Really, a pretty good day

As usual, I needed to keep my hands busy, so I made cards with the latest Club Scrap kit. I love the purple.

I did keep busy, which I think helps, even when you're taking Chantix.

As a result of a beloved old teacher's death, I talked to two old friends whom I hadn't talked to recently. Both of them asked me how I was doing in general, and I was able to share with them that I had stopped smoking. And both of these dear old friends were absolutely thrilled.

That helps, I think -- to get positive affirmation at such a difficult time.

Also, I got lots of praise from my family. I made tacos for dinner tonight. That seems so easy, since El Paso makes taco dinner "kits." But in truth, one has to chop the tomatoes, slice the lettuce, grate the cheese, and put the sour cream, taco sauce, and picante sauce in places that all the guests can enjoy those condiments. It's not just a matter of browning the ground beef and crisping the taco shells after all, y'know.

And we Loftises do love taco night.

All of that aside, I didn't smoke again today. It was actually a pretty good day. I talked to two people who hadn't talked to our theatre teacher in years, and we were all choked up, and I didn't smoke.

That equals a pretty good Chantix day.

Very rough day

I had some sad news today, and I didn't smoke. In fact, I actually thought a few hours later, "Dang, I didn't get a chance to tell her I quit smoking." And she would've loved it.

A dear old friend of the family, who was also my high school drama coach, died yesterday. I actually hadn't talked to her recently. The last time I heard from her was in an email in 2002 when she was retiring from teaching at the high school. (She went on to teach and direct at the local college in her "retirement.") She wondered if I still had my teaching certificate. She was trying to find a replacement for herself.

There is no replacement for her.

Teachers touch so many lives; it's cliched to say that she influenced hundreds of people through her years of teaching. But -- for me, she was more than a teacher and a director. She was literally a friend of my mother's. I didn't just have to toe the line in class or on the stage -- I was gonna run into Pat at dinner or when my mother was walking all summer long for her health.

When I first heard about this, I was empty. I was speechless. I literally sat for many seconds and couldn't think of anything to say.

Late in the afternoon, I drove half an hour south to buy a newspaper with an article about her. And on the way, I told my daughter the story of how Pat was a power-hungry, controlling megalomaniac who exerted her will over young actors and actresses without mercy, and how I broke her record when I turned out to be the only person in my high school who could sing well enough to be Peter Pan.

At the end of my awful story, Emily asked me, "Why did you go visit her if you didn't like her?"

And I said, "Because she had all the power, and I had to pay homage."

Hours later -- as I sit at my sad little second-hand desk and pound out my blog entry -- I realize, no, it was more than all the power that Pat wielded to keep me running back to her every few years to beg for a favor. It was that -- no matter what -- no matter how big or small -- no matter how long it had been since I had done anything nice for *her* -- if I called Pat and asked her to help me, she always did.

She always did.

She designed the set of the first play I ever directed; she let me use her theatre at the high school for practically nothing; she always helped me design my lighting schemes; and once she let me walk into her years-collected, vast array of a costume closet, and she let me take whatever I wanted, and she let me *wreck* those costumes with alterations.

And she never asked for anything in return. Except once, she emailed me and told me to be nicer to my oldest sister, the difficult one, the one who drives me the craziest, and for that reason alone, I haven't talked to Pat in about five years.

It's not fair.

I always thought I would have more time to figure out what to say to her.

And she's gone.

She would've loved it that I'm not smoking, so I can't break down now and have a cigarette.

(I made the sign that still hangs in the make-up room at the high school theatre. It reads, "Smoke Not, Thou Sinner, Thou!" That sign has hung there since 1983. I started smoking in 1985.)

Gah, I miss her.

Another one bites the dust

I made it through yet another day without a cigarette.

Can I just say -- can I *please* just say -- how absolutely benign this is all beginning to feel? I'm starting to think I shouldn't blog about it. "Ho hum, didn't smoke for another day, blah dee blah, Chantix rocks." I must sound like a broken record.

But that's the thing: I didn't smoke for another day. It wasn't even terribly difficult. Like most of my days since, oh, the fourth quit day. I just don't think about smoking. When I do think about it, I tell myself, "Move on," and I do. As a result -- I'm not smoking. I don't buy cigarettes. I don't light them. I am not smoking.

And somehow, it all seems utterly pedantic to keep prattling on about how I'm not smoking.

Yesterday, my first dose of Chantix was so late before I remembered it that I actually had nausea for the first time in weeks. And then I totally forgot to take the night time dose.

If I can forget to take the drug -- and I can forget to smoke the cigarette -- doesn't that make me an ... ex-smoker?

I have stress. My children rely on me for their education; there's a tree falling down in the back yard; I had a North American marsupial in my laundry room; my air conditioning broke for the millionth time in the last seven years. Bills have to be paid; dinner has to be cooked. My hair still doesn't trip my zizz wheel.

Stress happens. It happens all the time, to absolutely everyone. It isn't enough to make me want to light a cigarette and un-do all the NOT smoking I've done over the past couple of weeks.

