"I May Need to Drop by the Cigar Store," I Tell My Husband.

"Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"Remember? I'm having the blog chicks over for pasta tomorrow night."

"Isn't it a bit cold on the balcony?" he asks.

"Aha!" I had him, there. "I told them to bring their coats, in case they wanted to smoke after dinner."

"How many of the blog chicks smoke cigars, Dear?"

"Well, let's see." I closed my eyes. "I smoke. And Justene smokes. And sometimes Justene's husband. So that makes three of us. Neither Caltech Girl nor her husband are into cigars."

"And how many smokes are in your humidor right now?" There's a smile playing around the edge of his lips.

"Well, there are nineteen full-size ones, and then five of those little minis—the Partagas from Cuba."

He steps on the brakes as we near the Chrysler service shop. "That might be enough, you know."

"Ah, but we might be able to talk Baldilocks into having one."

"Which could bring you down to only fifteen. I see."

"Wait, wait!" I burst out, and for a second A the H veers to the side of the road, thinking he's about to miss the driveway to the service department.

"What the hell?" he asks. He spots the driveway and makes the turn.

"Sometimes one of Justene's teenagers will have a drag on one of the cigars, or a sip of red wine from one of our glasses."

"Okay." He's gritting his teeth, now. "Let's say the two girls get completely carried away, and you're left with a baker's dozen."

"Would you pull over here, Honey?" I ask him, sweetly. "I've got to scoot. More cigars, and—more wine. Thanks for reminding me about the twins. See you at home!"

If I had to live with me I think I'd poison myself. But that onerous task falls to someone else. I mean, the living with, rather than the poisoning. So far.

Say Goodnight, Joy.