Why I don't post every day.

My friend Pat (Hi Pat!) is a supergreat lady and BFF Jame's mom.

Sometimes, when a blogger she loves takes a break or doesn't post regularly, Pat says, "[Name of blogger] has gone off her blog."

I go off my blog pretty regularly--days pass and I know you miss me. Sorry! I miss you too!

I wish I could post a lovely, witty, clever story daily. Except some days I don't feel lovely or witty, or even especially clever. Sometimes these are days I've "gone off the Adderall." Sometimes I sensory-overloaded the previous day or two, sending my body into a tizzy, because MS is an asshole.*

I never go off the blog because I lack content ideas. Currently, 67 stories live in the blogger draft folder and another million in my brain draft folder--and don't forget pictures on my iPhone demanding words.

I'm unsure how long a blog post takes other folks to write, but for Love of the Leaf? I average four hours for 400-500 words. Four. Hours. Think I'm crazy? Take a look at a post creation, the 5 things about CRA (Star Wars edition), created in the Habanos Cigar Lounge members' room:

3 months (at least): You need to write about the Cigar Rights of America organization, my brain tells me. I promise. With my fingers crossed.

1 hour: Research CRA, reading their website, current national, state, and local issues, previously submitted legislation and results.  Drink Diet Coke, thanks to bartender.

Without you, DC, I am nothing.

1/2 an hour: Make a list of "things," culled from research, that require inclusion for an audience with a slight working knowledge of the organization. Come up with a dozen.

1/2 an hour: Delete extraneous and repetitive topics and pile a couple together, all while eating cookies. Realize there are still seven (items on the list, not cookies).

1/2 an hour: Play Sophie's Choice, trying to determine which points readers should know about most. (Five things is random but it's a manageable number for most topics.)

You guys. I need this. Need it badly or I will die.
Available here.

1/2 an hour, many more cookies: Expand on points, adding details and explanations, along with a brief introduction.

5 minutes: Read post, finding it so boring I nod off. Consume more Diet Coke in huge quantities.

20 minutes: Look at Google images, putting in keywords from the (boring) text. Consider featuring Archer gifs again just because...Archer.

Because Archer.

5 minutes: Re-reread boring text and spot a glimmer of an idea. If only the CRA had a version of the Force to say, "This is not the legislation you are looking for" to the Evil Empire's stormtroopers.

1/2 an hour: Rewrite entire piece with Star Wars extended metaphor. Feel smugly genius throughout revision.

40 minutes: Reread. Feel the opposite of awesome. 700 words. I edit out clutter, helping verbs, prepositional phrases, adverbs, and all the other word detritus, inching closer to (self-imposed) 400-word "5 Things" limit. Hit 500 words. Think about throwing in the towel and saying, "Meh. Good enough."

20 minutes: Pound head on glass table out of frustration, which also dislodges remaining active brain cells. Cut another hundred words.

5 minutes: Valentino reads the piece. A friend (with 90+ books published) says, "Good editors make good writers." True story. Our hero points out a sentence unclear beyond the limits of my brain. He offers suggestions for a funnier turn of phrase, kisses me on the top of the head (as all good editors should), and flees writer central.

15 minutes: Revise again.

Publish blog post.

10 minutes: Reread 500 times and make adjustments.

Post on Facebook.**

Lather, rinse, repeat.


I can do both in the Habanos Members' Room.

*I don't need to hear about how diet soda will make my head explode and/or is giving me MS. I literally have one vice: Diet Coke.

**Do you like our Facebook page yet? You should. We're giving away stuff on there! You like stuff! We like giving stuff!

5 things about...When to ask for help in a cigar lounge or: Ode to my celebrity boyfriend, RIP

Untrue! Untrue! Untrue!
(No disrespect, though, sir.)

You’ve driven by this cigar lounge no less than one million times, barely noticing it.

Today, your car pulls itself into the parking lot.

Last week at the cookout, your best pal handed you a cigar. You savored every last moment of it, right down to the finger-burning nubbin.* At party’s end, you were set free, cigarless, no memory of the name or band. But damn, it was good.

Now here you sit, scrolling through Facebook, the world’s best procrastination tool, hoping no one’s watching you through the lounge’s mirrored plate glass windows.**

Exactly. Put down the phone and go in.

Go in. We’re right there with you, cheering you on. Just keep some stuff in mind—and if you don’t remember any or all of it, ask for a tutorial from a kind soul—and by that we mean anyone in the lounge.

Choosing the cigar
You don’t remember that fantastic smoke. That’s okay. Ask your cigartender for assistance and she’ll happily help, by asking what you like. Shrugging won’t offend her, especially since you’ve had exactly one cigar in your life. She’ll probably start you with something more on the mild side rather than something super strong and powerful that kicks your tastebuds in the nuts.*** Who knows? This could be your new favorite (at least for a while).

Words to live by.

Cutting the cigar
Cigar in hand, you’ll be pointed toward the cutting station or your cigartender will ask you how you’d like it cut. What she means: straight cut, V-cut, or punch. You probably don’t have a preference, so just go with the straight cut for now. You can figure out your favorite in future visits.

Lighting the cigar
Lighting a cigar is nothing short of a process, a procedure, a preamble to a long, relaxing hour or more. Go here for the fastest,no-nonsense how-to ever. Or… ask for a tutorial, paying close attention to the way she sets the cigar aflame.

Never never never forget: Don't inhale.

Settling in and maintaining the cigar
You’re chatting with new, cigar-smoking friends. You take a puff and…nothing. The bastard’s gone out. Yeah, it happens. Borrow the house lighter again. Flame + puff = you’re back in business. And don’t worry: You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes a cigar shrugs and gives up the ghost.

Making friends
So you’re there, you’re comfortable, and you’re chatting. We have to go, but you’re in good hands. If you need advice, a suggestion of another cigar, or anything else, the folks in the cigar lounge are great people. They’ll give you a hand; buy them a drink as thanks.

We’ll catch you next time!

 

 

*Like our SuperFriend Brian. Hi Brian!

**They aren’t. We promise.

***If your tastebuds have nuts. Otherwise, this is a dang good metaphor.

Lighting that Motherfucker

You can get cigar-lighting how-tos all over the mighty internets—some concisely right-on and some…not so much. Watch video after video and you’ll find each subtly different.

Nuances abound in the cigar world, but don’t worry about the “right way.”

Fuck the nuances. At this point, you just want that sucker

1. On fire and

2. To remain lit.

 

Your spokesmodel for the evening:
Caballero #3

Lighting the cigar with no fanfare:

1. Cut about a 1/16th off the end. (This is a post for another day.)

2. “Toast” the end that doesn’t go in your mouth.* Blow it out if it keeps flaming as you pull the lighter away.

What that means: hold it above the flame and spin it a bit—just like you’re toasting a marshmallow.** You’re warming up the wrapper.

Not so much for demonstration purposes,
but to show my mad photography skills.
And by "mad," I mean "bad."

3. Put the stick in your mouth*** and hold the flame about an inch from the foot. You’re lighting the filler.

4. Puff a couple of times.

4.5 Dear god, don’t inhale.

5. Hand the house lighter back to the cigartender.****

 

6. Repeat 3-5 as necessary if the cigar goes out.

Fire! Fire! Fire!

 

*This shouldn’t have to be said, and yet…

**If you’re one of those assholes that burns the marshmallow, stay the fuck away from cigars.

***Heh heh heh.

****Don’t even think about pocketing it. Yes, it’s nice, but it’s not yours.