So I'm not sure it's worth mentioning that I made it through another day without a cigarette. Maybe I should start posting every third day. Maybe then it will be more relevant.

But I have to say -- if you're a smoker, and you're researching Chantix... I endorse this drug wholeheartedly. I cannot possibly be the only one responsible for my quitting. It has to be the Chantix.

Southern heat

It's September, and I live in the South, and my air conditioner is broken.

This is ugly, no matter which way you slice it. Southern girls don't even acknowledge the possibility of sweating.

My husband tells me the rotor is sheered off. Or maybe it's sheared off. I honestly don't understand the difference between those two verbs or what the heck a rotor is; I just know that my air conditioner is not keeping me cool.

And so, in almost unbearable heat and humidity, I know that I didn't smoke.

So the Chantix must still be doing its job.

(Truth be told, I was so hot that I took the first dose of Chantix almost two hours late. I had the nausea for the first ime in weeks. I got through it; I didn't buy any cigarettes; and I have not smoked.)

Viva la difference!

Happy Hollerdays

I'm just warning you -- if you're squeamish or easily upset by tales that can only come from the boonies, then you should skip this post.

Seriously.

I did not have a lovely Sunday. It was supposed to be perfectly lovely, and I spent most of the day happily making scrapbook pages and stamping and stenciling paper to my heart's content. When I wasn't making stuff out of paper, I made a roast beef dinner. We do love roast beast. The pot roast was so big that I didn't have room in the pot for all our potatoes, so I had to make some mashed potatoes to fill out the order. That beef, with potatoes and green beans, was a lovely dinner.

While I was making it, I realized that the kitchen surely was hot.

Well, of course, that's not entirely unexpected. Lots of burners and ovens running, after all.

But the dining room was hot. And the hall was hot. And come to think of it, every room was hot.

Yep. Air conditioner. On the fritz.

And it's a holiday weekend. Can't call the repair dude 'til Tuesday. Argh.

So after my lovely dinner, I tried to open windows and move box fans around to facilitate the natural cooling of the house as the evening air became cooler and cooler.

Finally -- long after dark, around midnight, when I just couldn't stand the heat any more, I opened the front door to let in even more cool air.

Then I went to the kitchen and cleaned up a bit.

During the time that I was in there, Two Major Things happened.

Major Thing #1. My cat Hector escaped.
I don't know how he did it. I had closed him up in the back of the house. But somehow he got the door to the back hallway open, and he walked right out the front door.

I spent a good bit of time running around and looking for Hector. Yep. Running around the yard in my jammies with a flashlight and calling "kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty!" More fun than I can recommend.

Hector did come back home -- he literally just walked up to me and said hello, so I picked him up and carried him back inside.

So that leads to the other thing that happened while the front door was open. After I brought Hector inside, I took him to his food dish to remind him why he should stay inside, and while I was in the back hallway....

Major Thing #2. A small, young, not fully grown opossum climbed up to the top of my laundry hamper, looked at me solemnly, and promptly disappeared behind the washing machine.
I tried not to scream and jump around like an idiot. Wesley, my husband, has been asleep for hours and needs to get up at 4:00 to go to work. Screaming would accomplish nothing and would just deprive the poor thing of some much-needed sleep.

I can only assume that the opossum came in while the front door was open, and he headed for the cat's food because it smelled the best. (Obviously opossums don't know how great leftover roast beef is, and I'm glad, so don't anyone tell my houseguest the opossum, because I do not want to share.)

Since meeting this uninvited guest, I have Googled "opossum extermination," "opossum removal," and just plain "opossum" in an effort to figure out what to do as the night turns to the wee hours of the morning and I'm still freaking out because there's a 9-inch rat-tailed beast in my laundry room.

And now I feel guilty because I wanted to stomp that baby possum. Because there are actual organizations out there to promote the health and well-being of the only North American marsupial. Turns out opossums don't contract rabies, are very delicate little critters, and actually eat all sorts of things that we humans really don't like -- like mice, rats, and slugs.

Still, I don't want a baby possum living in my back hallway, so if he doesn't leave really soon, we're going to have some issues.

All of this has stressed me out more than I can say. Dead air conditioner -- ow. Missing Hector -- dang it. And visiting opossum -- eek.

If I had a cigarette, I would definitely be smoking it right now.

But I don't have one. There's a convenience store just ten minutes away. I'm not driving there.

I've made it almost two weeks without a cigarette, and I am not going to cave in now just because things are a little weird around here. I shall prevail.

Chantix is a miracle drug. I swear.

And happy Labor Day. I hope yours is smoother and more relaxing than mine might be.

Obsequious

When, exactly, did the word "obsequious" become negative? It means "marked by a fawning attentiveness." As someone who really loves applause, attention, and anything remotely related to praise, I am trying to understand how "obsequious" could be a bad thing.

Sorry. I was just watching "Miss Congeniality" for a minute while I was flipping channels.

