weekend's festivities.  It would be the ONLY night we were able to comfortably settle in to a bar and enjoy the sights.  Yes, the sights.  What we saw were a good many hardly dressed leather daddies and bears.  Oh, and a few naked twinks flaunting semi hard cocks flopping around on the bar tops.  Monte asked, "Where do you put the tips?"

Double Soco's are so good!

Day two (Friday)- Oh dear.  This day started out nice enough.  We went to Cafe Dumonde first thing.

A nice lady with quite the potpourri of heritages served us.  She had a VERY thick accent and an even thicker build.  She was like some one's sweet old grandma, but without all the sweet.  She abruptly came over to us and asked if we could understand what she was saying.  She had to say it twice.  With confidence, we both replied, "Oh, yes...certainly we can understand your accent!"  She then explained to us that the man at the next table said he couldn't understand a word she was saying.  We reaffirmed to her that WE could.  We had NO problem understanding her.  How rude of that man!  We then felt like we had, in some small way, made a friend.  She then gave us our total to which both Monte and I looked at each other briefly with a bit of confusion.  She then repeated the total.  Again, we looked at her and then asked her to repeat what she said.  I don't even think we realized it was numbers that she was saying.  After repeating it again for the third time, we figured out that she was giving us our total.  Ironic. 

That evening, we decided to head out to Frenchman Street, a place that Dennis, my couch surfing host had recommended.  It is a small area away from the loudness and smells of Bourbon Street and surrounding areas.  It's a totally different animal than touristy Bourbon Street.  Much more quiet, less people, mostly locals, and jazz bar after jazz bar after jazz bar along with a few restaurants.  We set out to find some drinks then some sushi. 

We spotted some Decadence floats getting ready:

                                

                                             

                                                         

We first started out at a cool place with window boxes where you could sit and feel on display to the people walking by outside.  In a separate room, there was a 4 piece band playing on a small stage with big, red velvet curtains hanging behind them.  They had lambic on tap and I was happy!

                                                

We then made our way over to a place across the street called "The Spotted Cat" for another cocktail before dinner.  This place was really cool.  The decor was all silver and lit with blue.  It was a very small place with a tiny little corner stage right beside the front door.  A gorgeous young lady dressed in sort of a 40's style was singing old timey jazz.  I am not great with genres, but it seemed like 30's-40's type music.  All of the patrons had their eyes on her, which was refreshing.  No one was there to just party.  It was a real appreciation for music and the music was fantastic. 

We then made our way to Yuki, a few doors down.  When we had first arrived at Frenchman, this is where we were let out of our cab.  Barely distinguishable, only by a tiny sign, this place looked like an abandoned building.  No windows, graffiti everywhere, flyers, tape and other signs pasted on the side...SO EXCITING!

                                     

When we went in, it was very dimly lit in red and was just what I was looking for- a hole in the wall bar that serves sushi. 

They showed old black and white Japanese movies on the wall.  It was a GREAT little extra.

They didn't have sushi, but they DID have sashimi and that was just fine.  Believe me, we didn't miss the rice.  Here are some soft shell crawfish we ate.  They heads tasted creamy!

                               

Sadly, this is the only pic I have of our food, as it was devoured as soon as it hit the table.  We also had some salmon, yellowtail and tuna sashimi and some salmon carpaccio.  I think we had other stuff too, but because of the night to come, I don't remember. 

Craving a frozen mojito, we left Frenchman and took a cab to the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann to encounter protesters.  This wasn't the ubiquitous man that stands on the lavender line with a cross shouting about jesus.  These guys had come down specifically to protest the Southern Decadence crowd.  What an honor! 

                                

These people really were a joke.  There was a man with a bullhorn in the protester's path saying "blah, blah, blah" and "closet gay".  To my delight, when they made their way down Bourbon, before they reached the gay area, the crowd responded with a resounding "BOOOO!"  These folks were there every night with their silly signs.  As the weekend rolled on, the cops were present around them making sure some riot didn't break out. 

                                

They only deserve about 5 seconds, so here ya go:

The last time I saw them, there was a man SCREAMING at them right in their faces.  This went on for some time and eventually, the protester's left the area!  The crowd began to cheer energetically about this and I might have felt a little verklempt!

