Day 21: Dog Has Cahones Removed, Hilarity Ensues

On Thursday Hops had (in the words of my father-in-law) his do-dads removed. The cone they gave him was too small, so Mike googled other alternatives.   See photo for details:

"If you can't duck it..."

Didn't expect that adage to apply to my dog.

Anyway, poor pup is totally restless and miserably uncomfortable because he has a towel duck-taped to his head and he can't enjoy his favorite past-time: licking his balls.

I too am uncomfortable and miserable due to a significant change in my life, so he and I and Mike (who is miserable by association) have been spending a considerable amount of time sitting on soft things and watching Netflix.

In case you were wondering what we've been up to these days.

Day 21: How to Help a Quitter

I think, if you have never been addicted to something, then you can't really know what its like to give up smoking.



If you were addicted to crack or smack or meth, then you win, because I have no idea what its like to be stoopid.

When you're quitting smoking, people like to tell you their stories of quitting stuff. Lots of people claim they smoked and "quit after college," but after a few minutes of conversation you find out that this person was never A Smoker. This person was a Social Smoker -- better known to pack-a-day Smokers (like yours truly) as Wasted-Guy-Who-Bums-Off-You or Friend-Who-Thinks-Not-Buying-A-Pack-But-Smoking-Half-of-Yours-Still-Means-He's-A-NonSmoker. These people like to claim they were smokers in college, because in college smoking was cool. Now, smokers are sort of like the scourge of society -- banished to sidewalks in sub-zero weather and further condemned for their inclination to litter when an ashtray is unavailable.

So when Social Smokers try to claim they can relate to what I'm going through, I smile and nod, but on the inside I'm thinking: Your "empathy" is actually a little insulting.

Because, bitch, I smoked for 15 years. Yeah. You smoked for FOUR.

I win.

(Okay, that's laughable. What do I win? Emphysema? Heart disease? Yellow teeth? Wrinkles? An Iron Lung?)



But it got me thinking: People don't know what to say to someone who recently quit smoking. And that's okay. It just means I need to write a guide for folks who want to support a Quitter.



There are a number of guides on this topic just a quick Google search away, but most of them offer vague advice like "Be positive!" or advice for spouses like "Pack snacks in the Quitter's lunch with positive messages hidden inside!"





Let's be more pragmatic, shall we?



1. Realize that the Quitter has just totally overhauled her lifestyle.


This means: everything is different. For fifteen years I smoked when I: drank coffee, finished a task, got frustrated, was bored, accomplished something big, was sad, talked on the phone, began my evening, took the dog outside to pee, hung out with girlfriends, drove around running errands, finished a meal, left my parents' place, had a bad day at work....



Now I don't have anything to do when I do those things. Its uncomfortable. It makes me feel... not me. And it makes it hard for me to do the things I used to to.



Be patient. I will get back to myself. I just need to figure out what non-smoker me looks like.




2. Do not talk about the health benefits of quitting.


First of all, I already know smoking is bad for me and quitting is good for me. I passed high school health class too.



Second, I know there is some damage I have done to my body that cannot be undone. When you talk about how my health will improve, I think about the things that won't go back to before. That stresses me out. Know what I used to do when I was stressed? I smoked. Don't stress a smoker out. Ever.


3. Listen to me.


There are a few people in my life who are very close to me who will not let me talk about quitting. Its okay. I still love you. They think talking about it will make me think about smoking and therefore make me want a cigarette.


It doesn't work like that.


First, the things that make me want a cigarette are listed above. If we are not engaged in one of those activities, we're probably good.


Second, Quitter is ALREADY thinking about smoking all the time. So talking about it is actually a release, not a stressor.


4. Do not ask me to come out and keep you company while you have a smoke, or ask if its okay if you have a smoke around me, or apologize for smoking around me.


Its my choice to not smoke and I won't impose it on you. But here's where my head is at: I can't smoke. It sucks. You can. I am jealous. I will get over it.



I'm just gonna hang here inside where I can get over it without being grumpy.


5. Be my cheerleader.

I love a high-five. I love it when you order me a ginger ale on the rocks and toast my success. I love it when you say "I am so proud of you." I love it when you give me a hug and tell me I'm going to make it. I love it when you post on my blog telling me you believe in me, or text me that you're thinking of me, or email me to say you understand.


This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I need lots of cheerleaders.