Chantix Day 32, Quit Day 12

To be honest, I think today was one of those slightly rougher days. I was fidgety and distracted all day long. I still engaged in a number of productive tasks to keep my hands busy, but at the end of each tiny job, I wanted to give myself a cigarette for a reward.

I didn't, though. I didn't smoke a cigarette; I didn't buy a pack. And sometimes, at the end of the day, just noting those two accomplishments is enough to make me feel like trying another non-cigaretted day.

A friend of mine -- a very dear friend of mine -- just went to Disney World last weekend with her daughter, and they had a wonderful trip during which, on ONE DAY, they ran around three parks (Disney-MGM Studios, Epcot, and the Magic Kingdom), went swimming in the best Disney resort pool (Stormalong Bay), and finished out their day with an evening at Pleasure Island.

Just six years ago, my dear friend and I would have done the same thing as if we were her daughter's age. In fact, we *did* do exactly that -- just seven years ago. (And five years ago, and three years ago...)

Last November when we were there together, the running about like teenagers was pretty severely limited by my total inability to run without wheezing.

So I was reading my friend's report of her day with her daughter, and practically crying with jealousy and hope for *our* next trip to Walt Disney World, and then I realized -- the next time I go to Disney World with Krisi, I'll be a non-smoker.

Maybe... maybe I won't wheeze as much. Maybe I'll be able to keep ahead of the crowds. Maybe I'll be able to dance all night without having to take smoke breaks!

I hope my friend quits smoking, too. That'll make life a lot easier if we're both non-smokers.

But see, that's part of the thing I wrote about early on in this blog. ALL my best friends smoke. My sister Amy smoked. Krisi smokes. My very dear friend Terri smokes. The people I love the mostest -- all smoke. Well, OK, Amy and I quit. But -- I can't help but hope that Krisi and Terri quit, too. I don't want to pressure them, but I am really gonna be hard pressed to stay quit if I'm hangin' out in the smoking areas with my friends.

Sniffle.

See? I said it was a rough day.

Sunday will be easier. I'm coming up on two weeks without a cigarette, and I have to say -- I am really very hopeful that this is the end for me and smoking. And my sister Amy (who has just sailed away on an Alaskan cruise today) has quit, too, which is a huge motivating factor for me. We quit together! We quit together! And together, we can beat our cravings for cigarettes!!!!

Deep sigh... wistful glance into the future....

All the cool kids

I've made it another day without smoking. And the strange thing is, it really is getting easier. I don't feel like I'm struggling that hard to get through a day without a cigarette.

On the other hand, in the middle of wanting one, it feels like all I want is to smoke.

I was trying to think of some cool way to say, "Hey, I'm not suffering," and there is no cool way to say that. It's like saying, "I didn't stub my toe today." I think most people make it through their days without stubbing toes or suffering or smoking. So to comment on it -- even though I am clearly very special and wonderful for making it 11 days or so without smoking -- seems inherently uncool.

Tennessee has recently enacted a bunch of laws against smoking. There are the recently increased taxes, to be sure, but there are also new laws against smoking in restaurants. These kinds of laws drive me crazy on a political level.

On the other hand, non-smoking restaurants are some of my newest bestest friends. I have been living in fear of running into a big cloud of cigarette smoke in public, worrying that smelling it would send me into such a tizzy of nostalgic longing, it would compel me to run to the nearest store, buy a big pack of cigarettes, and immediately smoke 8 in a row. Or maybe all at once. I just didn't know what would happen if I smelled cigarette smoke.

Today -- after literally scrubbing certain kitchen appliances for hours in order to remove caked on grease and grime -- I decided I didn't want to cook dinner. (OK, really, I never want to cook dinner, but frugality forces me to do so most of the time.) So I called in an order at a restaurant in a town 20 minutes away, and then I drove there to pick it up. This is what you do when you live in the boonies. There is no such thing as "delivery."

So I drove the 20 minutes and walked inside... and the first thing I noticed was a sign that read, "This establishment will be non-smoking as of October 1st."

On the left side of the restaurant, which has been the smoking area since the mid-1990's, only a smattering of tables held customers. On the non-smoking side of the restaurant, every table was full.

And at a table right behind me, there was a cigarette in an ashtray at a completely empty table, burning merrily away.

Totally unavoidable lungs-fuls of delicious, delectable, unfettered, unattached, unattended and presumably unowned tobacco smoke.

If it hadn't been a brown-filtered cigarette of some non-mentholated sort, I might have been tempted to steal it and run away.

Nah, that's not true. I'll be honest; I had a tingle up and down my spine and part of me thrilled and wondered how I would react to this temptation. But -- it didn't do much of anything to me. I didn't long for a cigarette. I wasn't disgusted by the smoke. It was actually kind of a letdown to realize that -- only 11 or so days into this quitting thing -- I seem to have no emotional reaction to live cigarette smoke.

Dang, y'all, if cigarettes were an ex-boyfriend, I would at least have a mild temper tantrum, wouldn't I?

So -- y'know, whatev. Let's see what Day 111 brings, shall we?