I believe that there are still a few of you who have read me long enough to remember the house sitting gig I had a few years ago. I was hired by a woman who I had met at a gym I worked at. The stay was lovely. I was away from my family and all craziness for like 4 nights, and I got to sleep with the most adorable poodle mix puppy ever (he was the final straw — I wanted a small doggy after that). There was the greatest pool (with stone and waterfalls in 2 different levels) in the backyard the size of a park – surrounded by the prettiest stone patio. Her house was filled with wooden elephants , and she had this carousel horse that she had repainted in the middle of her living room. Her house smelled like lemon root oil defuser stuff and cigarettes. She lit cigarettes off of the other, and it didn’t bother me, because I had just quit and decided that smelling cigarettes was just about as good as having one. When she left, I found the carton of cigarettes in the refrigerator, and convincing myself that I could just have “one little one by the pool outside”. I suddenly – in one puff – started to smoke again. I literally removed the nicotine patch from my body so that I could enjoy the cigarette more, which doesn’t sound so strange to smokers, probably, but sounds incredibly sick to me now in retrospect. By the time she had returned home I had shared the joy of lighting one cigarette after another, and another, and another – and 4 packs later I was pretty much back on the “saddle” again.

She never had children. Had been divorced, and worked only to afford the vacations she went on as often as she could. She was young at heart, filled with energy, and made me laugh often and loudly…the kind of laughter you might hear from me if you catch me off guard with a particularly funny joke. The kind of laugh that echos – comes out with a loud blast of HA! followed by maniacal giggles. She had a sense of humor as dry as toast, and would say something with such a straight face that I would have to search in her eyes for a twinkle to know if she were kidding or not. She had a convertible – that she often drove with the top down. It was shiny and well taken care of. She was the kind of older woman you would want as a grandmother. She was hip. Cool. Funny. Sharp. Energetic. Pretty. Alive from her head to her toes – and insisted on everyone around her being the same way. And she embraced me, as most of the older women at the gym did those days. Always asked me about school. Always wanted to know how I was doing. Always managed to make me smile. She delighted in me in much the same way I delighted in her. So when I heard years later that she had full blown lung cancer, I couldn’t quite believe it. Inside of me I refused to see her as sick, so I never visited her. I said that I would, but I never picked up the phone to call. I stood by while a mutual friend called to check in on her, and I cried when I thought about how terribly unfair it was to be addicted to something that could eat you up inside – literally – but I never went to see her. I heard she was doing better a few months ago.

But a few hours ago, I was notified that she was dead.

So while I could go on and on in true CeCe fashion about how horrible it feels to not have paid my respects to her while she was living, and how even though I know she knows what is in my heart, it still would have done a world of good (wouldn’t it?) to have told her while she was living that she was important and would be missed. Trust me – I could write 5 blog entries about that. A caller of mine has adopted me into the Jewish Family — and I’m pretty sure with my Christian background and now Jewish indoctrination that I can wallow in guilt and remorse for at least as long as “we” wandered around in the wilderness eating manna. But that doesn’t make for great blogging. Or maybe it does. But I’m not in the mood for all of that.

What I’m in the mood for is something I thought I would never do as a new “ex” smoker (1 year ago March!). I’m going to lecture and nag everyone I know who smokes. I’m going to nag so hard you’ll wonder what the hell got into me. I’m going to nag so hard that callers of mine who DO smoke will either quit immediately, call someone else in fear that i will smell smoke on them and lecture them at 1.85/minute, or make a pledge to never tell me they do if they do. I’m going to nag my friends to stop smoking. I’m going to nag the person next to me smoking in the car with a kid in the back seat. I’m going to nag the people at my gym who promote health and well being, but then step outside and smoke on their breaks. I’m going to be THAT ex smoker people can’t stand. And I’m going to enjoy every fuckin’ minute of it.

I’m horrible at goodbyes. As I’ve proven in the above story with a fairly good friend of mine. More than acquaintance, got christmas presents from her one year, but lost touch when I left the gym she worked out at kind of friend. So imagine how I’d be if one of YOU were to die. And before you say something smart like “But CeCe … how would you know…” I’ll just say – I have my ways of figuring it out. There’s a network some of you have no clue about (half joking). Ok – mostly 100 percent joking. I wouldn’t know. But suddenly you wouldn’t be sending me notes on NF, leaving me comments, or calling. And I would wonder – and your presence WOULD be missed. And if you told me you were sick – I wouldn’t be able to handle it much better than I did in my friend’s case. And not saying goodbye to someone who is sick and dying really puts a damper on things so I would be a bit fucked up for days. And since all things lead back to me (lol) – don’t do that to me. You know what I’m trying to say. So since I’m bad at goodbyes – I’m pledging to do as much as I can so that people I love and care about won’t die at their own hands.

