memories, migraines, and dead meat in your bed

One of the memories I have of my Gramma is of her sitting on the "Davenport" -feet apart, elbows on her knees, bent over leaning in to listen to Vince Sculley on the radio or on t.v. as he commented on the Dodgers. "Hot Damn!" she would exclaim as she slapped her knee when she saw or heard a great play by "one of the boys." Listening to the play by play meant it was time to clean something special. She had a chrome cigarette lighter that resembled the Chrysler Building, or maybe the Empire State Building, I don't know, I was 4, at the time it's what I thought they might look like.

The lighter was heavy for it's size, about 4 inches tall, rectangular, and at the base 3 or 4 'steps', the tall mid section and then, again 3 or 4 more 'steps' to meet the cap that had spring loaded hinges that snapped open and closed. Inside was the magical little wheel that she would spin with her thumb, a tiny mechanism with grooves around its' edge for friction, spin it just right and it would ignite the same flame, blue and yellow, that was on the tin of Ronsonol.

I would watch as she would load the minuscule tabs of red flint into the cartridge and soak the felted lining with bright chemical smelling lighter fluid. Anyone who touched it would leave dull gray fingerprints smudged on the shiny chrome. Gramma would methodically and almost ritualistically wipe the chrome down with fresh Kleenex as she listened to Vince talk the Dodgers into a victory.

She would stop to smoke, and I can remember how she would blow the smoke high into the air through her wrinkled and pursed lips. The smoke would shoot almost straight up, then begin to curl and dissipate, the gray soft curls of her hair a faint reminder of the 'magic' she just blew away.

Grampa also smoked, a cigar on occasion, but more often a pipe filled with cherry tobacco. He too would clean the pipe while listening to "the game". Multi coloured pipe cleaners would be pulled from their clear plastic bag one by one and carefully twisted through the stem hole. Not the thick chenille stems people call "pipe cleaners", but the actual pipe cleaners. The bowl would be tapped and the unburned contents removed. It would be cleaned before repacking it with more tobacco, fresh from a large round tin with a deep red label and large white lettering. He also, would use a fresh Kleenex to polish the deep burgundy coloured wood on the outside of the bowl until it shined. Packed and readied, he would carefully light the interior and blow large thick puffs of 'cherry scented' smoke balls into the small apartment. It took me several decades to realize the scent of their home was actually that of Lysol, LifeBouy soap, and stale tobacco, seeped and almost steamed into their immaculate furnishings.

Mom and dad also smoked. I am not sure of the habit count, was it a pack a day or more or less? All I know is that when mom decided to quit it seemed to happen without incident or remorse, although it was then that she gained her weight; weight that would never come off. Dad was another case. His habit drug on (literally) for years. He would try to quit. Claim to have quit, only to be discovered at work during a surprise visit or to have the claw of dependence dig into him during times of stress or crisis. It was years before any of us truly believed he had kicked his habit. I can remember the cigarette breath and now when I smell it on a stranger there is a familiarity to it as to almost make them an immediate acquaintance. The smell of smoke drenched clothing sends me to home closets and the smell of Aquanet and cigarettes makes me think of mom's Beehive hairdo dotted with spring daisies and carefully wrapped each night in toilet paper to keep it looking nice.

High school would not have been complete without the smoke in the girls' room or the "smoke" out in the field. But by the time I was in high school there were already rumors and those trying to convince the public about the dangers of smoking.

Seeing the trouble my family had when trying to quit I decided to never start. I had plenty of bad habits to keep me going a lifetime, I didn't need this one. As the years went by I found myself, as most adults do, surrounded by people I chose to be with rather than forced to be with. That group of associates was sans smokers. There are still a few smokers in the family, however even they prefer to smoke alone and away from the group. I am just not that exposed to smoke anymore.

Several years ago I realized that I -somewhere over the years- developed a keen and nasty allergic reaction to smoke, any smoke. My sensitivity in regard to smoke is like Spiderman's "Spidey-sense" or perhaps Obi Wan's connection to the force. I can tell if someone is smoking in a car two cars ahead or in the lane "over there" before we have physical proof. I smell it in malls or parks or at the beach when most people are not aware of it. And smelling most smoke gives me an immediate migraine headache complete with nausea and vomiting. Burning tobacco products, pot, or (real) weeds or wild land fire smoke will induce immediate throbbing in my (usually left) temple. The pounding, if left untreated will radiate down into my eye and then into my stomach where it violently tries to exit my body via my stomach and throat.

The only solution is to (within 5 minutes, seriously) of smelling the smoke, ingest 2 Excedrin with a large glass of (as cold as I can get it) milk. The milk is really just there to stave off the eminent nausea on an empty tummy. If it goes any longer than the five minutes I can count on trouble.

This morning (now yesterday...I wrote this about 11:30 at night) I woke up to someone in the neighborhood burning their weeds, which kicked a headache into gear. I was asleep at the time so I missed the window of opportunity to stop the sledgehammer of doom from cracking open my cranium. It was the throbbing in my eye that initially woke me and I knew I was going to have a bad morning as soon as I stood up. The room began to pitch and swirl, the light from the morning sun began to poke me in the eye like a dull finger intent on touching the back of my skull via my orbital socket, and I had an immediate urge to sacrifice to the porcelain gods.

The dry heaving began before I could reach the bathroom, and once there I began the gag inducing reflex exercises that rival a morning workout with Jillian Michaels.

