Once upon a time I was a smoker. I used to call it “social smoking.” Social in that I smoked every time I was in the car, when I needed a “break” during or after work, and especially when I was drinking. Before the Chicago bars became non-smoking, I could easily smoke a pack in one night. Sometimes more than that. Then would wake up the next day hacking like I’ve spent my life working in the coal mines. “I think I got the black lung, Pop!”
This habit, coupled with my habit of laying out in the sun using only butter, pretty much ensures I’ll look like a leather handbag in a few years. Think Magda from There’s Something About Mary.
Hot, I know.
I really should lock someone in relatively soon, as the handbag clock is ticking. That or I need to start perusing the local Blind Federations for some victims.
Anywhoodle, many years ago Wrigley Field used to be a smoking institution. You were not allowed to smoke in your seats, but there were many areas for you to escape to and feed the smoking meter.
I was going to the Cubs game one Saturday with a male friend of mine, his friend and her boyfriend. A double date of sorts.
Side story: My friend and his friend about a year later realized they were in love with each other and are now married and recently had their first baby! For all you ladies out there who can’t get a man to date or commit to you, send them out on a date with me. I guarantee they will get so freaked out, realize the grass is NOT greener, and promptly get down on one knee and pop the question. You’re welcome.
Back to the story at hand: Pre Cubs game beer, Jager bombs, beer … did I mention the Jager bombs we did BEFORE the game? Great idea, I know. So we were good and boozed up at the Cubs game. While enjoying the game we started to feel the urge.
You know the one. The blood starts flowing, you feel that tingly tightness…that’s right…you need a cigarette!
So being the wise and lazy twenty-somethings that we were, we decided it’s probably best we just smoke at our seats. (We wouldn’t want to miss the game!) I’m sure this was done very inconspicuously (imagine my wild laughter, arms flailing, possible humping). The nearest attendant came over to us and requested we smoke elsewhere, that smoking wasn’t allowed in the seats.
We promptly put out our cigarettes and continued with our game watching. About five minutes went by and the urge started again. Being the drunk morons that we were, we lit up our cigarettes again. In our seats. Once again, the attendant came over and said it was our final warning and that if we were caught smoking again, we would be asked to leave.
So what did we do? About 10-15 minutes later we lit up again. And were escorted out. We got kicked out of Wrigley Field during the third inning for smoking.
As we were leaving we noticed there were cops directing the flow of passersby. I also noticed that these cops had some pretty sweet hats. Given my affinity for costumes I began to sugar up the old grandpa cop. Pretty funny to think of me giggling like a school girl and batting my eyelashes. I’m surprised he didn’t see right through me. We convinced him and his partner to loan us their hats (but not his billy club) and got some pictures wearing them. We continued on with our day and drank ourselves into the night.
The strangest part about the whole thing was that five days later I got a call on my home phone (I still had one at this time) from the grandpa cop wanting to take me out sometime. WTF. I don’t know how he found me, but he did. I apparently took the sugaring to a new level. One that I have never gone to again.
Flirting ain’t my thang. Scaring. Now scaring is my thang. Or bludgeoning. With a stolen police baton. Suckaaa!
Moral of the Story:
If you’re going to get kicked out of an establishment, make it be for something really cool. Like running naked onto a field. Or spilling gasoline throughout a bar and lighting a match. Nudity or arson? Fine. Smoking a cigarette? Stupid!
We did not even get to see the end of the game. I think I recall they actually won. Sigh.