I'm Just Sayin'

A friend of a Facebook friend, obviously a small business owner, recently lamented the rampant use of debit cards by customers. Don’t they realize, she wondered, that merchants have to pay a processing fee on debit card purchases, usually a percentage of sales? Don’t consumers realize the stated price is usually a cash price, she asked, and not a debit or credit card price?

Well, yes and no, Ms. Biz Owner. Yes, I did know that retail outlets pay for the privilege of providing this huge convenience to buyers. In America, we call that overhead. It’s the cost of doing business, along with rent, utilities, advertising and inventory. And no, I was not aware that advertised prices are meant for cash only purchases. I thought a price was a price was a price.

Don’t get me wrong, I am sensitive to the struggles of small businesses in this economy. But I am struggling too. And that means I am spending less (in theory anyway). So the business that provides the highest quality goods or services, at the best price, and meets my needs for convenience, is going to get my meager dollars. Nine times out of ten, I buy local. I go out of my way to do so. I shop the local farmer’s market, and I get up early to do so! I haunt consignment stores for household goods, frequent a local second-hand bookseller, and eat in locally-owned restaurants. And I use my debit card almost exclusively.

I am so devoted to the use of my debit card, that I recently drove off from a gas pump (without fueling) when the card reader was out of service. (I neglected to replace the gas cap or close the fuel tank access door, which prompted lots of honking and waving from fellow motorists, but I kind of got off on the attention.) I am just not interested in walking into the service station, standing in line, resisting the Peppermint Patty or Bit O Honey that is screaming my name, to pay for my gas. Call me lazy. Call me stubborn. But if you want to call me your customer, provide me the opportunity to pay at the pump.

I rarely carry cash. Several years ago, an acquaintance was mugged in the parking lot of the grocery store in broad daylight, had her purse wrenched from her arm and was knocked to the ground, breaking her wrist. Police told her someone in the store probably watched her pay cash and noticed that she had some leftover. Another friend once had her cash-filled wallet stolen from her desk drawer. She was able to prevent charges against her credit and debit cards, but the cash was long gone. So, sorry, Ms. Biz Owner, when I weigh your overhead with my personal safety and wellbeing, I’m choosing me. If you support me by providing the convenience, I’ll support you by buying your stuff. I’m just sayin’ …

Promise you won’t report me to PETA or the ASPCA for this.

I’m having a hard time with fleas this summer. In a household with three cats, fleas can spread faster than a head cold at preschool. I’ve used the Front Line religiously, but the little blood suckers just keep hopping up. So I bought some flea spray, and for the past few weeks, I’ve been torturing my girls by spritzing them liberally every chance I get.

Yeah, they’re really happy about that.

Fannie, the one who looks like she swallowed a football, now lives in the basement almost fulltime to avoid me. Sophie, who would spend her entire life draped around my neck if I let her, now prefers to admire me from afar. And Chloe, the calico, well, she’s taken a more passive/aggressive approach.

I got a hold of Chloe earlier today and gave her a good soaking with the Hartz Ultra Guard. Or so I thought. She retreated to the bedroom to regain her normal obsessively well-groomed appearance. So, evening rolls around and I am lying on the couch watching the Cardinals beat up on the Reds. Chloe sees her chance for revenge, and decides to place herself between me and the television, rubbing her entire body along my face.

That’s when I noticed how good she smells … like … laundry detergent!? OMG! I sprayed my cat with OxyClean Max Force Laundry Stain Remover! In my own defense, both products come in blue spray bottles of a similar shape. And I store them both in the laundry room. So it was only natural, right? Anybody would have done it, right?

Of course I immediately checked the label on the OxyClean. I doesn’t actually say it is a hazard to pets. It just says to keep it out of their reach. I don’t think Chloe will be reaching for a blue spray bottle any time soon, let me tell you. The label does indicate that it can be an eye and skin irritant, so I grabbed the poor cat again and rubbed her down with a wet towel. I have to say she did suds up a little bit before she managed to escape … leaving a few scratch marks in her wake.

I’ve been watching her closely for a couple of hours, looking for signs of illness. She’s watching me, too, from her perch on top of the TV hutch. She’s cussing me with her eyes. If you’ve ever had a cat cuss you with its eyes, you know how scary that can be.

But she seems ok physically. I’ll keep an eye on her and try to rub her down again, if she lets me anywhere near. And I’ve already relocated the flea spray to the bathroom cabinet. Don’t worry, the bathroom cleaner is in a white spray bottle. Whew … scrubbing bubbles on a cat’s coat might have sent us both over the edge.

