Who says you need to be a smoker?

A few nights ago, Jeff and I were reminiscing about the old days and I remembered this story. In Kindergarten, we had the opportunity to make things out of clay. The teacher then had them fired and viola! We had ourselves some fancy-schmancy fingerprint-laden, only-a-mother-could-love pottery. It was up to us what to make. A vase, maybe, or a paperclip holder, or a cup. Or, if you were me, an ashtray. Some of the other kids were making them and I thought it was a great idea. My parents would love an ashtray! So, I painstakingly handcrafted a wobbly excuse for an ashtray. I painted it in delicate shades of red, yellow, and gray. We all relinquished our mini-masterpieces to be taken off to the kiln. When my piece came back, I was so impressed. The dull paint had become glossy in the kiln. The clay had hardened into something permanent. I just knew my parents would love it. I took it home and proudly presented them with their very own ashtray. Never had it occured to me that ashtrays were for smokers, which my parents were not. Despite the fact that their five year old just presented them with an ashtray, my parents acted like they loved it. I think it ended up being a paperclip holder afterall. I am sure they had a good laugh about that one after I went to bed.