After spending only a short time around a bunch of sweaty naked men, we decided to go up to one of my favorite places right in the Bourbon Street area; THE DUNGEON. 

The Dungeon is a truly unique bar for the French Quarter.  It's a dark, devilish metal bar on Toulouse.  As you enter through the gate, you walk a very long, very narrow (almost to narrow to fit through comfortably) corridor which opens up to a courtyard of skulls and a small fountain.  The inside does not disappoint, as it comes complete with torture chambers, metal cages, torture devices, slimey dead looking thingys and a full sized coffin.  Good luck finding the bathroom, its down a long skinny library with a hidden door behind the bookshelf. 

                                           

But enough about the decor.  They also had buy one get one free drinks the evening before.  Naturally, we ventured back.  I went up to the bar and ordered my best friend Soco from a lovely pale lady behind the bar.  This particular evening, they weren't doing the same drink special, but they DID however have a nifty little thing called a 'cherry bomb' for only 75 cents!  I looked at my companion (as if I even had to ask) and it was clear.  Cherry bombs it is! 

Cherry bombs, we were told, were cherries that had been soaking in pure grain alcohol (yes 190 proof) since some date in July.  We each got one along with our usuals and popped them in our mouths.  Upon first chew, I was astounded by how horribly strong this was.  Sure, I knew what it was but nothing or no one could have adequately prepared me for just how much liquid was retained in this cherry.  It was like it was a super absorbent sponge...like a Sham-WOW cherry.  Well worth the measly 75 cents we paid for them.  All I could think was how much you could totally fuck some one's world- on the cheap even- by simple putting one of these sham-wow cherries in their rum and coke.  It was spectacular!

Once we finished our cherries, we made our way over to the small cage that adjoins to the left side of the bar.  This was perfect, because the pale lady was an excellent hostess and checked on us frequently and kept our drinks full.  Oh, Soco, I love ya dearly!  We sat there, never having to leave our cage, being served considerably strong drinks by a skinny death-chic looking hottie and listening to various types of metal.  This moment in time would explain the facebook update "Now listen up, she's a razor sharp".  At one point, I leaned over to give my escort a kiss and we saw the flash of a camera.  It was two girls (oh yeah), shamelessly taking our picture while we made out.  I would say I was in heaven but then again the atmosphere is so awesomely hellish, it just couldn't fit.

What happened next is beyond me.  I hardly remember paying, mush less leaving.  I guess the sham-wow cherry caught up with both of us because the next morning, I woke to find myself in bed with just my undies on.  Clothing was thrown about all over the place.  The first words out of my mouth were that I didn't remember coming home and asked Monte if she did.  To my horror, she did NOT.  She had no more memory than I did.  What I am saying here is that both of us left, apparently took a cab, then came home safely to bed and we don't recall a single instant of it.  Did we go anywhere after The Dungeon? Did those two girls photographing us take us and do things to us?  Did we pay the cab?  Did we even take a cab, or did we walk?  Is THAT why my feet hurt so damn bad?  None of these questions can be answered to this day. 

Day three (Saturday)- Fuck you.  Fuck you, Soco.  Seriously.  Get fucked. 

So this day is not good.  First, I feel fine and Monte feels sick.  Then later, Monte feels ok and I feel sick.  Most of the day we spent in bed sleeping but we did get out to Mother's for some awesome sandwiches.  We both had the Ferdi Special.  I don't know who Ferdi is, but he or she make a mean ass po-boy with home cooked ham, roast beef, debris, homemade cole slaw, gravy and mustard.  Debris can best be described as trash roast beef soaking in a roast beef gravy.  It's the pieces of roast beef that falls into the gravy while they are roasting the beef.  Monte got us yelled at and we almost had the bell rang on us and had to leave because she wasn't yelling the order at this bitch upon command.  It's a special type atmosphere in there.  If you go to Mother's have you shit ready or don't go yet.  Here is a view of the line waiting outside this 70 year old restaurant:

                                 

The lady in white had a nice bootay. 