And, at the risk of sounding insensitive, I just have to report this: OxyClean spray is highly effective in removing various laundry stains. It will not, apparently, remove spots from a calico cat. I’m just sayin.

Right around this time last year, I was headed out to Missouri to check on my sister Rhoda, who was fighting metastatic breast cancer, and had just been hospitalized. Little did I realize that I was headed to her death bed, or that I had already had the last conversation I would ever have with her. I have written before how I spent this last week of her life with Rhoda, but will never know if she knew I was there. Her cancer had spread to her brain, and caused her liver to shut down. She was a shell of herself. Her body was barely recognizable, wrecked by chemotherapy -- devoid of hair, muscles and skin slack from malnutrition. Her spirit, normally boisterous, was not in evidence. No husky chortle, not smart ass remarks, no baudy humor.

For a week I begged her to talk to me. Tell me a joke. Give me an order. Just say my name. Smile. Laugh at my stupid jokes. Tell me to shut the hell up. But she didn’t do any of that. She couldn’t – or wouldn’t. Basically, she had nothing left to give.

Toward the end, when we knew it WAS the end, we started calling people. The family rallied, driving in from across Missouri, as well as Alabama, North Carolina, and Texas. And friends arrived. One cleaned out her checking account to buy enough gas to get there from Houston. Two others bought costly last-minute flights from Dallas. Another gave up a badly-needed work assignment and drove in from Tennessee. High school friends streamed in.

I’m not sure what everyone expected. Did they hope for conversation? Or recognition? If so, they must have been devastated. Still, they sat with her, sang to her, read to her, applied moisturizer to her parched skin, rubbed her back and held her hand. They brought flowers and cards, aromatherapy aides, silk butterflies and prayer cards and other talismans. Cousin Larry went to the beauty supply store in search of formaldehyde-free nail polish in the perfect shade of pink so she would die with pretty toes! (I am still unclear if they talked him into the frequent buyer discount card.) All of these people dropped everything just to be with her one more time.

At the time, I was touched. Hell, I was blown away, but I couldn’t have said why. Amidst my haze of emotional exhaustion, I could not have identified exactly what I felt about that bedside vigil. A year later, it’s all a little more clear. I felt wonder, and uncertainty. And now, commitment and resolve.

How wondrous that my sister inspired so much love and devotion, such friendship and generosity! How uncertain about the state of my own life, and loves and friendships. Who would be there at my bedside? What would they bring, and what would they say to me, and how would they feel? In the course of a year, I’ve thought about those questions, and I have a pretty good picture. I know who will be there and what they might bring (pie, baseball memorabilia, wine, stuffed animals, music by James Taylor and Janis Joplin, lavender candles and yellow roses). I think they will tell me stories about the good times, and laugh through their tears, and remember what a pain in the ass I could be. More than one of them will probably say, “Yeah, she really did say that out loud.” Maybe they’ll remember a meal I cooked, or how they helped me move, or beat me in Scrabble, spades, darts or kick-the-can.

Yeah, I know who you are. And I’m grateful. I resolve to be a better friend, or sister, or aunt or cousin or whatever. I’m committed to using my time and talents and energies to pay it forward, serving those who have been here for me through thick and thin (I know, I know, I have never been thin). When you stop to compose that list of who will be there in the end, you get some perspective. Maybe I can forgive the stranger who cut me off in traffic or threw a cigarette butt out of their car window, or even my dumb ass ex-husband, or the stupid bitch who “eliminated my position” at work. Ok, maybe not. But at least I can spend less energy hating them. Maybe I can channel that emotion into affirming what my sister Rhoda taught me, from her death bed, when she couldn’t even say my name. She taught me one more lesson about life and love. She taught me to choose joy and positive abundance. I’m just sayin …

I haven’t blogged recently. I’ve thought about it several times, but my new job seems to suck every ounce of energy from my body. Or maybe it’s getting up and out in the mornings after 14 months of coffee with Regis & Kelly. You know, they’ll probably call me for the Spring Fling a Go-Go Wake Up Call Super Travel Trivia game, now that I am not home to know the answers! There goes my trip to Turks and Caicos …

But it’s ok, because I am off to the beach in a few days. Yep, it’s a reprise of the girl’s weekend to Asheville in December (a previous blog topic, see the Hannah Montana post). Thelma and Louise are already there, the be-otches. Cagney and Lacey are on the way. I’m dragging in last, because I have a new job, and don’t have any effin’ vacation time yet. (Another reference to the earlier post. You might as well go back and review it now, because this isn’t going to stop anytime soon. Go ahead. We’ll wait.)

da da da da da da da da da da da DA da da da da da da da da da da DA DA DA DA DA DA DA da da

That’s the Jeopardy music in case you didn’t recognize it.

