arrêter de fumer

Yesterday, Billy and I celebrated six months of non-smoking. Just like kicking any bad habit, it feels like a proper milestone to celebrate. It was no small feat for those who know me and my tendency to smoke cigarettes like a gambler plays the slot machine. There was always justification for, "just one more". As if the moments adding up under the swell of cigarette smoke would lead me to a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or summon the next mark of brilliance like famous parisian smokers Jean-Paul Sartre, Coco Chanel or Serge Gainsbourg. It started at the age of sixteen when such grand illusions were set before me. It had been a year of sneaking cigarettes with friends in the suburbs; naively drinking coffee in the stifling smokers section at Denny's, convinced the coffee would somehow mask the stench embedded in our clothes and breath.

I saved up my babysitting money to go on an educational tour of France with my french class. Brimming with excitement, history and culture finally at the tip of my fingers, I had only one thing in mind. I couldn't wait to sit independently at a sidewalk cafe, drink wine and smoke cigarettes among the parisians. I made sure this happened, even if I had to secretly escape from my more amateur company. Unfortunately, my unhealthy conviction started a trend amongst the other teens on the tour bus and it became equally important to translate "How much for the Gouloises" as "Where are the toilets?".

From there, sitting on patios and enjoying the company of friends became an extremely dedicated pastime in my adult life. It must have unleashed my fetish for seeking quaint outdoor patios and/or restaurants with open windows no matter where I landed. I could sniff them out like a bloodhound to a missing person. Ironically, I now live in a city that has a serious lack of patios (with a few magical exceptions). My front porch more than makes up for it, but I am starting to wonder if I will sit on my porch nearly as much as I used to when I was a smoker. Contemplation is a lonely thing without something occupying my idle hands. Soaking up the sun in front of an establishment suddenly looks suspicious without the passive recognition of a smoker doing their thing.

It's possible that the tobacco farming of my great grandparents may have slightly predetermined my addiction. It could have been my childhood memories watching grandpa Grover lean over the kitchen sink in great distinction with his filterless cigarette while looking out the window over his gigantic garden. Or maybe it was catching Mom alone with an occasional lit one in the middle of the night on the front stoop coupled with a bourbon and seven when she couldn't sleep. Hypocritically, when too young to fully understand the whole concept of smoking, I once hid the Merits from my "bio-dad" and asked him what kind of flowers he wanted at his funeral.

Whatever it was, we are now happy to be considered non-smokers. Billy prefers that it's forever and claims I should go a year before ever putting one to my lips again. But, if I find myself in Europe again, please don't judge me if I ceremoniously light one up as if saying hello to an old friend.

In honor of the movie size memories I have of my smoking days and the paradoxical comfort, camaraderie and romanticism I still associate with it, I will leave you with this:

click photo

This photo was taken in Paris 5 years ago. In the distance, there was a clear view of the Eiffel tower and at night, it sparkled like diamonds dripping from the ears of Marilyn Monroe. The morning of the photo, I was ill from food poisoning (which has ironically happened every time I've been in Paris) that kept me from sightseeing for 2 days. I drank tea in the comfort of a friends apartment, watching Paris from the 6th floor flat in the 11th Arrondissement.

the tip of the inspiration iceberg

The endless catalog file of information to be found online, big enough to sink the titanic, and swallow my delicate motivation to get up and make my own stuff!  Mostly things from the UK, not coincidental to commemorate the 10 year mark of my return home from living in London.  A few days ago, I bid adieu to my neighbor Patrick who is going on his first trip to Europe on a self proclaimed mission to see ART.  I had a short list of things for him not to miss in London, Paris and Amsterdam. It made me extremely nostalgic for my time in all of those cities.  I was amazed at my ability to give him directions from memory and made me realize that I still know the city of London like the back of my hand.  I can only hope that he will be able to stop and feel the rush not from running from one tube stop to the next, but from the quiet and amazing warmth one gets while sitting amongst strangers in a foreign city and feeling not like a stranger at all. 