That evening, we went partying on Bourbon with the gay boys and had a grand ole time.  We eventually made our way down to The Blacksmith bar, which isn't gay and got a prime spot sitting outside on the street.  Hence, the cat calling was born! 

Monte and I sat there yelling at unsuspecting women as they walked by.  We yelled at women walking in and out of the bar.  We yelled at women sitting right next to us and we yelled at the bartender.  No one was safe.  Young, old, skinny, fat, boyish, girly...it did not matter.  We were out for entertainment and we didn't give a FUCK! Yelling at them like we were construction workers, the looks on these women's faces was hilarious.  Most looked confused, some looked a little scared, many of them loved it, and it paid off in the end because I ended up with  a lap dance, we got a nice booty shake from some tattooed bitch and we were also called out by some insecure frat boy for hollaring at his lady.  He said' "That girl you are yelling at, she's my girlfriend."  I reply, "well she FINE!"  That alone made it worth it.  I must concede that we were emboldened by having a body guard this whole time in case somebody wanna get offended.  He was a nice guy who agreed to protect us and encouraged us to follow our hearts and yell and hit on every woman that passed.  I never got his name, but by the looks of his spandex shorts he had about a 10 inch dick, but I digress.

Day 4 (Sunday)- Louisiana pizza kitchen.  OH.  MY.  GOD.  Go there.  Order the sausage sampler. 

We also went to Molly's on Decatur and found ourselves a nice spot in the open window seat.  Okay, so what if it was after we pressured two bitches out of their seats.  We resumed the cat calling from the night before.  A risky move, since we weren't on Bourbon anymore and it was daytime.  We sipped some awesome cucumber ginger drinks and let caution fly with the wind.  Monte hit on some old ass lady with silver hair.  She has a thing for grandmothers, I guess. 

Later, we drove into the garden district and went to an amazingly gorgeous park with ancient trees that just can't be described.  Why i don't have a picture of these huge trees is beyond me.  I...I can't even begin to talk about that.

We ate at a fancy restaurant called Ralph's At The Park.  Killer martinis, tuna tartar, some crazy BLT with pork belly, and some other dishes I can't remember but one stands far apart- Seared foie gras over a fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  It was puff pastry filled with peanut butter end encrusted with crushed peanuts on top of a grape jelly swirl and topped with seared foie gras.  HOLY FUCK.  My mind was blown.  It was delicious.  This was truly a case of "don't knock it if you haven't tried it".

Later, we returned to Frenchman Street and made our way into the craziest little bar.  There was MAYBE seating for 30 and that includes the bar.  There was a man on the stage that reminded me of Les Claypool and the music was delightful.  The bartender had a sharp tongue and no tolerance for bullshit.  They carried NO diet drinks and only one beer on tap- High Life.  It was clearly a gang of locals in there and I kind of felt like I was on acid the whole time I was sitting there.  It was called The Apple Barrel.

We then made our way out to the street to witness and participate in a street party.  HAY!

Day 5 (Monday)- Departure date.  2nd attempt at Central Grocery.  Result- closed again.  Curses!  Now I won't get my muffaleta.  Crazy Lobster over looking the river instead.  Delicious seafood bucket. 

                               

                              

Market price = WAY more than expected.  Now broke as a muthafucka!  But it was totally worth it.  This thing had more seafood that we could eat.  Two kinds of crab, TWO whole lobsters,  a school of shrimp, mussels, clams, potatoes and corn and like 10 cups of melted butter.  It did not disappoint, although it did prove to be the most expensive meal we ate. 

All in all, this was a truly great, much needed trip and I am already dreaming of going back again after the first of the year.  I discovered a new part of NOLA that I am eager to revisit as soon as possible.  It is easy to see why the locals are so proud.



When one door shuts, a window is opened!

                                                                                

So, basically I was to take my dear friend for his first trip to The Big Easy for his 27th birthday.  He is a gay man who has never been to NOLA.  It also didn't hurt that he is an extremely fun person and très dramatique, which never fails to disappoint!  What could be more humorous than to expose a virgin man diva to NOLA's Southern Decadence?  I eagerly anticipated the shocked look on his face when he experienced for the first time the hoards of leather daddies, bears, papaws and twinks alike all coming together (pun intended) to watch naked boys flop their exposed semi-hard cocks around for dolla dolla bills. We didn't make it that far, however, and he had to pull out of the trip.  It was unfortunate, but I understood the circumstances in which he found himself (monetarily and otherwise) was completely different than what it was when I started planning the trip almost five months prior. 