Ok, everybody back? Let’s continue …

So, it’s time for Girls Gone Wild, The Menopause Edition … and the menu includes guacamole, shrimp fajitas, strawberry margaritas, chocolate martinis and wine … and probably some effin’ pie. (You did go back and review that post, right?) Our mission is to get drunk and name Thelma’s new boat. Yes, Thelma bought a boat. She might be test-driving it right now. It has a kitchen and sleeping quarters, and she’s putting it on Lake James, near Asheville. The marina is very near Lake James Winery, which coincidentally has a very nice Cabernet Franc that you can only buy onsite. Oh, it’s going to be a sweet, sweet summer!

So, in support of our drunken boat naming mission, I bought us a party game. It’s a pair of St. Patty’s Party Time Dice. One dye (or is it die? okay .. we’ll call it a cube) has such options as:
• Drink a shot
• Drink two beers
• Drink your choice
• Belch

And the other cube has things like:
• While dancing
• As fast as you can
• While snapping your fingers
• On one leg

Sounds fun, huh? I’m pretty sure we’ve already seen Lacey drink a shot AND two beers while dancing on one leg.

I found these … cubes … at Big Lots, where they also have …. wait for it … here it comes … PEEPS! (Yet another reference to a previous post. If you need to go back and review, you’ll have to do that on your own time. It’s nice outside and I’m wasting daylight here.)

It’s Springtime, so these are the original pastel chicks and bunnies. I did not see the abomination that was reported to me by my favorite cousin, Sandy. (Not only is Sandy wise and funny and beautiful, she is also my only regular reader, as far as I know. So she is my Favorite Cousin Forever, even though cousin Jerry Lee called me “Little One” at Thanksgiving. Thanks, Jerry Lee! Love you, Sandy!) Anyway, cousin Sandy reported to me that she had seen chocolate covered Peeps! What a waste of chocolate! Peeps people, you should be ashamed! Getting a little uppity, aren’t you?

But I did see something even more ridiculous … Peeps wannabes …. some cheap knock off brand. Really? Is this necessary? If you are someone who actually eats Peeps, you might be offended at the thought that any copycat candy maker would try to match the oooey gooey sweet sliminess of your beloved sugar coma- inducing tasty treats. Me? I just find it sad that any candy character is so low on the snack food chain that is aspires to the level of the worst food ever created. I’m just sayin …

“Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO- HOO what a ride!"

This is my favorite motto right now. I’ve seen it several places, attributed to everyone from a female kayaker in California to Maxine, the grouchy but loveable greeting card maven. Most recently, I saw it on the wall of my friend’s guest room. I had forgotten that we found the plaque in a shop on the Outer Banks of NC, during what began as the beach trip from hell. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say my friend and I fled a smelly, bug-infested DisComfort Inn for a much nicer (and cheaper) hotel a mile down the beach, with a salt-water pool and an outdoor bar with actual wait staff. Talk about skidding in sideways – we salvaged that vacation by the hair of our chinny-chinny-chins.

Speaking of hairy chins, I think I like this quote because it reminds me of my sister, Rhoda. She was five years older than me, and had survived menopause, hence the hairy chin comment. I said “was” because she passed away last May. And before you go all hater on me for talking about my dead sister’s hairy chin, let me assure you that Rhoda would have appreciated that humor, and I think she might have admired the segue.

Rhoda died at the age of 54 from metastatic breast cancer. I was there when she drew her last breath. I’d been there for nine days watching her sleep, trying to feed her Jell-O and chocolate pudding, putting moisturizer on her back, and balm on her lips. Her cancer had spread to her brain, and her kidneys were shutting down. She was a shell of the person I had known. Her most recent round of chemo had claimed every strand of hair on her body. No eye lashes, no eyebrows, no whiskers on her chin. And her glorious mane of once-blond-but-lately-red hair – all gone. She’d been weak and nauseous for months, and her skin sagged. She had no muscle tone to speak of. Her skin was splotchy and her beautiful gray-blue eyes were mostly dull slate.

