It's Better to be a Smart Ass...

I once knew a guy who, despite being a father, thought he could justify not ever using his seatbelt. He lamely gave me the reason for why he didn't use it and I just shook my head and said, "The bottom line is this: you don't use your seatbelt because you're a dumbass."

That being said, it's day five of quitting smoking and today I have begun to see the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. I know everyone reacts differently to quitting an addiction or habit. Like most smokers, I have put down cigarettes several times in my life. During the first week of deprivation, everything in my life is tragic and everyone makes me mad. Even the cutest, most sugary videos of puppies and kittens sliding down rainbows onto toddlers will make me want to sever ties with everyone I know and move to some remote coastal fishing village in Canada. (And no, in this fantasy I can't move to a remote coastal fishing village in the Caribbean because I will just want to crack open a Corona Light and smoke a cigarette).

Now that this dark phase is nearing an end, I know I can look forward to beginning the self-righteous phase. There are lots of positive aspects to this phase. The pure sense of accomplishment, for one. The motivation to do other things that will help me become even healthier. And let us not forget the utter sense of superiority I'll feel over anyone who is still smoking - that is, once I let go of the driving, bitter jealousy I feel towards them for still allowing themselves a cigarette whenever they want one.

But, to be honest, the one aspect of quitting in which I am taking a full-on bubble bath right now is knowing that if I succeed in this endeavor, never again will I feel the shame of being caught smoking by one of my friends' young children, nor will I have to find a way to answer the inevitable questions that follow; for example, "Why do you smoke?" or "Don't you know that smoking kills you?"

There is only one adequate response you can give to the four-year old who asks you these questions and then schools you with the latest statistics from the American Lung Association (as you hide your cigarette behind your back and attempt to exhale into your stomach so he doesn't see the smoke) and that response is this:  I smoke because I am a dumbass.

Yes, I Like to Torture Myself Almost as Much as I Like to Torture Dogs

Well, I'm a little late with the update this week, but that is because I am once again on the cigarette wagon, and that means that most of my thoughts have been very grumpy. For those of you who thought I went on the wagon in March/April… well, I fell off.

Today is day four. I haven't killed anyone (yet) and I think I can get through writing this without bursting into tears. You know, giving up cigarettes is hard every time, and I have the same predictable reactions to stopping the habit every time (yes, this is where some of you will want to quote Einstein about the definition of insanity, and yes, you are right). It doesn't matter that I went over a month without smoking back in March and April; it is just as hard this time. My husband has learned my pattern, though, and knows not to take anything personally the first week of quitting, like when I burst into tears or just leave the room without saying anything. Or when I roll around on the floor hugging an empty box of cigarettes, reminiscing about the good ol’ days and asking why cigarettes aren’t made of vitamins and vegetables.

By next Monday or Tuesday, the fog will start to lift and I will start thinking happy thoughts again.

As part of the quit smoking, get in shape and feel better effort, we have begun walking the hill behind our house. The road behind our house climbs up, up, up for a little over a mile and it's steep. We figure it will be much cheaper than a gym, and it is definitely a workout. The kind of workout where you start making little noises as you exhale, like, "whew," and "mercy" and "holy crap this is hard, I’m going to sit down over here until I stop seeing spots."

Before I stopped the smoking (again), we made it down to Fayetteville, GA to visit our good friends Joe and Judy, who invited us to hang out at their pool. We love Joe and Judy, and not just because they have a sweet pool and will drink frozen margaritas in the middle of the day.

This is Shelby, Joe and Judy's grand-dog. We met Shelby during our visit to Joe and Judy's house in June.
 

Shelby is a big fan of chasing the automatic pool cleaner, but she is not a big fan of swimming. After an afternoon of Shelby keeping the pool cleaner in line - and let's be honest, after much encouragement from me - Joe decided it was time for Shelby to take a swim. Knuckles did her best to encourage Shelby to stop acting like a cat and swim for a while, but to no avail.

If you put your ear to your computer screen, you will hear the four-letter expletives Shelby mutters as she swims back towards the stairs. Let's just say Shelby gave Joe (and the pool cleaner) a wide berth after this.

It's The Little Things, and Not So Little

Observation: It actually makes me stupid happy when I can get exactly the number of ice cubes I want out of the automatic ice dispenser and into my glass in one shot.

I think one of the earliest signs of settling into a new house is when you master the rhythm of your automatic ice maker. There are always those early days in a new house when, based on some ice maker from a previous life, you assume you know just how quickly and exactly how many ice cubes that sucker is going to spit into your glass. Until you get past that assumption and start paying attention, you're going to be picking up ice and tossing it into the dog's bowl or stepping your sock feet in cold puddles left by rogue ice cubes.


Oh, and check out the monster tires I saw on the highway recently.




Come on, just take it in for a minute how big those tires are... and don't think about how there are people out there who take pictures like this while maintaining 70mph on the highway.