Miami is the last place in this country that is full of smokers. And I love it! Okay, I don’t love sitting at a lovely bayside table having lunch while the table next to me lights up. And I don’t like the smell in my clothes and my hair after a night out at my favorite dive bar. But the matches. Oh the matches! I heart the matches. Whereas restaurants in the Boston area now have a delicate box of business cards and maybe some mints, the restaurants here have big jars full of matchbooks. And I can’t contain myself. Which makes Adam more than a little crazy, when I come home with a purse full of matches. BUT I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT MY MATCHES! I know I’ve said this before, but all those matches are going to be awfully handy when this global warming thing wreaks more of its havoc and we lose power or gas or something and we’ll need matches and I WILL HAVE THEM! Although that’s probably not something I should post on my blog because when that global warming thing wreaks havoc there will most likely be a run on matches and all of you will descend upon my house for my matches, but you won’t be able to get to them because there will be a moat of fire around my house created by a small fraction of those matches so you won’t be able to touch my matches. Mine!
What made it worse is that apparently Teener Tuna and Rach have a matchbook thing as well, although I don’t think their neuroses run as deeply as mine does. But when we went out for lunch yesterday with our daughters, we kept remembering, “Oh! I need matches!” and we’d each get up to retrieve a handful. As Adam said in horror when he saw my stash, “You guys are going to be in charge of the post-apocalyptic camp fire.” Yes, we are. And no zombie s’mores for you!
In other news, things are bigger in Miami. Well, not the buildings; they’re the same size. Not the food; portions are pretty reasonable here. Not the bellies; people are skinny, skinny, skinny. Just… things…
I wonder if those things are flammable. I’ve got some matches to test that out…