Since I had built it up in my head that I had to take a gay man who had never been to NOLA, I was relieved and very happy that a replacement who fit that description perfectly fell into my lap.  He too was a drama queen in more ways than one with a great, big, huge, bulging, throbbing personality (I love these types, obviously).  Even better, it was one whom with I had callously (albeit unintentionally) dropped the ball on a previous Vegas trip that we were planning.  Unfortunately,  he ended up being unable or unwilling to attend.  I quote my aforementioned friend in saying, "Sometimes the devil just has to step in and steal your joy".  I won't specify what 'the devil' is in this case, but suffice it to say that circumstances that made it rock hard for him to attend.

Now, in the meantime, my long lost girlfriend from the wild west was making her triumphant return to steamy, wet humidity, sweet tea, fried everything, Jesus-loving Alabama.  She was a natural choice to replace those silly boys and the higher level of maintenance required (sorry boys, get your panties out your bootysplits).  AND I AM SO GLAD I DID!  (stay tuned for the follow up blog documenting my trip in more detail)

I really missed the boat by having this prematurely ejaculated notion that I wanted to take a gay boy with me.  I absolutely couldn't have had a better time exploring undiscovered areas away from the French Quarter, eating out every day, holla hollaring at the ladies passing by and listening to some stimulating gypsy music.  It truly was an orgy of the senses.  Now, I don't in any way discount that I would have had a fabulous, gay dick filled extravaganza with either of my boys.  However, I am happy to say I had it all wrong in thinking that taking a gay boy was a necessity.  Afterall, how much Bourbon Street man meat can you take up the ass?

How about let's not multitask in driver's seat

Let's talk about driving.  Actually, perhaps I should say let's talk about being a passenger.  Actually, no.  Hell no, this is not about the passenger.  It's about the driver.  Thing is, I need to flesh out some passenger anxiety (PA) but as soon as I start thinking about it, I realize that this passenger anxiety I have is not always there and is brought on by haphazard, unfocused driving at the hands of whoever has the misfortune of driving me at that time.  When I think of it that way, I think we need to talk about driving.  Aww shucks let's just dive right in. 

I am not sure if this PA is of my own doing.  I know this might be surprising, but I am a bit of a control freak, planner, super organizer and know-it-all.  No one drives as well as I do.  I can't do anything, much less drive, without purpose.  Driving in traffic is an opportunity to build strategy skills.  A puzzle, if you will.  How can I get from point A to point B most efficiently and safely?  This takes mental planning ahead and I shall revisit this later. 

Thing is, I am not a nervous passenger with everyone that drives me.  Some people's driving is just as natural as my own to me and I don't even think about it.  I love it when they drive.  It gives me a much needed break from chauffering and allows me to relax and enjoy the ride.  Unfortunately, these times are few and far between. 

Let's take, for example, my lovely, much adored girlfriend.  (I may be playing with fire here.) To say that she makes me a nervous wreck, crying inside, begging for our destination may very well be an understatement.  Ok, ok.  Maybe that "understatement" was actually an overstatement.  What I am trying to say is that she drives the opposite of me and it is imperative that I learn to be a better passenger and she learns to be a better driver so that I can reconsider that anti-anxiety medication. 

Driving with your knees so that you can take your hair down from a pony, put your hat on, re-pony the hair, check your phone for texts, and then remember that you dont have your seatbelt on so you quickly put that on, turning your head to talk to the passenger, completely ignoring the work time traffic.  No, friends, sadly this list is not compiled from various car trips.  These things were done all in a single sitting, within a 45 second window while driving at about 60 in morning rush hour traffic.  I didn't say anything at first.  When she turned and looked at me, I simply shook my head and she knew instantly why.  I should mention that all the while she was doing this, she was talking about an NPR interview about multitasking and how destructive it can be.  Hmm. 