I talked to her a lot those nine days, and tried to convince her to talk back. If you knew Rhoda, you’d be amazed that anyone had to encourage her to talk. I don’t know if the brain tumor had affected her verbal ability, or if she was just too weak and tired. But she never did say my name. It was kind of like she was already gone.

But she was there, and she had some great medical care. There was a hot male nurse named Doug who checked her vitals and brought her meds. And a male physical therapist who picked her up in a big bear hug every day, trying to get her to stand or walk a few steps. If Rhoda had been all there, those guys never would have known what hit them. They’d still be talking about it. For the first few days, there was a nurse’s aide named Rhonda. We laughed because for her whole life, Rhoda had been called Rhonda, and the aide said she had been called Rhoda a lot.

It made me sad realizing those people did not know who they were dealing with. I regretted that I did not have a picture of Rhoda so I could illustrate who she was, who she had been. As hard as I tried, I would never be able to do her justice with my words. But I told a few of them some stories so they’d understand. I told them how I used to spy on her meetings of the Monkees fan club, whose members wore paper dresses and white ankle boots and danced the pony to “I’m a Believer.” I told them how she came to visit me in my co-ed college dorm, and within an hour was sitting on the lap of a guy from upstairs, sharing a bottle of Southern Comfort with another. I told them how she had this vast knowledge of popular music, and how I used to call her for help when I played Trivial Pursuit.

There was lots of stories I didn’t tell them, like how she taught me to roll my hair on orange juice cans for big, bouncy curls, or how she bought me my first box of tampons because mom thought only sanitary napkins were suitable for young girls. I didn’t explain her fixation with babies, or the fact that she saved a woman’s life not long ago. I didn’t tell them that she married the same man twice. Or that she had a medium who put her in touch with dead relatives and friends.

How impossible to capture Rhoda in words! She was irrepressible. Mischievous. Controlling. Stubborn. Whack-o-into-psychobabble. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. And loving. She really loved life. And she really lived.

I am coming to terms with the Rhoda that was in that hospital bed. I’m disappointed that she didn’t speak to me for those nine days, but I understand. I know that cancer might have claimed her hair and weakened her body, but it didn’t get the best of her. She had already lived the best of her, and lived it well. She did not leave much in the locker room, so to speak. I’m positive that she lay there in that bed, silently planning her last hurrah. Saving up for the finale, when she no doubt skidded into heaven sideways, chortling in her husky voice, “Hot damn! What a ride.”

In Rhoda’s case, she probably had a margarita in one hand and a Red Lobster garlic cheese biscuit in the other. I’m just sayin.

Hannah Montana Mauled by Big Cat

Ok, that’s not exactly true. It was a Hannah Montana doll. She was not so much mauled, but just dragged through the house. And the big cat was one of my pets. Let me explain.

I could lie and promise to make a long story short, but I’ve already sunk to sensationalism and admitted to owning a Hannah Montana doll. How low do you want me to go? So settle in. This is going to take some time. It’s January. You’re broke, tv sucks, and it’s cold outside. You might as well stick it out with me here.

It all started with a girl’s weekend in Asheville, NC, in early December. I promised to change the names to protect the innocent, so we’ll call the participants Thelma, Louise, Betty, Cagney and Lacey. I’ll be Betty. Thelma and Louise got a one-day head start, and the festivities began. By the time I arrived a day later, they were, let’s say, very relaxed … giddy with relaxation already. Typically on these weekends, we take in a show or two, eat too much, drink too much, sit in a hot tub, and laugh our butts off at really silly and inane things that you later file under “you had to be there.” This could possibly be one of those you-had-to-be-there stories. Just sayin’ …

Anyway, a day or two prior to my arrival, the national media reported that a woman was upset because her daughter’s Hannah Montana singing holiday doll was apparently dropping the f-bomb. Yep, her little angel was dancing around the house singing “Rockin Around the Christmas Tree,” a la Miley Cyrus (but hopefully with actual talent). Feel free to sing along here:

Rockin around the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday.
Everyone dancin’ merrily in the new old-fashioned way.
Rockin around the Christmas tree, let the Christmas spirit ring.
Later we’ll have some effin’ pie and do some caroling …

Wait, did she say pumpkin pie, or something that sounds like pumpkin, but begins with an f and gets your mouth washed out with soap when you’re six?