And I need them well past the first few days. When Quitter first announces that she has quit, everyone is so excited! There are seemingly endless rounds of Good-for-You's and You-Can-Do-It's!


Then they end. Quitter seems okay. You kind of forget about it. Life just moves on.



Totally understandable. But here's something you may not know: Quitting gives Quitter a high at first. Quitter is enthusiastic! Quitter is on board! Quitter is ready for the challenge!


Then, life moves on. Real life happens. Stress happens and laundry and to do lists and jobs and the high wears off and then Quitter is just slogging through life -- without smokes.


Quitter needs you most around weeks 2 and 3, when the excitement has worn off and then its just a life without something Quitter liked.



6. Tell me I'm pretty.

Because I feel like a jiggly sack of lard. Holy fried food, batman, can I just tell you what I ate yesterday?



I ate a Starbucks egg sandwich, two cookies that were lying around unattended in the teacher's lounge, a baked potato the size of my forearm with butter, cheese, sour cream, and BACON; half a serving platter of chicken Parmesan and a cheesecake.



The day before I ate a Dunkin Donuts egg sandwich, three chocolate donut holes, at least a dozen potato chips with onion dip, a chicken sandwich from Starbucks, two slices of pizza, two double-chocolate-chunk cookies and a mini-Hershey's bar leftover from my Christmas stocking.


I do not feel pretty. I feel like I am willing to eat anything not nailed down to a solid surface.



This is not entirely an oral fixation thing. Its just that without beer and cigarettes, I'm running out of things to look forward to and indulge in and food has become something fun to do in place of my vices.



So I feel fat. And taking on dieting right now is just not an option. I'm running. That's enough.



But it helps when someone says I look nice, or healthy or that I'm glowing (someone at work told me that last week, and I'm still riding that high). Compliments reduce my stress and boost my confidence, and those are things I can really use right now.

***************************************************************************************

I hope this was helpful. Or entertaining. Or both.

Thanks to everyone reading and cheering me on. You are definitely helping this Quitter.

Day 20: Flashback Friday: Failure to Fail

Today was a rough week, folks. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The euphoric high I was experiencing earlier in the trial started to wear off as the general stress from work, schedules, responsibilities and budget piled back on after the holiday season ended.

A few nights ago, I had a beer and a smoke. Actually, I had three smokes.

The next day I got up, put it behind me, and got right back on track. I haven't had another beer or smoke since.

But it reminded me of an experience I had a few years ago when I was working with the Miracle League to create a fundraising video for their annual gala. That same year, I was asked to be the keynote speaker at the induction ceremony for the Beta Club -- an organization at James River, devoted primarily to community service. In my talk I told the story of the Miracle League video.

While I was clearing out files (read: procrastinating) I found the talk I gave that night in April. I re-read it, and I remembered that I have tripped and stumbled before.

Not failed. I haven't failed. But I stumbled. I'll grant you stumbled. But it won't stop me from seeing this through.

Instead of telling some mortally embarassing story from my past to prepare and invigorate me for the weekend, I've decided to reprint the talk here, to remind myself that its okay to stumble. Real success is when you get back up.

***************************************************************************

Good evening parents, colleagues, Mr. Principal and Beta club members and inductees.

It is a privilege for me to be here, amongst students who choose to find ways to improve their community.

I want to speak briefly about my history with service, because I went to a high school similar to this one – except that it was all girls, only had 400 students and we all wore uniforms that made us look like elves. It was a Catholic school and while community service was not required, it was expected that we would all contribute to school-wide service events and seek opportunities to give back to the community on our own time. And we did, mostly because it was a part of our school culture, and that is very much what I see here. At Anonymous High School, there are constantly capstone projects in the works, Do-Something events in action, and members of PEACE club picking bottles out of the trash for recycling. But probably the greatest testament to the community service culture of AHS is the fact (and as the yearbook advisor responsible for taking all the club pictures, I can tell you this is a fact) that Beta Club, a service organization, is the largest club on the AHS campus.

My experience in high school has made me a person who feels a sense of civic engagement – a sense that I belong to the community in which I live – and so I feel responsible to help its members. Because of my high school experience, service is a lifestyle, not just a part of my life.

I want to tell you about my most recent experience with service, because I learned SOO much.

My future father in law, Marty, got involved a while back with an organization called the Miracle League. They build baseball fields with a special kind of smooth turf. The purpose of these fields is to allow children who use walkers or wheelchairs or even crutches or braces an opportunity to play baseball.