On another occcasion, my car nearly met with a giant railroad crossing gate right on the top of it.  you see, the red flashing lights and lowering of the crossing gates only meant "keep going" to her.  She really didn't even speed up that much and as we crossed under the gate, barely salvaging the roof of my car, me heart pounded and my blood pressure rose.  I think I blurted out something like, "Oh my god, what the fuck are you DOING?!?" I couldn't help myself.  It was the first cross word ever spoken between us* and I truly felt poorly about it later. 

When we talk about this, she says she gets bored in the car and needs things to do (what?  You're DRIVING...that is DOING SOMETHING!).   She recently mentioned putting a notepad on her dash so she could write shit down and make lists.  Obviously, this is not a good idea for her.  She also said it was like a videogame.  Still waiting on an explanation for that one. 

She is spontaneous, ad-lib, break loose type. The differences in our personalities are reflected in our driving.  So, when she is only half looking at the person in front of us, I am looking intently at the person two cars ahead.  When she is waiting to the last minute to get over to exit, I thought we shoud have been over a 1/2 mile back.  When she is on the phone, and forgets to press the gas and is traveling at 30mph, I am accutely aware of the person going 55mph running our ass over. 

In any case, I am really trying to remember that this woman drove across the country and back without incident.  I am making strides in curbing my PA and seperating the simple differences in driving from those that are potentially unsafe.  I am now fine with her speed, her last minute lane changes and her strange sense of direction.  I keep my comments to myself unless it is a safety issue like nearly rear ending someone on a pretty regular basis, pulling a book out to read, knee driving in general, and all the countless other things OTHER than driving that she may be seen doing from behind the driver's seat. 

Wish me luck that we tailor this situation to our advantage.  Maybe I drive if we are in my car, or if we are in a hurry.  Maybe she is the one that drives when we are having a nice country drive down a rural road.  Perhaps we avoid railroad crossings at all costs.  Maybe I go ahead and fill that Paxil RX.  Maybe she gets pissed at this blog and leaves my ass, who knows? 

Retaliatory blog in 8...7...6...

(* there was that one time regarding the text message break up but I shant speak of that lest I write a blog about it and how insanely discourteous it was)

Voicemails

I HATE 'em!

I hardly ever check them and the only reason I do is to remove that symbol on the toolbar of my phone. 

I don't understand why someone can't just text me.  Why?  Why can't you just text?  If you text and I don't return it, I sure as hell am not going to answer a phone call.  In fact, I am MORE likely to return a text.  On the flip side, if I don't answer, text me!  I MIGHT just be busy and unable to talk on the phone yet still be able to return a text.  Here are some examples of shit I might be doing that would deter me from answering a call, yet would still allow for a return text:

Watching TV

Hanging out with a friend

Working

Cleaning house

Masturbating

In a meeting

Eating

At a loud club

Hiking at the top of a windy cliff

Already talking to someone more interesting

Already talking to someone I HAVE to talk to

Havng sex

Waiting on someone behind a door so I can scare the shit out of them when they come through it

On the toilette

On the elliptibeast

Waiting in line at the DMV

Closing a big money deal

Nude modeling

Listening to music at home

Evacuating the dancefloor

At a concert

Getting a massage

Having my hair did

Going through the security line at the airport

Wearing a helmet

Playing video games

Eavesdropping on the neighbors

Another thing.  And this should not even need to be said.  It...it baffles me that I shoud have to mention this here.  DO NOT TEXT ME AND TELL ME TO CALL YOU.  Seriously, what kind of power trip are you on?  You can pull your phone out and take the time to text those words, which actually required more effort than calling, but you command me to call YOU.  FUCK YOU.   If you text me that, you can pretty much bet that I am NOT going to call you under any circumstances.  If you need to speak to me, just call. 

Now, before you start thinking this is a contradiction just listen.  Call if you need to.  If I don't answer, just try back later or text me your business.  Someone recently texted "Can I call you..are you free?".  This person has it figured out.  If I didn't see the text and didn't return it, she knows I am obviously unavailable.  In this case, I actually did see the text and I replied by simply calling her.  See how easy that is? 