For some reason, this story captivated me. I mean, does this mom actually think her daughter picked up the f word from hearing Hannah Montana sing it? I think not. Kid must have heard the word somewhere before, mom. So I posted a link on my Facebook page, and suggested that perhaps mom could have bought the kid a book instead. And I arrived in Asheville still marveling over this national news nugget. And like a dog with a bone -- or five women with wine, lemon drop martinis and beer -- we seized upon it. The effin’ pie became a theme for the weekend.

What’s for breakfast? Effin’ pie. This martini is better than an effin’ pie. It’s colder than an effin’ pie outside. Thelma, you’re getting skinny. Need some effin’ pie? You get the picture. Guess you had to be there. (Don’t say you weren’t warned.)

Fast forward: exchanging Christmas gifts a few weeks later. Guess what Thelma bought me? No, not an effin’ pie. Pay attention! The Hannah Montana singing holiday doll! Apparently it was impossible to find locally, and she had to order it off the internet. Now that’s friendship for you.

She’s resplendent. The doll, not Thelma. Ok, sorry, Thelma, you are also resplendent, especially in your new size six jeans (I mean, EFFIN SIZE SIX). Hannah is indeed a glorious specimen, especially if you are a little girl who just can’t wait for puberty so you can grow into some really slutty-looking clothes. She is wearing bejeweled pleather pants and a red sequined sleeveless v-neck top. A silver belt with rhinestone buckle is slung around her hips, and it coordinates with the silver sparkly stilettos. She has dangly diamond earrings (really, they are shaped like diamonds, so for a six-year-old, they are diamond earrings), a red ruby necklace and matching bracelet. But, oh, her crowning glory is her maxi coat. It is white faux suede, with white faux fur collar, cuffs and hem, silver embroidery on the sleeves, silver piping up the front, rhinestones on the lapels, and silver ribbons at the wrists. Liberace would have loved it. Elvis would have wept.

Hannah came with a plastic keepsake ornament and a plastic stand that she straddles to remain upright. Really, you can’t expect her to hold up that coat on those teeny little stiletto heels. Let me just assert something: I would cuss too if I had to straddle a plastic pole longer than my legs! Course, I would cuss if I had to wear a ruby necklace, ruby bracelet, diamond earrings, a rhinestone belt and bejeweled jeans all at the same time. And those shoes! I don’t even know words bad enough for anyone who made me wear them.

Since this story is already waaaaaay too drawn out, I might as well digress here and let you know that, in order to activate the merriment, you have to pull down her pleather pants to access the on/off switch, located roughly were you might expect to find a tramp stamp. Praise Jesus that Hannah Montana does not sport a tattoo! She does, however, favor white bikini panties. Really, they are painted on. I know, TMI … just sayin’ …

And then you press a button near her navel to make her sing. Really, I am not making this up. Thankfully, you can press the button again to make her shut up.

Thelma and I gave it a listen. My brother stopped by, and he gave it a listen. (He seemed really confused about why a woman my age would have such a thing, and then he beat a hasty retreat.) We all agreed: given the singer’s nasally delivery, and the technical limitations of a dime-sized speaker embedded in a doll’s tummy, you could mistake “pumpkin” for something else, especially if you had heard that something else once or twice before.

Fast forward again: I am putting away the Christmas decorations and decide it is time for Hannah to relocate her resplendency to my bedroom, on top of my armoire, alongside Elmo, Woody from Toy Story, my Ozzie Smith Cabbage Patch doll, and a couple of Joe Crede White Sox bobbleheads. (Sorry, cousin Joe, but I happen to think you’re in good company up there. With Hannah’s arrival, it could turn into a real party. She is dressed for it, but remember, she’s 16 effin’ years old.) To ease her transition, I let her rest a while on the steps. (Yeah, I was too effin’ lazy to make one more trip up the effin’ stairs, ok?) I decided she might as well stay there overnight, because on my final trip of the day, my hands were full of my night-time necessities – ice water, cell phone, book, effin' glasses, maybe piece of chocolate).

I must have slept soundly. I didn’t hear the attack ensue. All I know is, when I got up this morning, poor Hannah was in the living room, her belt was in the dining room, and one shoe was in the kitchen. I’m not sure which cat it was. I know that Chloe does not like country music. Fannie has no tolerance for anything that usurps my attention. Sophie looks good in silver, so maybe she wanted the accessories. Maybe they all worked together to teach the teen-age tart a thing or two. Kind of like an episode of “What Not to Wear.” Feline Fashionistas … only on Bravo … watch what happens …

Whatever, Hannah survived. Still has a full head of hair, her magnificent maxi coat, and a smile on her face. I guess she enjoyed getting off that effin’ display stand for the night. I’m just sayin.