Marty was the contractor on the field and my fiancé put in countless hours towards its completion. However, at this time I was not involved at all. When it came time to raise money for a second field, the organization decided to throw a giant auction and gala – and they wanted a video to play at the event.

Marty volunteered me. He is not computer savvy, so he confused my offer to make a powerpoint, with an offer to make a video. He is not aware there is a difference.

He volunteers me. Me! Me who has no idea how to make a video. Yearbooks, sure. Newspapers, absolutely. I even know how to use photoshop to make you look 10 lbs lighter and 10 years younger. But a video? That’s a different story altogether.

I didn’t even own a video camera.

But I said yes anyway, because not knowing how you are going to accomplish a goal shouldn’t prevent you from trying to achieve it.

I procured a video camera and I conned my fiance into being my videographer, and we visited kids who played on the team to speak with them about how playing baseball has affected them.

I met Chase, a thirteen-year-old who is completely paranoid about getting lost around high school next year, who hits the ball well over the heads of every kid on the field, and who has spina biffada.

I met Daniel, a sixteen-year-old who is completely bored by math class, thinks his Miracle League buddy is cute, believes that through prayer all things are possible and has cerebral palsey.

I met their parents, who were so grateful to have a place to go every week in the fall, where they could feel less alone, less isolated in their struggle to retrofit their homes for wheelchairs or fight with school systems to ensure their students were being placed in the proper classes.

We stayed with these families for hours, talking well after the camera was turned off, and I went home absolutely certain that this video had to be good. It had to do these kids justice, and convince the moneybags at this gala to support this cause.

I was so siked. I was fired up with passion for the cause and these kids, and this video was going to be so great, dag nab it!

But so help me I just couldn’t get the footage off that camera.

Then, I got the footage off the camera, but not the sound.

Then I got the footage and sound off, but it wasn’t editable so I couldn’t cut out the stuff I didn’t need.

Then I got it off, but everyone’s head looked like a giant pixel, like in an old school video game.

Then, I bought some magical $100 cable which the Best Buy guy swore would work, and it did, so things were looking up.

But, as it turned out Microsoft really does create some crummy products, so the first round of video looked like my dog made it.

I actually told my fiance that we should give the dog a go at it, because we were totally botching the job. The dog declined.

I took the crummy video to the final planning meeting just five days before the gala. I showed up late, and everyone was anxiously waiting to see THE VIDEO. I showed it. It concluded.

Dead silence. One kid in the front row must have felt bad and he started to clap.

No one joined him.

It was so bad – you couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, the film quality was horrible, the transitions were choppy, the list goes on.

Because all the passion in the world won’t guarantee success, but does guarantee that you will work to the bone until you find a solution.

So I went back to the drawing board. Actually, I went to Office Depot. And I dropped a couple hundred on some decent quality video editing software and I STARTED FROM SCRATCH.

I don’t know how I came in to work everyday and didn’t fall asleep at a computer, because I stayed up until 2am every night from that Tuesday until the gala on Saturday working on that video. When I wasn’t working on it, I was thinking about it. I was agonizing over its length, the songs in the background, the quality of the footage, whether I had enough people in it.

Because if you are going to do something for someone else, do it right. Do it the absolute best you possibly can.

On the day of the gala, I was totally wiped out – physically and emotionally. When I showed that video, I cried – maybe because it was really touching or maybe because I was just so relieved that I did what I said I would do.

And then, I looked around. I wasn’t the only one crying. Suddenly it dawned on me – IT WAS GOOD! It wasn’t some shoddy video created by a random company – it made people feel something.

We raised almost 40,000 dollars that night. And that is not solely because of my video, but the point is – I was a part of it. And that felt so good.

No one knows I made that video. Well, you all do now, but I was not mentioned in the program. My name didn’t roll down the credits. If the video had been horrible, that might have been a blessing. But that’s not the point – see the point is that I never ever did it for the kudos and compliments. I never even imagined I would warrant any. I just did it because I knew those kids needed a voice, and I wanted to be that for them.

They were there that night. They all hugged me and we danced until their parents took them home to bed. When people at the gala asked me how I knew the kids, I just said, “We’re friends.” Because I think were are.

And that is the power of service. It prompts change in all those touched by it.

