It was an ordinary Monday, like most other Mondays of weeks gone by. Hitting the snooze button 27.6 times, dropping every single thing that seems to come in contact with your hands, tripping over your own feet; you know the drill. The girls and I had decided to stick it to Mondays, by having a weekly Monday lunch at the Dwarf House with a few of our funniest friends. On this particular day, I was joined by my good friends Jennifer, Nicole and Adrienne. We all met up at the office and car pooled down Tara Blvd. for a much needed laughter filled lunch and yummy goodness from the Dwarf House.
We all climbed into Jenn’s car, I climbed into the back seat, and we systematically rolled down the windows and each light up our ritual lunch cigarette. It had been a long four hours or so since our last cig, the early morning on the way to work ritual. It was a windy day, but nicotine was calling our names and we didn’t care. Our hair may be windblown when said and done, but it would be well worth the satisfaction received. Now mind you, four windows cracked down about half way produced a lot of wind. We continue to drive along, singing off key to a mixed CD compellation. As my glorious Marlboro Menthol came to an end, I flicked the butt out the window……or did I? I thought I had seen it creep back into the car with dueling gusts of winds from the open window in front of me. Then I hit a slight panic mode. OMG- and begin to search around for the lit but. I would feel terrible if I burnt the inside of my friend’s car. I check the back, and then the front. Nothing. Whew. Just a figment of my anxious and overactive little imagination. Nicole, who was sitting with me in the back, had assisted me with a thorough inspection and together, we concluded that the cigarette butt had not flown back into the car.
Continue on with our glorious singing of said mixed CD compilation, a little Manson and some 30 Seconds to Mars, when suddenly… smoke is spotted. This smoke is mysteriously pouring out of the top of my vintage one of a kind purse which is systematically perched on my lap, like Estelle Getty from the Golden Girls. I shriek in complete panic and horror. The cig had found its way back to me. I then began to beat my purse violently in my lap, and my friend Nicole proceeded to help. Clearly this is the only way to put out a cigarette induced purse fire. Finally, after we put out the slight fire in my purse, we pulled out its content to see the damage. Luckily my vintage purse was ok, just a slight cigarette burn hole in the bottom. However, my cute and fuzzy camel tone gloves had taken the brunt of the violent horror.
Since this day I have began taking extreme precautions while smoking in cars and around my purses, especially if they are vintage. I no longer toss butts out the window- I dispose of them in a trash receptacle in the car. If there isn’t one, I have someone else toss my cigg butt out of the window for me. I’ve also gone the extra mile and implemented what I like to call “the stance” when smoking in the vicinity of my purse- I make sure my purse is in an arm which is extended far and opposite my body, and then lean in toward the other hand where my cigarette is., just in cases.
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