Today is the first day of smoke-free bars and restaurants in North Carolina. Finally! Those of you outside tobacco road probably don’t realize how major this is. I live in tobacco town, Winston-Salem. Yes, the town that Reynolds built. To be clear, the cigarettes were named after the town, not vice versa. The town (originally two towns, hence the hyphen) was here long before R.J. Reynolds moved from his daddy’s tobacco farm in Virginia. But make no mistake, everything here has ties to the golden leaf.

You can’t flick a cigarette butt in town without hitting something built by, funded through, or named for something or somebody associated with tobacco. It was tobacco money that brought Wake Forest University to town. Deacon fan or not, you have to admit this town would not be the same without its ACC school. And certainly RJR has contributed to development funds for every college and university in town. Charitable trusts created by the Reynolds family and other executives of RJR Tobacco sustain our arts and cultural organizations. The names are everywhere: Reynolda Road, Smith Reynolds Airport, Bowman Gray Stadium.

Yes, tobacco has been good for North Carolina in general, and for Winston-Salem in particular. But our financial dependence has compromised our health for long enough. Now we clear the air.

I used to smoke. I started in high school because it was cool. (Literally it was Kool, then Salem, then Virginia Slims, and finally Marlboro Lights.) I quit on Martin Luther King Day, 1995, because it was making me sick. (The habit was making me sick, not the holiday. That just happened to be the day I emptied my carton). So, in my typical fashion of making everything all about me, I’ve decided this smoking ban is NC’s gift to me, on my 15th anniversary of being smoke-free. Thanks, NC. Thank you very much.

I also used to spend more time in bars. I was never really a bar fly. No one ever called my name when I came in the door. I never reached the level of patronage where I could slide onto a stool and order “the usual.” But I was there, drinking cold beer, ordering shots, watching sports, throwing darts, listening to music. Then I quit smoking, and I couldn’t tolerate the smoky bars anymore. To be honest, I also got married, bought a house, got a promotion, and started working really insane hours. There were time and financial constraints, but smoke was the major reason I slid off my bar stool.

I still go to bars. I compete in a dart league, and we throw darts in bars. Mine might be the only completely smoke-free team in the league, and we grumble about the poor air quality. But I guess we love darts more than we hate smoke, because we keep showing up in smoky bars every Sunday. I had to give up darts for awhile after I quit smoking, and it wasn’t just because the bars were smoky. I also couldn’t throw straight without a lit cigarette waiting on the table behind me. But eventually I came back. Now I wonder how the new law will affect the smokers in our league. I wonder if it will alter their abilities as it once altered mine. If so, maybe there are more trophies in store for me and my team. (Again, making it all about me and mine. I probably just forfeited any chance of every getting another sportsperson award.)

A few months ago, I talked to a local bar owner about the pending ban on smoking, and he was worried. You could look around the place and understand why. Every bar stool was occupied, and I was the only one not smoking. The bartender was spending almost as much time cleaning ashtrays as she was mixing drinks. This is a place with regulars, where the regulars order “the usual” and the regulars smoke. A lot. The owner feared that his regulars, those who help him meet payroll and pay the mortgage, would abandon him. They can sit at home and drink, and smoke at the same time. Would their desire to light up supersede the need for what they find at his bar? I think not, and I told him so. Told him my story. He said, “Yeah but you don’t drink enough to keep me in business.”

So, I have a challenge for my friends in Winston-Salem, and throughout North Carolina. Go to a bar this month. Park your butt on a bar stool and order a drink. Maybe two. Call a cab if you need to. Breathe the air. Smell the coffee, the beer, the cheap cologne of the guy next to you. Notice how clearly you can see the television, now that it’s not obscured by a cloud of smoke. If you’re sitting next to a smoker (you’ll know because they’ll be grouchy, fidgety, or eating lots of peanuts) show them some encouragement. Hell, go ahead and buy them a drink. Show the bar owners that non-smokers are a viable economic force. Keep our bars in business. Do it for the love of cold beer. Do it for the economy. Do it for me, in honor of my 15th anniversary of being smoke free. Again, it’s all about me. I’m just sayin.