So as you start thinking about ways you can earn your Beta Club hours, I want to remind you of what I learned through this experience:

Be brave and take on big goals, even if you don’t know how you’ll get to them. You can always develop a plan.

If you are going to do something, do it the very best you can – not simply the best you know how. Learn more, find help and do it even better.

Finally, stay open to change as you work with others, because sometimes the changes within yourself are every bit as meaningful as the changes you make in your community.

Thank you and good night.

Day 14: On Running (OR: A Brief Historie of My Relationship With Fitness)

Mike just said "Your post from yesterday was kind of gross," so I write this today in the hopes that a change in tone and topic will redeem me in the eyes of those whose opinion of me dropped considerably after yesterday's Flashback Friday confession.

On to the post:

Today I got up, put on my spandex pants, tied my laces and walked outside and took a big, deep breath of 27 degree air. I drove to the river, donned my headphones, and started to run.

I run along the James River, beneath oak trees that are canopies of shade in the summer and intricate webs in the winter. I run beside a fraternity of other runners and joggers of all ages and shapes, each of whom I wave to and who nod or say "hello" in return.

This morning I watched a white and grey speckled owl, perched on a branch three stories high, swivel his head so he could see his next meal.

This morning I watched two geese push off of a rock and glide over the water, only inches apart. Each wing moved up, down, up, down in a rhythm so perfectly aligned, so aware of the other's movement, so perfectly close and in sync with its mate, that I thought I could cry.

This morning I felt my muscles burn, and I felt my feet pound, and I felt my nose tingle in the cold and I felt alive and strong and healthy.

And I wondered why I ever stopped doing this.

***********************************************************************************
Long ago, in a land called Middle School -- or hell, ya know, whatever -- I was picked last for dogeball. And kickball. And all sports beginning or ending in "ball."

I was a sideline-sitting, nose-picking, size-extra-large-wearing, schlubby kid who no one wanted on their team.

With good reason. Let me illuminate:

I was, like, 5'10'' at age 12, so my parents signed me up for basketball. Logical. The coach was initially enthusiastic about my membership. He too saw the obvious: I was taller than every other kid on the court. By like, six, eight inches. His plan was to stand me under the basket, pass me the ball, and watch as I place the ball in the basket without even lifting my heel from the gym floor.

Unfortunately that was not what was to transpire. When passed the ball, I:
1.) Ducked and covered.
2.) Received and froze.
3.) Cried and passed to someone else.
4.) Took three steps without dribbling.

But never, ever did I successfully put the ball in the basket. I played basketball for three years, but I never scored a single point.

Additionally, I was a second quarter girl. Always. I mean, unless the flu was going around and we were down, like, five players, I only played the second quarter. You know what that means? You know what the second quarter is?

In middle school, all the coaches put their nose-picking, extra-large-shirt-wearing, schlubs in during the second quarter. We would all bumble around and trip over each other and pick the wedgies we received running down court and not score a single point. I was so slow to run back to the other side of the court after a rebound, that sometimes I would just not bother. The other team would just pass to the girl I was supposed to be covering, score, and then -- yay! -- everyone starts heading back to me!

The refs hardly ever blew the whistle unless someone's shoe came untied, and none of us had a clue why we only EVER played during the second quarter, but this way the coaches could say we played (which I believe was required in middle school intramural athletics) without jeopardizing the win.

Sad, right? But it was totally fair, because while all the other girls actually practiced, and tried to be physically fit athletes, I preferred to sip a juice box, kick back on the sidelines, and dream about the MacDonald's chicken McNuggets I planned to devour after the game.

Frankly, I pretty much stayed that way through college. I never played in any of the intramural athletics organized by the inter-Greek council. I never utilized my access to a free, fully equipped gym. I did, however, drive to class one block away toward the end of my tenure at Radford.

It wasn't until I moved to New Hampshire that I started to consider exercise. I went to the mall one day and the sizes found in typical mall stores no longer fit me. I cried, I left, and I joined Curves.

Have you been to a Curves? Oh, dear jesus, you need to go. My friend (and fellow blogger) Colleen and I joined Curves, and we were unilaterally hated by all the other Curves-goers. Why? Because we were a solid 45 pounds lighter and 25 years younger than every one of them. Our perky asses hopped off those machines and leaped onto the jogging squares! We smiled and and giggled while they huffed and puffed -- and got off a circuit early. They gave us the stink eye, and we tried not to look annoyed when we waiting 30 seconds for one of them to extricate herself from the leg-lift machine.

