Perpetual cheese versus nicotine.

I'm back. Suck? Cause I just can't seem to get it rolling. A pink stickie note on my refrigerator urges me daily to get with it; I am.

Speaking of my refrigerator ... I have a story.

My addict husband keeps singing the same old, boring song. "This is my last pack." My ass. I've been hearing that for four years. The melody is permanent and dull. Today he was heading out the door to smoke his "last" Pall Mall. Our grandson Caleb watched him with curiosity. Caleb, three-month-old genius that he is, whispered to me. I asked David to wait. Caleb whispered, David waited.

Word for word I repeated Caleb's words ... "please stop smoking so you will be around when I get older." (It could have been, if you don't quit, Kuku (that's me) is going to be stuck here, alone, wrinkly, without a husband, so give up the cancer sticks pops, but I spared David this version.)

David looked at me and said, "Okay." Okay? That's a word and not a commitment. "Okay, stop talking for the baby?" "Okay, you're a perpetual pain in the ass - Cynthia!" I let him slink away to participate in his own death. Later, the carbon monoxide got to him and he had to have a nap.

When he woke from the nap, he was hungry. He was hungry because he had no cigarettes to smoke and when there is no cigarette, he turns to food. He went for the animal fat drawer and found his Swiss Cheese missing. I wasn't aware that until this moment that Swiss Cheese was always his. Now the entire household is clear. He demanded to know who ate the cheese. I admitted I had some. One daughter confessed, the other denied. This was not good enough for cheese head. "I just want to know who ate it." I told him we had just clarified that and from now on, I would personally take full responsibility for making sure that there was a perpetual stock of Swiss cheese on the premises. Believe it or not, this is exactly what he had been wanting to hear. I am effing astounded, once again. Tomorrow I will head to Costco and buy a 50 pound block and put it in the backseat of his truck so he will never be without. He can cut off a chunk when comes into the house for the night and another to take to bed with him. Oh! and one for the shower. My God.

The daughter who confessed to a slice of dairy delight hooked up the Hookah; which I bought for him, and taught him to smoke this evening. I'm told that the shesha is less lethal than mainstream corporate tobacco products and relaxing in non-blood-vessel-constrictive-way. Let's hope. Well, either way. Whatever. After the cheese, I don't even care.