Kisses,

Olive

SMOKERS

I always vowed never to become an asshole non smoker.  You know the type?  They expect everyone to revolve around what THEY want.  The mere sight of another person smoking produces a strained cough and judgemental glare from 20 yards away.  They complain of smoke in bars...BARS even!   I would say "I could go on", but I actually can't go on.  I can't think of another example because slowly I am turning into an asshole non smoker.  What I said I would never do is now, after 10 years of not smoking, unfolding in front of me.  Let's see how I got here.

I started smoking when I was around 13-14 years old.  I used to steal my step father's Winstons in the gold and white pack.  He bought them by the carton and it was never noticed.  My friend Tanya and I used to go to elaborate extremes to hide our revelry.  I remember going behind our wooden privacy fence, hiding from the housekeeper in the hall bathroom with the shower on and the window open, or walking to the bike trail two blocks away.  It was quite the effort just to get some puffs in and not even inhale.  That's right.  I didn't inhale for the first 3-4 months I 'smoked'.  It wasn't until I started smoking weed that I learned to inhale, but I digress.

I LOVED smoking. Smoking was there if you were bored. If you were at a bar waiting on a friend, you could smoke to have something to do. If you ate too much, smoking would settle your stomach. Smoking in the car made the ride that much better. Smoking made the bourbon taste much better. Smoking made the weed high much better. Smoking calmed my nerves when I was nervous or pissed. It was a social outlet. I really loved smoking.

Anyway, roughly 14 years later I truly quit.  Sure, I had 'quit' a few times before; one week here, one month there, another time when I actually went for about a year, etc.  None of those times really stuck because I wasn't quitting because I really wanted to.  I was quitting out of circumstance mostly.  (The longest time was because I started dating this guy who didn't approve but truth be known, I still smoked with my friends when I saw them on rare occasions.  Sorry, Craig.) 

The last time I quit, I have to say it was also partially out of circumstance.  I had wanted to, and had cut down, but until I started dating a non smoker, it had proved to be more difficult than I was willing to power through and I would always end up smoking when I drank.  Once our relationship started, I felt bad smoking.  He had never smoked a cigarette in his life.  I imagined that he would feel as if he were kissing an ashtray.  Once our relationship progressed to the point where we weren't going out to the bar as much, this definitely made things easier. 

As a non smoker for the majority of the last 10 years, I have been incredibly tolerant of smokers.  When the debate raged over laws prohibiting smoking in public places like restaurants in Birmingham, I sided with the smokers and bar/restaurant owners.  I didn't feel that smoking should be prohibited, I felt it should be up to the owner of the business to decide, but that they should be offered incentives to make their establishments non smoking.  I still feel this way. 

I have been so tolerant as to even date smokers and never even mention the Q word to them.  In fact, most recently, I was asked by my girl to toughen up on her to help her quit smoking.  I am happy to oblige and since she asked, I will hold her to this.  Here I go getting off track again, sorry.

My point is that although  I have held steady being Ms. Tolerant of smokers for a near decade now, I am finding it increasingly difficult.  I think it is because you smokers are fucking RUDE. 

Yep.  FUCKING RUDE ASSES.

Exhibit #1-  Recently, I came home from a half day's work still hungover from the night before, feeling nauseated and dying to get into my bed with my damn dog.  I came home and immediately took the full trash out, which put me directly in the line of sight of the back yard.  Now, what did I see?  First of all, there were about 6 Michelob Ultra bottles on the table.  I don't drink MU, and this blog isn't about crappy beer but it's important for the white trash visual that I had.  So, this drives me crazy so I go to the table and begin picking them up.  It was then that I saw the most infuriating sight I had witnessed in some substantial measure of time.  At LEAST 8 cigarette butts thrown carelessly down into the grass next to the patio and maybe 12 INCHES from the container that I had previously set up for the RUDE ASS FUCKING SMOKERS to ash in.  Now, I need to make a concession or I am going to misrepresent myself here.  I KNOW this wasn't my regulars, Derek and Mandy, friend and room mate.  This was a guest in my home who I had just met a few hours prior.  As delightful as she was to be around, doesn't this make it WORSE?  I mean, you are going to go to someones house for the first time and just throw cigarettes down in the freshly cut and trimmed yard?  Does she also wipe boogers on the couch seats?  Or piss on the toilet and leave it there?  I doubt it but for some reason, this is supposed to be ok.  VERDICT- RUDE. 

