Going through airport security in a highly conservative location like Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, while wearing a shirt that reads, "One by one the penguins steal my sanity", will get you noticed.

Bet on it.

I've been almost exactly a week in Oklahoma, now. My annual trip back for the holidays, to visit family and friends. But it's a trip I look forward to less and less each year, because the longer I live in California the less tolerance I have for breathing smoke.

Say what you will about the pervasiveness of California's anti-smoking laws. But you easily forget the difference it makes until you're in a place where not only do restaurants have a smoking section, often it's larger than the non-smoking section. And if a restaurant has a smoking section, they don't really have a non-smoking section, after all.

I wonder how much of it is cultural, because the influence is everywhere. Oklahoma isn't really the deep south, but it's far enough. And smoking is pretty much everywhere– I've seen more occurances of the "I Smoke and I Vote" bumper-sticker in the last week than I've seen in the previous year. An effort to get legislation to bar smoking in restaurants was killed, so the health department mandated that restaurants either declare themselves as all-smoking, all-non-smoking, or build an enclosed smoking area with its own ventilation. The state courts struck that down, after restaurant owners protested. And they protested having to go completely smoke-free, saying that it would drive them out of business (but it hasn't in California).

In truth, I suppose the main reason I find this so much of a bother is that my own dad, in whose house I'm staying, is a three-pack-a-day man. The smell permeates all the clothing I brought with me, as well as my leather jacket and hat. I'll be coughing and wheezing for about two weeks after I get home tomorrow. I brush my teeth every chance I get, but there is a lingering ashen taste in my mouth that stems from just breathing around here (not to mention when I go out to eat with my dad). The house that I grew up in has a grey haze in all the rooms. It is important to note that it was my grandparents' house when I was raised here, and it was always impeccably clean then. Now, it's dingy and dusty with wallpaper peeling from the walls and dishes on the counter and in the sink that have sat literally for years. It's as thought the condition of the house is a purposeful metaphor for the way things have changed in general since my grandmother's passing left the house to my dad.