Thursday, March 29, 2007

cigars and carriages do not mix

I've got a huge, huge stash of cigars, all of them dating from my pre-marriage days when I thought nothing of spending a couple of hundred dollars to buy a few boxes of smokes. I've got them all in a cooler converted to a humidor by means of some oasis-foam and distilled water. When I bought most of them, I was smoking about two a day, maybe four a day during the weekend. Yummy cigars, I love them all. As every bachelor's friend, Rudyard Kipling, wrote, "A woman is only a woman / But a good cigar is a smoke."

Of course now I smoke about four cigars a year, maybe. Since I gave up cigarettes, I just don't enjoy nicotine like I used to. Anyhow, today seemed like a perfect chance to try something I've had on my mind for a while... it's a beautiful day, why not smoke a cigar while pushing the boy in his stroller? Why not indeed? He'll have to learn about "Do as I say and Not as I Do" sooner or later anyhow, I thought.

It started off great... walking, puffing gently, talking to the boy, enjoying the sun, enjoying the horrified looks from the minivan-driving moms as they drove by. And then a little puff of wind came... blew a hunk of ash that landed on the boy's foot. Totally cool ash, no danger -- don't worry! But I stopped and said, OH. That's why Daddy's don't smoke cigars when they walk the baby. Because it's a DUMBASS THING TO DO.

So I tossed the cigar, 98% unsmoked, into the gutter and said "Dumb Daddy, won't do that again." Then I pulled the boy out of the carriage and carefully brushed all of the ask from his sock and cleaned all the ash out of the carriage. Dumb ass @$#@$ daddy.

Sooner or later I'll be rid of all those cigars. Until then they just tempt me. Here's the Kipling poem in it's entirety. I read it and chuckled at my lost bachelorhood and then thank the gods that I have a REAL family, not one consisting of cigars.

The Betrothed, by Rudyard Kipling

"You must choose between me and your cigar."

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas -- we fought o'er a good cheroot,
And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at -- Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay;
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away --

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown --
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty -- grey and dour and old --
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar --

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket --
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket!

Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a while.
Here is a mild Manila -- there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion -- bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent -- comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a Suttee's passion -- to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,
But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
Of stums that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider anew --
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba -- I hold to my first-sworn vows.
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!

1 comment:

Mike said...

If we can't try dumbass things once in a while, how will we know we are being dumb asses, right?