But I lost a bunch of weight, and I got fit.

I graduated from Curves, and, due to my meager finances, started running. Because its free. At first I couldn't run even a quarter of a mile. And let's just go ahead and put "run" in quotation marks, because it was more like some strange epileptic gallop, replete with awkward arm-flailing and loud, alarming hacking.

And I was "running" around Boston, mind you, so as I'm "running", people are crossing to the other side of the street and pulling their children closer.

Whatever. We all start somewhere.

More than one person has said to me: "Yeah, I don't know how you do that. I don't run."

What the hell do you mean "You don't run?" You run. Barring something unfortunate that has rendered you physically unable to run -- you can run. We were all pre-programmed to run. I concede that the original impetus for running was probably towards a meal or to avoid becoming one for something larger than you, but the principal still applies: All humans are created to run.

You can run, you just don't want to. Which is fine, but call it what it is.

Furthermore, give it a try. I guarantee if you get outside on a beautiful day, and jog for just a few minutes, you'll want to stay out there. You'll want to do it again tomorrow.

Because that Runner's High stuff? That shit's for real, yo. I forget about how one run makes me want to run tomorrow and the next day...

But I did have some trouble running at first. I kept getting anxious. I would run, and I would start thinking. I would think about how slow I am running, or how stupid I look running, or how fast other people are running; how I wish I could run that fast; I used to run that fast; now I can hardly run a mile; I used to run miles and miles; that guy can run miles and miles; I'm never going to run like that again --

ENOUGH. God. My own monologue just stressed me out. Jeez. Isn't that nuts? I did that. To myself. During a run. And then I would feel the anxiety rise in my chest, it would choke my breathing, stifle my energy, zap my strength, and then: run over. Everything would be wasted on useless worrying.

It occurred to me recently that I was doing the very same thing to my entire life. I was worrying it away. I was planning and pitying and stressing, but I was not living at all.
***********************************************************************************
Running is so very much about being in the present.

It is not about how far I will run. It is not about how fast I will run. It is certainly not about how far or fast anyone else will run.

It is about how good it feels while I am running. While I am taking this step. And this step. It doesn't matter what the next step feels like.

Because right now this one feels perfect. Right now I am running.

Day 8: I Am Not Pregnant.

Apparently, if you're 30 and quit drinking and smoking, people think you're pregnant.

And they ask you about it. 

If I were pregnant, and ready to tell people I was pregnant, I would just tell you I'm pregnant. 

If I were pregnant, and not ready to tell people I was pregnant, I would tell you to take your tactless questions and place them delicately where the sun don't shine.

I'm I right here?  I'm not pregnant, so I don't want to speak for the pregnant lady population, but I think people are overestimating my interest in creating complicated-pregnancy-diversions.  I wouldn't go around writing blogs about quitting smoking and alcohol and posting the links to my facebook account where my entire network of family, friends and co-workers can read about it -- all as a cover for my pregnancy.  That sort of behavior gets you the That-Bitch-Be-Crazy label and if you read yesterday's post, you would see I am shooting for moderate levels of sanity in 2011.

However, I realize I am raising some eyebrows. This became abundantly apparent yesterday when I told my mom about my Thirty Day Trial.

Me: "So I quit smoking."

Mom:  "Really?  That's great, honey."

Me: "Yep.  Been about a week now.  I also quit drinking."

Mom: [Silence]

Me: "You there, Mom?"

Mom: [Silence]

Pause.  It is at this moment that the origins of the phrase "pregnant pause" become clear to me.

Me: "Mom??"

Mom: "Are you trying to tell me something, dear?"

When your mother assumes you are choosing a complicated pregnancy ruse over telling her the news she has been waiting to hear for long enough that she just went ahead and adopted the neighbors' kids as grandchildren -- that's when you know you have some things to clear up.

No problem:  I am not knocked up.

These questions are infinitely better than being asked if you are pregnant when you are doing nothing to warrant suspicion. 

This happened to me:

The week before teachers begin educating the youth of America for yet another academic year, we all come back to school a week early and set up our classrooms, plan lessons, and sit through interminable and brain-cell- deteriorating professional-development meetings.

One day, I walked into one of said meetings, and a colleague stopped me as I was walking to my seat.

Tactless Colleague:  "Congratulations!"

Me: [Confused.]  "On what? No longer having to advise the yearbook?"