So here we go. Here are some reasons why you probably don’t wanna continue smoking (if you do). If you aren’t a smoker, feel free to skip over this part – or pass it along to someone who is a smoker and join me in being a nag. Embrace your inner nag. You know you wanna.

IF DYING DOESN’T SCARE YOU…MAYBE THIS WILL:

• Smoking speeds up mental decline. You heard me. Or maybe you didn’t. If you smoke – chances are you’ll not remember where you put your cigarettes or ashtray or lighter. You won’t remember where you put your dentures either, and will probably forget that you left the stove on. You’re dangerous at this point of mental decline, and will be hospitalized, where you’ll have to endure all the great things that old people who can’t remember who they are endure. Not fun.
• Smoking increases your chances of having lupus. Lupus isn’t fun. It hurts. You’re in pain a lot and there is nothing you can do about it. Except to light up another cigarette. If only you could remember where you put them — and if only you could get up and move your pain ridden body.
• SID Syndrome … you know that horrible disease that takes the lives of innocent little babies? Well guess what? All that smoke you’re inhaling (if you’re a woman and expecting) or exhaling into the air so the mother of your unborn child can inhale, is increasing the risk of your child dying of SID. So not cool.
• Oh, and if your baby doesn’t die, you will wish YOU could, because smoking has also been led to Colic. Your baby is going to HATE life as much as you are going to hate life and will let you know every minute of his/her existence for months. No Hush Little Baby for you!
• But you may not have to worry about the last 2 issues, because smoking also makes your dick limp. Oh yes it does. A recent study showed that a man who smoked about a pack of cigarettes a day had 60 percent chance of penile disfunction. And we all know what that is, don’t we?
• As if not being able to get hard is painful enough — there’s more. Did you know that men who smoke are 4 times more likely to suffer from a disease called macular degeneration? What is that? Glad you asked. Basically it’s a degeneration in part of your brain that causes blindness. This will probably come in handy though, because if you can’t get hard, you certainly don’t want to be able to look at porn, right?
• Acid Reflux, Arthritis, Breast Cancer (men get it too), Depression and thyroid disease. Just a few more reasons to stop smoking — in case lung cancer and cardio vascular disease doesn’t scare you enough to quit.

There are many more reasons to quit smoking other than the most obvious one (me – duh!). As crappy as things get sometimes, is that one cigarette worth shortening the time you have here on this earth as a valuable member of society, as a friend, father, mother, son, daughter, client, boss, etc? If you can’t quit for yourself yet, then find someone who is worth quitting for until you get some sense knocked into you. Please. It’s really not worth it.

If anyone would like some information/tips on how to quit, let me know. I have some tricks up my sleeves (and some websites and resources). There are several relays going on so if anyone would like to donate either their time, energy, or make a donation to the American Cancer Society, you’ll have more than enough opportunities to do so. I’m planning on walking this year (preferably with out the spiked coffee!) at a relay. It’s an eye opening experience being around family members and survivors of cancer.

Anywho – thank you for listening to me rant. As you can imagine, it’s been a pretty emotional last few hours for me, and I just needed a place to unload it for a bit. I don’t believe in people doing things because they are “scared” into it for the most part. But I think that when I smoked, I really was in a lot of denial about what I was doing to my body, and to the body and lungs of those around me. I think if I had really stopped to think about what I was doing, I would have stopped earlier. I’m just hoping that a little bit of knowledge will go a long way.

It’s time to open our eyes.

“I saw a book for you the other day.”

“I love books!”

“And you would have loved this one.”

I could practically hear the laughter in his voice. I became worried, but still asked,”What kind of book?”

“The Big Penis Book.”

I erupted into laughter. “What the hell?”

“Yeah. I felt a little inadequate even picking the book up.”

“You picked it up?”

“Yeah. Was kind of heavy. Of course I picked it up! It was begging me to pick it up.”

“So what was it? A book of ….”

“Big Penis’”

“You’re lying.”

