I keep forgetting to title these things

Just had the most insightful, rational, educated discussion I have had in weeks. It was with my eighteen year old son who convinced me with my own words to let him skip the remaining years of high-school (or "box-filling" as he says) in order to start his own already successful software company. That's right, bitches. Your boy was prom king. Mine is his own CEO.

Okay, totally uncalled for. But still, suck it!

I'm sure that, when he and his father and I made the decision a couple years ago, there were certain people who were highly critical of that decision. This is the only way it's done. Your fifteen year old honor student doesn't drop out of high school with no plans to return and no (real) plans for a GED. Responsible parents don't let that happen!


That was a thought communicated to me throughout the kid's childhood. Sometimes people told me. My mother still lectures me about him not having a GED, even though he already has a successful LLC, and pending contract with a very large company. Sometimes people said nothing, but I could see it in their expression. The years I lived in Richmond on my own - the first year when I let him stay behind with his dad for a year, or when I had to bring him back because I had to bring myself back first, even the extra year that I was too poor, oppressed under the weight of debt, to pay for his move back with me.

 I still remember one particularly skeevy grad student who put his hand on mine (which was on my knee), squeezed, and tried to comfort me through my obviously difficult time with a Mormon prayer.

I don't know if that's a real thing. But he was Mormon. And he did offer to pray for me.

We go through so much of our lives assuming there's only one way or there's a natural way that we just don't know how to  respond sometimes when people behave otherwise. You are a mother, the skeevy Mormon seemed to be saying, You should be with your child. 


I won't pick on that guy. Or Mormons. I like them. As much as I like any religious group.

Seriously side tracked. It's late.

I got it a lot with the kid. The questioning. The assumption that what someone else knew was best. So I decided to be the one who knew best. Or at least as well as any of us knows anything. I dedicated myself to learning as much about the universe from the inside out as I could, in hopes that I could one day share my knowledge with him. I tried a little writing on the side too, but . . .

The rat bastard was already reading at a college level in sixth grade.

This is too rambling. Too long. Too disjointed. But I wanted to write a little about my son, who I think is just  one of the coolest dudes I know. After all, how many eighteen-year-olds' Friday night discussion topics included Qaddafi, the Hegelian Dialectic, his own corporation's success, and Sisyphus?

All the Kool kids are doing it

I didn’t start smoking until I got to graduate school. Okay, that’s not true. I smoked while I was at Basic Training. And yes, I was in the military for eight years. I smoked at Basic because smokers sometimes got a three minute patio break while non-smokers had to stand in formation. I quickly took up the habit. But it only lasted those six weeks and then I gave it up. Easy as that.

My parents household was for the most part smoke-free. Mostly because any members of my extended family who lit up in the house were quickly chased out by the cloud of Lysol my father let loose in the room. But most of my mother’s family did smoke, including my grandfather who, upon being diagnosed with emphysema, switched from Camel no-filters to Kool Milds.

I always found it to be a disgusting habit. Elementary school health classes had filled my mind with images of diseased lungs and voice boxes inserted into people’s tracheae. Plus, any time I entered a smoky room, my eyes would burn and start to water and I’d have a sneezing fit. So in high school, when many of my friends picked up the habit, I passed. And even though I smoked for those six weeks at training, I found it nothing to stop. I maybe had one here or there, at a bar after way too many drinks, but I always woke up feeling extra hung over and vowed never to do that again.

Then came graduate school.

Here’s how it happened. Back when I was in the military, and I worked for the human resource officer, I found out that all the really good stuff, all the really important decisions, were made on the back loading dock where the smokers hung out. Remember that episode of Friends where Rachel takes up smoking because her boss is becoming all chummy with another co-worker on smoke breaks? It was exactly like that. Lucky for me then, I was already in with the smokers, and they found me charming enough to allow me to hang out while they smoked, and I never had to take a puff.

When I got to grad school, I found the situation was pretty much the same. No important decisions were being made, but all the best discussions about writing, all the funniest stories, all the invitations to the coolest parties were occurring on smoke breaks. And I was missing out. The thing was, they were cool enough to let me tag along, but since we were all working in different parts of the building, doing different things, I never knew when they would be going outside unless I happened to be in the vicinity at the time.

Until one weekend, when at the bar across the street, we all got to drinking and I eventually bummed a cigarette. And then a few more. The next Monday, when everyone went out to smoke, somebody came to get me.

I was officially cool.

And apparently, emotionally, still in junior high.

So how did I get from the occasional drunk-smoke and cigarette break to full-blown pack a day addict? It could be that over the next couple of years, with my son (at the time) still living with his father, I had a lot more time to spend at the bar, where I sat, with my laptop, writing and drinking and smoking until my friends showed up and I would drink and smoke some more. It could be that in the years following my (in)completion of grad school, I struggled financially and emotionally, and cigarettes, despite their expense, were my only comfort, the only thing over which I had any control. Or it could be that smoking is a very slow, relatively painless, deliberate act of suicide on my part.

All I know is that the thought of giving it up now fills me with dread. Not because of the withdrawal period that I know comes with quitting (they have drugs for that now - wonderful drugs). And not because I think that I will substitute food for nicotine and ruin my body-by-Hostess physique.

The truth is, and I am not afraid to say it, I love to smoke.

That's right. I love smoking. I love the way a cigarette feels in my hand. I love how the smoke calms me down when I'm stressed (this may be purely psychological). I love that I always have a built in break time. I don't love that I always have to carry mints and body spray and the unconscionable amount of money I spend on fabric refresher, but I find these things a small price to pay for something so dependably wonderful.

Haters, feel free to comment by clicking the link below.

I have to go light up.