Tactless Colleague: "No, silly!  On your big news!"

Me: [Still confused.  Cannot remember good news.  Its been a boring month.] "Um, I, um..."

Pause. Why in the name of all that is holy did this woman not just stop right here?  Why?  Wouldn't you?  Clearly she and I are not on the same page.  Quit while you're ahead, dumbass!

Tactless Colleague: "You're pregnant!"

You don't say?  Well I'll be damned...

Yep, you're right, Tactless Colleague, I am silly.  I didn't even know I was pregnant!

I soooo wish I could tell you I had some really witty rebuttal to her stoopidity, but I was so shocked, I just said:

"Um, nope.  Not pregnant."

However, she was not to be proven wrong. Ooooh no. 

In most cases I applaud this kind of commitment to your stance, but in this case, I feel it could be construed as a tad bit foolhardy, no?

Tactless Colleague:  "Well, I heard it from a few people..."

Me: "I would check your sources."

Do you see what happened there?  Tactless Colleague believes Someone Else was a more credible authority on my uterus than me.  Me.  Owner of said uterus and arbiter of all things entering and exiting therein.

Un-effing-believable.

But would you believe that was the first time someone told me I was pregnant that week?  Yeah.  When I say "first time" I mean: There was also a second time.

And here's what I have decided:  If ONE person congratulates you on your non-existent pregnancy, shame on them.

If TWO people congratulate you on your non-existent pregnancy, you need to lose weight.

When the second person congratulated me on the imaginary fetus, I had no comeback whatsoever.  I stammered.  I flubbed.  I ran to the bathroom and cried about being fat like a teenage girl (in a high school, no less.  What a regression...).

And obviously I thought of the perfect response well after the moment had passed.  Duh.

However, a friend of mine did get to use it.

Friend's Tactless Colleague:  "Congratulations!"

Friend: "On what?"

F.T.C: "On your pregnancy!"

Friend: "Oh, no I'm just fat."

Bahzingah!  We have a winner!

Day 7: The Present. Its In Right Now.

Today, I have made it one week without a cigarette or a beer, and I have run 8.5 miles.

Hell yeah.

(By the way, is it weird that you're reading this while Cesar Milan seduces you with his eyes? Because its kind of weird for me, but that awkwardness just makes me even happier with my photo selection.)

Let me tell you, this is not the first little celebration I have indulged in over the last week. I am proud of myself every damn day for what I'm accomplishing, and I've been treating myself to whatever the hell I want as a reward.

Most self-help literature suggests saving the money you would have spent on smokes (or beer) and buying yourself something you really want after X amount of time.

Eff that. I'm spending that cash now.

Why? Because I don't know what will happen next week, but I know I made it through today.

I'm living in the present. And I learned this from a man who changed my life. Who moved me near to tears. Who brought me to the light...

Cesar Milan.

Yes, laugh all you want, reader, because I just said it and I'm not afraid of saying it again: The Dog Whisperer changed my life.

I don't know if you noticed -- Mike and I sure as hell did, for like eight consecutive hours -- but there was a Dog Whisperer marathon on Animal Planet or TLC or whatever over the holidays. As we now have a dog, this show has suddenly become meaningful and relevant, albeit mostly because we like to talk smack about the crappy dog owners and pat ourselves on the back for not sucking like them.

This one particular episode features an overweight, super-dramatic,woman in her early 40's who lives with her mother -- let's call her Pathetic.

Oh! Wait! Sorry. I meant Patricia. I have no idea what came over me...

Patricia owns a small, yappy, black dog of unknown breed named Dimples (or something equally demoralizing).

Dimples is making it difficult for Patricia to have men over (frankly, I think Dimples is the least of her problems in the romance department, but that's neither here nor there) because Dimples barks at and attacks any man who tries to sit on the bed like he is wearing a mask and carrying a weapon.

Wait a second...

Okay, Patricia's possible kinky bedroom penchants aside, the dog is snapping at men and Patsy's mom.

Cesar to the rescue! He shows up at this woman's house, and meets with Patricia and her mother. The conference before Cesear starts working with the dog, is unbelievable. Mother and daughter do not stop talking for 15 minutes straight, and they are like:

Patty: "Well, if you would just pay attention to the dog, maybe Dimples wouldn't chew your bathrobe into, like, 100 small washclothes."

Mom: "Well, I would pet the dog if it just didn't smell so funny."

