I love me some Hookah!

Our dear friend Jenny S. has a hookah that she often brings out at her extravagant parties. While Margot's not one to try it–like her brother she's never even taken a drag off an unlit cigarette–I'm all in at parties. We used to get into fights about smoking–she hates it, think it’s disgusting, and the deal was no kisses if I smoked. Now the need for both smoking and kisses seems to have subsided, so that’s no longer an issue.

However, hookah smoking doesn’t seem to bother Margot as much–the smoke is cooler. Plus, our unwritten rule in these parts is that all smoking–hookah included–occurs outside. When Jenny and the girls get together, they go through tons of hookah tobacco, including flavored, and well, uh, wacky tobaccky.

It seems that Jenny was cool before hookahs were cool, and now it’s all the rage. I think she picked hers up in Africa–that’s true commitment. Last summer when we went to Vegas, we drove by at least two hookah bars near our resort. The idea intrigued me–not that I’d smoke–but somehow the thought of bringing the then-18-month-old Grammy into a hookah bar didn’t seem right. Even in Vegas.

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