Wine, Whine and Cigarettes

Lest you think it's all wine and roses, here's the worm in the apple.

"Complaining does not work as a strategy. We all have finite time and energy. Any time we spend whining is unlikely to help us achieve our goals. And it won't make us happier."
— Randy Pausch (The Last Lecture)

"You must have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?"
— Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray)

"I think there's a secret part of me that would like to drop my entire life off a cliff and watch it break into a million pieces"
— Suzanne Morrison (Yoga Bitch: One Woman's Quest to Conquer Skepticism, Cynicism, and Cigarettes on the Path to Enlightenment)

I hit another wall on Wednesday. Splat. Those splatters are extremely satisfying, they release a lot of angst. And the epiphany at the end of my whining tantrums always gets me closer to where I need to be right now.

Memory has proved elusive. I don’t know what started the fight, I just know I was happy to see my husband leave the house angry so that I could stomp and shout and throw things to my heart’s content. Don’t worry, I’m not a crazy person - I throw pairs of socks. They still make a satisfying thud, but they don’t break anything important.

I screamed for my mother, and cried for everything behind me. Then I got mad. So I yelled a lot, threw a tantrum in every room of the new house, and decided to do what I wanted, the hell with what Herr Zen thinks. I filled my pretty, impractical olive oil bottle instead of leaving it in the practical, thick glass bottle from the store. THERE. That will show him.

He was out in his car for hours doing man stuff, and once he was back I left in my car, still fuming. I drove down to the liquor store, cute sunglasses on my face to hide my swollen eyes. I grabbed a couple of bottles of red wine - he has his German beer, I’ll have my Italian Cabernet, by God - and swung by the gas station to fill up my empty tank.

You know what? I think I’ll get some cigarettes. Now THAT will show him.

I’ve never been a heavy smoker, but dabbled in college. In Germany, our Friday night group would always end with the ladies on the balcony sharing a cigarette while the guys finished their beers. It’s sort of a bad girl thing. Herr Zen hates it, so when I get REALLY mad, I smoke just to piss him off. Or I grab a pack if I’m under extreme stress, smoke two or three, then toss the rest.

I think the last time I smoked was the day after my mother died. I was at their house and had to take a break from planning the funeral and writing the obituary. Sometimes being bad is the best way to move back into the center lane instead of careening off the highway of life. Dramatic much, Genie?

(Yes, I have been outed in the comments so many times, I think we can dispense with the pseudonym. Just call me Genie.)

I filled up the tank, and sauntered into the store area, sunglasses still in place. “I’m on pump seven. And I’d like a pack of cigarettes as well, please. Marlborough Lights if you have them.” He didn’t have Marlborough Lights, but DID have a pack of short Marlboroughs. Perfect.

He rang them up. “That will be $66 dollars, please.” I snorted. “I’m sorry, I don’t want a CARTON, just a pack. The receipt says twenty for $66.” He looked back at me with pity. “No, it’s $66 for TWENTY cigarettes.”

Are you KIDDING ME?!? No, he is not. I ended up buying a pack of Australian cigarettes for $45. I felt a little sick, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

I drove home, poured a glass of wine and left Herr Zen by the fireplace with his music - we still aren’t speaking at this point of the evening - and sat on the chilly verandah having a pity party by my lonesome. Only to discover that, in addition to charging you a fortune for a pack of cigarettes, Australia also completely ruins the experience.

Here’s my pack of cigarettes, with a huge diseased brain with hooks through it. Ugh.

And here’s what each cigarette says on the side as you pull it out of the box. Geez Louise, that takes the fun out of it.

To add insult to injury, they’ve added something to the paper that makes the cigarette burn down in no time flat. I put the cigarette in the ashtray to have a swallow of wine, then picked it up to see half an inch of ash.

Lesson learned. I’ve put the cigarettes made of gold into my sock drawer, so that next time I throw socks at the wall I can smoke ONE lonely cigarette in rebellious mode. I can’t afford more than that, people. I guess that’s a good thing.

ANYWAY, I had an epiphany. As you do at the end of any good tantrum, when you’ve finally exhausted yourself going in circles and have to climb back into the real world.

I am frustrated because I can’t do things here as well as I could at home, and it makes me feel STUPID. I don’t like to feel stupid. I’ve chosen every avenue of my life to avoid the stupidity lane. Yet here I am.

So I started thinking, and realized I am NOT stupid. I am just living in Herr Zen’s world, where everything makes perfect sense to him but completely baffles me at every turn.

We’re in a beautiful house on ten acres of land with a great view. Rolling lawns that have to be mowed, gutters that have to be cleaned, a huge garage that needs to be planned, approved and built, a wall heater that sucks every bit of moisture out of the air. It’s not my fault that I am having trouble navigating the new terrain.

Because if I’d had my druthers, I would have found an adorable tiny house or vintage apartment in Hobart, bought appliances that I could work without referring to Youtube or the manual, water that didn’t come from a tank in the yard ( I don’t understand how it works, which plays on my tiny brain), and an electric fireplace. Or maybe no fireplace at all - central heating!

The tiny house would be within walking distance of a café, where I could be a regular, drinking a pot of tea with a book on the table in front of me. Perfect!

Yet, when I put all that into a search engine, it’s way out of my price range. Old Town Hobart with the beautiful brick cottages is EXPENSIVE. And there wouldn’t be room for Herr Zen. Sigh. When you’re married, it’s sort of important to live together. Hence my current dilemma.

So maybe Herr Zen DOES know what he’s doing and I just need to make sure I keep him in good health so he can work all the complicated stuff until I figure it out. I think it’s a good premise.

We talked about it in the car today as we drove to Hobart to run our errands. He agreed that he DID have it easier, since so much of Tasmania is similar to where he grew up in New Zealand. He doesn’t feel out of place, it’s like he’s come home.

And I finally told him how much I hate it when he acts like he’s done me a favor by bringing me here. I will do my best, try my hardest, but it’s not home. Yet.

Moving is hard at any age, but it’s much harder when you’re past fifty. I can do it, I have no doubt, but it’s not the easy, ‘drop in and find a friend’ version right out of college, people. I was set in my ways in the US, and people my age in Tasmania are also set in their ways, with their own group of friends and routines. It’s going to be hard to break into, but I have a plan.

I am going to be the crazy American. Forget about fitting in, I think it will be less painful to just be completely myself and stand out like a crazy daisy amongst the beautiful native roses. I put my plan into play today and it worked like a charm. More about that in the next edition.

Time to take my first roast chicken out of the beautiful, but horrendously complicated, blue oven. Fingers crossed!

And if I’ve mucked it up again, there’s always more wine. ;)