Here are a few things I'm in love with today (click on image to find more info):

photo via Fine Little Day

photo via Found now Home

The stunning Chihuly in the  V & A Museum.  It was my favorite place to visit on my days off from the Tate Gallery (when it was the only Tate in London).  I was there during the installation of the Chihuly piece and when Tate Modern was being built!

Listening to this while working today.

The Epic Breakfast

We welcomed Opal to "our" world last weekend!  "To all my good friends!" was a quote we used to scream to each other in smoky bars, emulating Henry Chinaski's whiskey soaked voice before we guzzled whatever bad beer we could afford to drink that night.  Today, we gathered in daylight and maybe snuck a sip of really good beer to celebrate family, of the friendship kind.

Please, Please, Please

It's never too late,
you're never too old,
you're never too sick,
to start again from scratch.

Bishnu Ghosh

I admit, I was a little nervous going to my yoga class at the gym. I signed up as a present to myself for quitting smoking (going on six months now, cold turkey, no sneaks!) My lungs are completely happy with me and congratulate me daily. My hips, not so much. They've been shaking their warning finger at me for a few months now, though I chose adamantly to ignore it. When I saw a picture of myself on the internet that I didn't recognize at all, that fervently shaking finger turned into "I told you so!" And just like the breath of fresh air March had blown into my house, I felt it just as strong in my body. I've been active ever since. Now, I had seen the girl who lead the yoga class and I judged her obviously fake tan and bleach blonde hair and instantly decided that wasn't the kind of situation I wanted any part of. I have been to proper bikram yoga in very inspiring atmospheres and have gotten used to the slow and stretching pace I practice at my house. I know myself well enough that with my newfound enthusiasm I was going to need a little more accountability to keep motivated. I sucked it up, grabbed my yoga mat and made my place within the class, in the back row, of course. My first class, she turned on the stereo and played a Michael Jackson mix. Doing yoga to Michael Jackson made me want to turn my downward dog a little dirty. My body was confused. I wanted desperately to hold my pose, but my hips intrinsically wanted to bounce around the room like Beyonce. As I held my airplane for a full minute, I reminisced about the days I thought I was going to grow up, move to NYC and dance in a studio like on the show "Fame". I loved their outfits and ability to seem weightless and I coveted the girls strong, sleek bodies. With the introduction of In Living Color, I wanted to be a "fly girl". While I secretly worked out to New Kids on the Block videos, learned every lyric to En Vogue songs, blasted Slick Rick on the stereo with my brother, I was wearing Poison and Guns N Roses t-shirts and head-banging to Black Sabbath at my 8th grade dance. Ever the contradiction. I was unstoppable, the DJ couldn't stump me. I knew every lyric and every dance move, no matter what the genre, and usually could sense what song was going to play before everybody else. Oh, middle school.


I secretly hoped that the world would follow Sir-Mix-Alot's taste in women, then I wouldn't have to worry so much about the Size 2 I was never going to see in my lifetime. At least the public's love affair with J.Lo's derrière has helped me feel more comfortable in my adulthood with my most obvious "asset".


So, my judging of the yogi at the gym may have been superficial and uncalled for; she has more than enough ammo to judge me as I try to keep up with what I am calling her "boot camp bikram" yoga class. In the long run, I think I will be thanking her for the transformation I already feel and for awakening muscles in my body I never knew existed. Who knows. Maybe there is still hope for me as a back up dancer. Although MJ taught me not to stop until I get enough, after watching the T.A.M.I show last night, dancing behind James Brown when he was on the mic, would always keep me coming back for more.

Old habits die hard

Spring has sprung and that means... Home moves!


Oh, the tid bits and sprinkles of memories that make you realize why you do certain things. I can still hear the record player in our split level house wailing Patsy Cline as Mom opened up the windows and declared "Spring Cleaning!" at the first hint of Spring. With a few grunts and a slow saunter to the cleaning supplies, eventually the dust wand became our make shift microphone and my 11 year old little heart could already understand Patsy's pain when she was "Walking after Midnight". Then with a quick flip of a record, we would slip into gypsy dancing to Fleetwood Mac and all troubles seemed to melt away. In the spirit of all the delightful things that happen when you rearrange the furniture and whisk away the subtle pile of dust from the winter...I will share the light with you and hope to inspire you to welcome the sun and air out the weightiness of winter. Don't forget to turn on some music and sing while you do it...