I decided to head to the kitchen for a glass of milk and then remembered that I had run out the night before. (Lesson learned: Listen to the Little Voice when it tells you to go to the store now, not later.) I got dressed and put my head into the shower. Two reasons: One, because ever since cutting it short I have amazing bed head in the morning, but I'm not brave enough for my 15 minutes of fame -even with a migraine; and Two; Cold water would help alleviate some of the pain until I could get some meds in me. I made my way to the local store and grabbed a carton. Obviously, I didn't learn my lesson and again ignored that Little Voice when it told me to grab a bag of frozen peas while I was there. I get home, down two Excedrin and a couple of swallows of luke warm milk. It makes me gag and I think I need to get my head on a pillow and into a dark room pronto. I go to the freezer to get the last of the required ingredients to save me from tearing my head off in search of relief when I notice I am out of frozen peas.

Frozen peas. The saviour of gray matter during these times, frozen peas, are not to be found. I can't take it anymore, I run to the sink and gag a few more times, and turn to grab anything frozen in there. Walk to the drawer that houses tea towels, wrap a rock hard slab of ground beef and press it to my forehead and eye as I make my way down the hall and into the bedroom. I get undressed, because even though I am sick I still need to be undressed to lay in bed, it's weird, but yeah. I also know that I am going to need to be under the covers, so I turn the fan on, knowing I will burst into flames without it and tuck my head under a pillow, adjusting it just so. I need enough room as to not feel my own hot breath and enough coverage to block out any light. Freezing my eye into a solid dull aching orb and feeling the icy brick against my head I fall into a fretful, yet grateful-to-have-it sleep.

All this, because of smoke.

Why the photo of the green spiky ball? 'Cause I didn't have any other picture to grab your attention.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I am off in search of the towel wrapped piece of (now thawed and warmed) beef, I have forgotten until now, that is buried somewhere in my bed. I sense another gag coming.

When smoke gets in your eyes

We made the trip into Vegas yesterday. What a day. I'll save that for another post... any who, it always hits me when I arrive at any hotel in this town that I am definitely a California girl.

As we head into the hotel the smell of smoke just permeates the air. While we were in line at check in on of Thor's business associates (From Oakland, CA) arrives. First thing out of his mouth after the initial greeting is, "Wow! I still can't get over all the smoke! My dry cleaning bills are always sky high when I come home from Vegas!" At dinner, another associate (Riverside, CA) brings up the fact that there is really no "smoking/non-smoking" section in restaurants, it's all the same after ten minutes.

Vermont is for Lovers. Nevada is for smokers. California is for whiners.

I went to bed with a small migraine and woke up with a sore throat. I'm a wuss. As a kid both parents smoked plenty. After they quit I guess I developed an allergy of sorts. So I'm in the shower and then heading out to fresher air.

Any ideas out there on how to avoid the smoke in a public place without causing a scene or making others feel as lousy as I do?

Monaco?

Casinò
Originally uploaded by Delizia.

Thor's company has sent him to Monte Carlo for a seminar! Unfortunately it is not the Monte Carlo in Monaco, but rather the one in Las Vegas. Ugh.

I think I am perhaps, the only person in the world who truly despises Las Vegas. But getting away is getting away and so a free hotel room is tempting. Thor's company pays for the room and travel expenses for him to get there and he gets a food account. S'mee rides in the car for free and, because we took S'mee's car instead of the company car, I can drive around town if I want to. I pay for my side of the meals and whatever I use/do and so it all comes out pretty cheap. The problem is that it is still Vegas and the cheese factor is always there.

We have a lovely room on the 28th floor, overlooking the "strip", with all the lights, etc, it is pretty to see it glitter at night; although it still can't hide the funk underneath it all; nor the less than family appropriate advertising from the larger than giant screen t.v.s in front of the other hotels. Nothing says, "RUN! Run for your mortal souls!!!" like 50 foot an air brushed, plasticized, and silicone filled 23 year old show girl showing her buns via a sequin thong, dancing and encouraging you to get all the pleasure you can. I need to be steam cleaned. Speaking of cleaning, we have only been here about 28 hours and I have already washed my hair three times. It looks somewhat like Whitney Houston's fro during that nasty "cocaine" episode of hers in the late 90's. Hopefully I can get my doctor to prescribe a nicotine patch when I get home, the second hand smoke is killing me.

Our window opens up about two inches, I assume so that when the patrons lose their fortunes they don't jump out in a fit of depression. When Thor opens the window we get a distinct aroma - of all things- mac and cheese. If you look downward, directly below our room is the roof top of the front portion of the hotel. I thought at first that it was a parking structure or some such, but after the constant climb of macaroni fumes, I now think we must be over the all you can eat buffet.

We drove out to dinner tonight and then down the strip to see all the sparkle. There is a new hotel, supposedly "the biggest, the best, the most luxurious" yada yada yada. To me it is sad. This is what this man perceives as the best of everything. This is as good as it gets. For him, probably, it will be.

This morning however, I was surprised to hear from my niece, who invited me to join she and her sister for the day and visit. It was very fun. They live out of the city in a smaller community away from all the "stuff". I can tell that these two gals don't associate too much with, nor venture too close into their more notable city neighbor. They have somehow remained sweet in this bazaar world. Giggly children, happy babies and lots of family photos on the walls of each of their homes. Not too much glitz and "glamour", but it seemed to me to be as good as it gets in this world and with an eternal promise for even better as time goes on.