Exhibit #2-  I go to church most Wednesday nights.  Church, as we call it, is a Mexican Restaurant in Calera where the Italian Margarita is king.  They have a smoking section and a non smoking section.  Of course, most nights we sit in the smoking section (I go with 2 smokers).  I had not ever complained too much about it, but one day I called 'non smoking' faster than you could cough up some smokers phlegm first thing in the morning.  We sat in non smoking and I was delighted that I didn't have to reach over a full ashtray to dip my chips in the salsa.  I didn't miss the visual of chips, salsa, dirty ashtray...just waiting on an ash to fall in that damn salsa.  I was overjoyed that I could breath freely and not have smoke enter my lungs unsolicited.  So, the next time, we sat in smoking and then again in non smoking.  As this became a little more routine, I felt a little competition from my little friend, Derek.  He would start to call smoking by calling Mandy and making sure I knew. He made sure to inch his way in the door before me to make SURE his precious cancer sticks could be burned at any time.  The other night, he mentioned it to me at my house and I said that the last time we went, we sat in smoking so it was our turn to sit in non smoking.  I feel this is a fair compromise.  He does not, apparently because he has informed me that we are sitting in smoking.  I then replied that I wouldn't go and here we are now today.  I wasn't trying to be dramatic, but it's my prerogative if I don't want to give in to an unfair system in favor of the filthy smokers.  That's right.  FILTHY.  VERDICT- RUDE.

Now, there have been other things.  I have recently had a dear friend smoke IN my car without even asking first because he HAD to.  Never mind the fact that we had just been outside and he could have smoked then.  After having parties, I have found half smoked cigarettes INSIDE my house on multiple occasions.   I have also had the displeasure of cleaning up beer bottles and cups with ashes and butts when they were sitting adjacent to an empty trash can. 

The thing is, when you are a smoker, you can't understand these things.  You really don't realize how much the smoke and ashes and butts offend your senses until you have been away from it for a long time.  I never knew how disgusting my habit was until many years later. You really have to take a distance from it to appreciate just how much of a gross habit it really is.  Now, I know there are going to be those who think I am taking it too the extreme.  I know a particular friend of mine who hardly smokes anymore and she doesn't feel this way.  I don't care to hear it from someone who still smokes on the weekends.  You are still a smoker if you only smoke on the weekends and you haven't gotten away from it enough to be turned off by it or you wouldn't still be falling off the wagon on Saturday nights. 

I propose a few simple manners for the smokers:

1.  ASK if you can smoke in someones car.  Seriously.  Did this even need to be mentioned?

2.  ASK if you can smoke outside on the patio of someones home and for fucks sake if you do, please ASK where to ash and throw your wretched butts.

3.  Learn to compromise with your non smoking friends.  OR just don't be friends with them anymore.  Problem solved.  Or quit smoking. 

4.  Open your mind and your legs will follow.  Ok, I just like saying that but seriously, be open to the possibility that you aren't having the same suffocating experience that your non smoking buds are.  You are busy puffing away, polluting the air while we are having to turn our heads to breath.  Do you also piss in the fishbowl? 

Once last thing, I am in NO WAY ranting on about what people do in their own homes.  If I am at someones house and they want to chain smoke away, then so be it.  I have no authority there and I am choosing to be there.  I think all of you should know, I NEVER have complained at other's homes.  The worst I will do is simply empty the ashtray for them and who would be upset about that?  (A full ashtray is a terrible awful pet peeve of mine.  I would have LOVED having me around when I was a smoker)

So there it is smokers.  Come after me like a shark in blood infested waters.  I know I am paddling out alone in this.  I chart this territory in the name of clean air, clean yards, and ash free salsa.  Write a retaliatory blog about it.  I can't wait to see how one would excuse this atrocious behavior.  In the words of Ms. Benetar, hit me with your best shot.  Go smoke a cigarette first, then tell me what you think. 

(for the record- I ain't mad atcha.  I got enough shit I am trying to work on so if I seemed like I was trying to offend, ask yourself if you know me well.)