The B.F.G

I am starting to REALLY believe that Roald Dahl may have been MY grandfather in some parallel universe.  I've always been partial to the friendly giants (pretty sure I even dated one once) and although I love the fruit, I still can't help but to contemplate the infinite world contained within a normal sized peach before biting into it. When I was a child, I was certain I was going to be a writer.  At my young age, inspiration mostly came from a few childhood heroes such as Shel Silverstein (I was sure to be eaten at any moment by a Boa Constrictor), Madeline L'Engle (A Wrinkle in Time changed my life at age ten...I couldn't look at a piece of string the same ever again).  Not to mention a slew of others...


But of course, there was always the wonderful Mr. Dahl who took me on wild adventures and allowed me to make sense of what was happening in my world in a way that was fantastical but completely believable.


It came as no surprise when a few years ago, I cracked open a whimsically illustrated and wistfully written book by his granddaughter, Sophie Dahl. OF COURSE my beloved childhood author had offspring!  And OF COURSE she was creating interesting things that I love!  I have to admit, though, I was only a dial tone away from asking her personally, "What did it feel like when you tiptoed around in my head?  Did you sneak in while I was sleeping?"  I felt comforted by the words of another that felt so kindred in spirit, then instantly chalked her up to the Sophia Coppola's of the world.  I was simultaneously inspired and discouraged. I came to the defeating conclusion that the only way to get anywhere in this world is to have a last name rich in the industry and deep in artistic accolades. (p.s. since then, this has been a wavering declaration...)


I kept her book under the glass on my coffee table as a reminder that, although I went to school for art... my heart still beat loudly for words and maybe someday my love for writing and oodles of doodles and ramblings COULD turn into something SOMEDAY.  She would make a few visits in my world every once and awhile.   I remember seeing her a few times in magazines as a very ghastly version of herself and I began to turn a blind eye as I watched her ease down the slippery slope of self image as imposed by the magazine and fashion industry.  My heart sank.  I saw a gorgeous, strong, talented woman too slender for her own frame and anyone's aspiring good.  I wanted to use the same fictional phone I was going to use before, but this time,  I wanted to order her a juicy steak and some garlic mashed potatoes and meet her at a table in the woods with a canopy of twinkle lights and reminisce about our childhood as if she were my own long lost sister.  Alas, no phone call was made and I forgot about my empathy for a stranger just as quickly as the imaginary dial tone ended.


Until a few days ago, when I came across a freshly heroic version of Sophie Dahl.  She has written a new book called,


Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights: Recipes for Every Season, Mood, and Appetite

Hurrah, Miss Dahl! Even the title had me AND my belly doing backflips for joy! I could already imagine how wonderful this gem of a book would be. I was silently gleaming with motherly pride at the delectable outcome of the assumedly arduous journey that had lead her to it.  I ordered it immediately.


 Today, Billy brought the unopened Amazon box with him as he picked me up from my two day visit with mom and grandma Pheba.  With his own excitement, he helped me open the box in the car before we pulled away and I quickly devoured what words I could. I instantly giggled at the uncanny resemblance of our past and the close proximity it was to my recent visit with family that always stirs up interesting memories.  She spoke of her chubby childhood and how her grandmother couldn't understand why she wanted to become a vegetarian in her adolescence.  Billy watched me from the drivers seat with his usual curiosity, wondering what it could be that I had ordered this time.  Before I could share a few words of what it was or why... he looked at the cover, brought it closer to him to see better and laughed as he said, "Is that you?".


I looked at him in utter disbelief as I sometimes do when I forget just how much he gets me, and how often he doesn't know the profundity of his own words. I rested the book in my lap and he grabbed my now empty hand as if to officially say, "Hi baby. I missed you.  Welcome home."  And never have I felt so much so.