My Neighbor

I live in the sort of neighborhood that you can age like a tree. The outermost ring is made up of the old, fine, historic homes of Boise, circa 1895 to 1920. The slightly inner ring, the more modest homes of the 1930s to 50s. Directly beyond that the ultra hip 1960s, and beyond that the homey, eccentric 1970s and 1980s homes extend into the foothills. That is the ring that I live in. Above me are the 1990's through early aughts homes, and above them, WAY above them, are the people building on the rim. We have fantastic views and three amazing decks where I deeply enjoy sitting and smoking and drinking wine, or sitting in the hot tub drinking wine, or standing on the deck when the snow is too deep in the chairs to sit, and smoking. I am an outside only smoker.

On my way to work every day I drive by one of the lovely 1930's homes with a wrap around covered deck. It's light yellow and invariably, March through October, is covered in beautiful hanging plants. Another fixture on this wrap around covered porch is a lovely neighbor, who I always pictured as myself in thirty years. Except for the fact that she is at least four inches taller than me and has at least twenty-five pounds on me (in addition to the thirty years), we could be dead-ringers for one another. Except she is also brunette(ish).

I've driven by her lovely house on my way to and from practically everywhere for the last five years. In the mornings I find my neighbor drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes on her porch, and in the evenings I find her drinking a beer, or a glass of wine, or some other delectable beverage on her porch, and smoking. When I pass, I give her a little mental encouragement and myself a little mental reassurance that I am not alone in one of my favorite things.

About three months ago my neighbor disappeared from her porch. About a week ago another woman reappeared. She is much older looking than my neighbor on the porch and has lost all of her hair. She is obviously sick and has had chemotherapy and I don't really know her and I can't really help her. I don't see myself as my neighbor anymore and I don't want to. I hope she gets well, and I am planning to.

Nobody Likes a Quitter!

I realized a few weeks ago that since I am now 36 years old, I have officially been a pack a day smoker for half of my life. I'm not terrifically old, but honestly, that is a lot of cigarettes. I've had these little "smoking is bad for me, I should stop moments" over the years, and have quit at least seven times in the past. Once for almost a year. Problem is....I really love smoking. The solitude of a cigarette (or half a pack) and a glass of wine (or a bottle) after a long day of work is truly and honestly my idea of an ideal evening. When Bryan (my very darling husband who says, quit, don't quit, but please stop talking about it) and I go on one of our tropical vacations, one of my favorite parts of vacating is a long morning on cabana porch with several cups of coffee and a cigarette (or half a pack.)



Nevertheless, having smoked for half my life, it is time to find some new favorite things. Yesterday I decided I had bought my last carton, so the countdown is on. When the carton is up, the madness begins. My hope is to record here at least one thing a day that reminds me why I am quitting. Most likely there will be some regular rants about the things I see that remind me why I love smoking too. I'll be updating this little blog regularly with all the fun and craziness, anxiety, sleep deprivation, and other entertaining withdrawal symptoms for 365 days. Let's see if this time it sticks.