“Nope. Actually I was thinking of buying it for you.”

“You made me choke just then.”

“Yeah well….”

“Stop it.”

“I don’t know where you would put it though…”

“Put what?”

“The book!” He said, sounding exasperated. “Focus, please.”

“How big is it?” Hopefully he realizes I’m talking about the book and not the items inside of the book.

“Oh, it’s pretty big. It kinda has to be to contain all the pictures of these large penis’” he said, not missing a beat.

“What is it? A coffee book table?”

“Yup.”

“Oh hell no!”

And so our conversation continued. Me growing curious about the big penis book and John Holmes becoming more and more uncomfortable discussing male anatomy by the minute.

A few weeks later I found myself in a Barnes and Noble Bookstore. I was in heaven in this particular Barnes and Noble. The store was about 4 stories high, and took up the whole corner of main street of the outside mall. Everywhere I looked there were people, books piled on their laps with the kind of ecstasy that only book lovers really understand. Where there were no chairs, people occupied corners and spread their good finds, starbuck coffee cups, and several hours too old pastries around them like a fortress. I have happy sighs for moments like these. Sometimes you’ll hear them after a satisfying orgasm, or if you’re lucky (?) enough to catch me sucking on some frozen pineapple tidbits. I. was. in. heaven. I settled in a chair on the 3rd level, close to the windows leading out to the patios that were of course filled to their capacity. I was close to the stairs, and occupied myself with watching people walking towards the various cashiers. Occasionally I would jot something down in my notebook – some observation or thought or something I wanted to write about later. My little notebook I carry around with me in my purse is a new thing I’m trying lately. It seems that I have these ideas and write things on napkins, church bulletins, or tell myself I’ll somehow remember. I never did. By the stair case there was a large wooden table with books displayed. Big books. Big coffee books that one might display to impress visitors. I never quite understood the need for such books. Once you saw all the pictures in them, didn’t the book just become one more thing to dust under? You had to really love the photography in the pictures to make room for such an obtrusive thing.

And then I saw it. The Big Penis Book. Displayed proudly on the landing of the 3rd floor. As people rounded the corner on their descent to the first floor you could practically hear the screeching of brakes. I noticed that the majority of the people who stopped and did a double take were men. They would walk by, looking over their shoulders carefully, and then look back at the penis book. If the coast was clear they would open the book quickly, flipping through the glossy pages of phallic delights, and then attempt to put the book back on the table with out anyone noticing. This last feat was difficult as the book was proudly displayed on an acrylic stand for all of humanity to see. Most of the lookie loos would place the book cover down on the table and walk away quickly. A few minutes later a clerk would come by to straighten up the table, pick up the book and place it back on the stand, and the cycle would begin again. From my vantage point it was easy to see the variety of men and women that stopped by the table. All shapes and sizes and colors, all turning various shades of embarrassment. I began to imagine what they must have been thinking as they opened up the book to see what defined “big”. I wondered if the men could be impressed slightly at the sheer magnitude of some of the penis’. I mean from the cover itself, the book looked like a Large Penis Extravaganza. There on the front of the Pepto Bismal pink book was a man donning only a pair of briefs, and his penis, somewhat flacid and reaching up to his belly button showing through the thin cotton material. I imagined the book to be the Dairy Queen of Pricks. Chocolate, Vanilla, Butterscotch Swirl…

Anyway — I don’t have the book. I’m satisfied to receive in my in box a P.P (Penis Pic) of the day. The buyer wishes to remain anonymous, not because he’s insecure about his own masculinity, but because copying pictures out of book violates some sort of copyright law I’m pretty sure, which also explains why I won’t be displaying any here. You can all breathe a sigh of relief.

Just seeing how this works. I know you don’t know what “this” is, but trust me … it’s legen (wait for it…)dary!

To my adoring, patient, and somewhat obsessed (glances at KIL) fans: I will be posting again in the very near future. I had no idea it had been a month almost since my last confession – er – post. Time sure does fly when your parents are underfoot!

I know this isn’t the post that you’ve been waiting for, but it is at least an indication that I still know how to log into my wordpress account and I haven’t forgotten how to type a somewhat engaging sentence. I think.

I’ll post the post that has been floating around in my head before mommies day. Yeah. Now that I think about the subject matter, the post will be up with a comfortable cushion before Mommy Day. Yeah. lol. So not appropriate.

Blog soon….