Get active, moving
But wait, what’s that over there?
Couch — my weekend’s planned.
With bonus cat picture. This one is Feline, Thoroughly Disgusted.
This morning as I was backing out of the driveway to head to work, I saw something on the front lawn that I hadn’t noticed before. A lawn statue. Specifically, a three-foot high statue of a little boy holding a cup of water, with a small songbird perched on his arm.
On one hand, it was the most trite, sickly sweet thing I’ve ever seen. On the other hand, it had poorly defined features and the eyes of the undead, which lent it a surprising creepiness. So at least it had that whole other level of yuck going for it.
My husband Brian likes to do yard work on his days off, and he was off yesterday, which explains the sudden appearance of trite zombie bird boy — Brian actually likes little knick-knack garden things like that.
I, on the other hand, hate them with a passion that burns hotter than a thousand suns.
Here’s a sentence one wouldn’t normally expect to encounter pretty much ever:
And now you’ve encountered it. Glad I could help.
Anyway, this is a normal part of the tattoo healing process, but now there are flakes of otter all over the place. It’s like New Year’s Eve with confetti everywhere, except the confetti is made of human flesh.
Sometimes I post for the sake of posting.
Get it? “Otter take care of that,” “ought to take care…” Ha ha! Hey, whaddaya expect for free? Although to be honest, I doubt paying me would make it any better. Also, is it possible to digress if you haven’t actually started yet?
I have to keep it like this for three days, which means through Memorial Day weekend and my first day back at work on Tuesday.
Of course I’ve been asked about it. “Why is there plastic wrap around your arm?”
“Keeping it fresh.”
“So I can make sandwiches during the week.”
“Well, it would be a waste to throw out all this meat.”
Nothing like waking up to a beautiful country morning in Springtime — my cat softly purring at the foot of the bed, the bluebirds chirping outside the window, and burly guys all over my roof pounding it like it owes them money.
It’s not a blog until there’s a cat picture. So here’s Elwood getting all up in your face.
(Phoebe’s asleep because she can’t be bothered. You’re on your own.)
I smoked for 23 years. Three times I tried to give it up, and three times I failed. Each time, I tried to prepare myself by reading up on what to expect at different points in the quitting process, looking to people who had quit successfully to learn effective strategies to handle the anxiety, and relying on the people closest to me to keep me in a positive frame of mind. And each time, the withdrawal slammed me to the ground and stomped me into the dirt.
Finally, a couple of years ago I figured out why I was having such a hard time quitting: encouragement.
I hate it.
All of that happy, positive, “When you quit you’ll know what bluebirds really taste like and rainbows will smell so much better!” shit does not work on me. I figured that out in March of 2011 — and I haven’t had a cigarette since.
In January of last year I posted this in the Giving Up Smoking group at Daily Kos, in case it might help anyone else who was looking to quit:
Have you made a New Year’s resolution to quit smoking? Welcome!
Many of you have a plan. You’ve set today as your quit date, you’ve read books and websites telling you what to expect, and you’ve psyched yourself up for this. You’ve got a great support network around you. Maybe you’ve even got a workout plan, including distracting little exercises you can do at work when you feel a craving coming on. You’re happy, positive and looking forward to the new, healthier, non-smoking you. Well, you know what? You’ll be fine. You’re well prepared to handle the ups and downs that will come your way. You’re going to beat that nico-demon!
So I’m not talking to you.
Okay, now, the rest of you. The ones thinking: “‘Nico-demon’? Oh, Christ, this is another one of those ‘you can do it, li’l camper!’ pep talks. I hate those fucking things.”
So do I. When I quit smoking, my method was heavy on bitterness and sarcasm. I embraced the hell and owned the hostility, and so can you!
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