Spy vs. Spy

My dad is 72 years old, and he's smoked since he was 15. After he was diagnosed with diabetes, and following his triple bypass surgery a few years ago, we were certain he'd finally quit.

And he did, for a while.

What really kept his engine running at peak performance had more to do with my mom. With precision and tactics that would make a Nazi soldier blush, Youla, or Cápitán as she is known by her core fan base, has launched an anti-tobacco campaign of fear and retribution since 2002. One whiff of a cigarette or a cashew molecule puts her on red alert.

In response, my dad has developed strategic, yet poorly-conceived defenses that involve hiding the evidence. A Costco bin of salted cashews is kept under the bed, wrapped in the covert Target shopping bag. A pack of cigarettes fits snugly behind the bathroom cabinet. He offers to water the lawn in the wintertime and at odd hours, when he can smoke unnoticed.

And so both engage in a song and dance that has evolved to heights not seen since Spy vs. Spy.

My mom now vacuums the bedroom in a deliberate intricate pattern. Sneaky footprints are evidence of trespass and literally point to concealed stashes of the peanut or the Marlboro Reds. She has him convinced that she's got spies in Target and Costco who call her whenever they see him make an unverified purchase.

But she doesn't stop there. With Youla, knowing that my Dad has no self-control is not enough. Nor is ensuring that he knows she knows by having a conversation, say, at breakfast the next morning. "I saw your peanuts. It's not good for your cholesterol. Stoppit. " or "Quit smoking. You'll end up in the hospital." These phrases of direct confrontation is not part of her ammunition.

No, she prefers instead to play little war games. This way she injects a bit of her dark humor during her the castration process. So she'll replace the cigarettes in bathroom with carrot sticks. The cashews are left in place but substituted with rocks from the backyard.

To my dad's credit, he doesn't give her any satisfaction that he's been caught. Youla waits like a cat and will later casually ask him if he wants carrots for dinner. Or if he's seen any new rocks lately.

"Who me? What do you mean? I don't know what you're talking about," Dad says. Then he goes in his room to watch Jeopardy.

There are times when my mom doesn't operate on the down low. She'll strew the cashews all over the bed and leave them there in a silly looking heap. Or, and this is my favorite, she'll tail him to the local Greek restaurant, walk right up to him in front of his buddies and grab the cigarette right out of his mouth, stomping on it wordlessly before spinning on her heel to return home.

The Greek mom is a proponent of public humiliation.

It's true that Youla has an almost unfair advantage on my dad. The rods and cones of her eyeballs are pre-programmed to detect the shapes of suspicious food items or other trafficked goods. One time she caught Dino walking past her out the door, when she suddenly stopped him. She didn't even need to frisk him. Something about the outline of the bulge in his pants leg didn't look quite right. It turned out to be a carton of cigarettes bulging from a knee sock.

He didn't really have a chance.