Patty: [Sniffles. Reaches for Kleenex.] "You always find the negative in everything I love! Its just like that time I brought Ronald home and you said his ski mask was disconcerting!"

Mom: "I just think its inappropriate for young ladies to be hanging around with convicts..."

Patty: [Sobbing] "I'M NOT A CHILD ANYMORE! GOD! I HATE YOU!"

You get the idea.

Poor Cesar is just sitting there: looking at Mom. Looking at Patsy. Looking at Mom. Looking at Patsy. Looking exactly like a man caught in the middle of some Momma-Daughtah drama: Shocked. Entralled. Cannot pull away from the two trains as they careen closer and closer...

I feel so sorry for him at this moment.

Afterwards, he is interviewed privately and looks like he is still processing the Incredibly Inapproprate Airing of Dirty Laundry. His eyes are completely glazed over and wide as frisbees, and he says something to the effect of:

"I think the dog might be affected by the negative energy in the house."

Ya think? Gee. I was thinking he might just need a change in kibble.

So, Cesar teaches her how to act in a calm, authoritative manner and after only two attempts, Cesar is able to sit on the bed next to Patsy Poo without Dimples going for his good stuff.

Patsy the Pessimist won't shut up about how "Dimples would never do that before" and "Well, Dimples will clearly go right back to attacking my man meat the second you leave the house."

And Cesar says "You need to live in the present. When you live in the past, you expect the past, and you repeat the past. When you live in the present, you enjoy the moments that are good, and you make a step towards future good moments."

::DING::

That is the sound of my internal light bulb going off.

You see, last year had some ups, but it had its share of downs. More downs than usual. I'd go into detail, but the downs are not all about me, so they are not my stories to share. Please just know that it wasn't the easiest year, and that I kind of poured myself a swimming pool of pity and wallowed around in it for the better part of the summer and fall.

When Cesear spoke of living in the present, I realized I had been living in the past. I had been postponing taking care of myself, because I felt I deserved drinks and smokes. I felt I was entitled to them, because life wasn't fair to me.

In hindsight:

Well no effing shit, life ain't fair. Get the hell over it, self.

So on December 31st, I decided to put on my big girl panties, pull my shit together, and move forward by living in the present.

And here we are: Day #7 of living for right this minute. Today I rewarded myself for running 3.5 miles and making it through a Friday without a drink or smoke. I got a pedicure with Sara (aka: Blog Supporter Extrordiaire) and I'm going to have guacamole for dinner. Just guacamole.

I don't know what will happen tomorrow, and I don't care about what happened yesterday. Today, I was successful.

And that's worthy of celebrating.

*********************************************************************************

Post Script:

It occurs to me that you may now be invested in the complex saga of Patsy and Dimples, and that I ought to provide you with the riveting conclusion.

Okay, so Cesar leaves Patsy with strategies for dealing with Dimples the Dick-Hater, and promises to return in a month to check on their progress.

He returns only to find Patsy an even hotter hot mess than when he left her.

Patsy: "Well, I tried your techniques, but they didn't work."

[Read: I kind of tried your techniques, but I am lazy.]

Cesar: [Starting to glaze over again (I think this must be a self-preservation strategy).]

Patsy: "She keeps biting people, so I'm going to either have to put her down..."

Cesear: [Suddenly alert! Alarmed! Eyes like frisbees, again, but now intense! Focused. Shocked!]

Patsy:"... or, I don't know... have you heard of this procedure where they remove the dog's canine teeth?"

Cesar: "Why don't I take your dog?"

Oh praise jesus, because this woman should not own plants, let alone a dog.

Ultimately, the Patsy the Plump forks over Dimples, who is taken to Cesar's rehabilitation center and was completely rehabilitated -- the minute she was taken from Patty's home.

Shocker.

Dimples was adopted and renamed something less terrible by a family who loves her and none of whom own ski masks.

Fin!

Day 6: Flashback Friday!

So this blog will have a **NEW FEATURE** called "Flashback Friday" in which I reminisce about something incredibly stoopid I did when I was smoking and drinking like a world champion. Ideally, I will recall said stupidity, feel something akin to disgust over my ridiculousness, and feel renewed in my commitment to quit smokes and drinks.

Right before the weekend when all I want to do is chain smoke while sucking down beers.

This week's memory takes us back to a time and a land far, far away -- back when I lived in Cambridge, MA and drove 35 minutes each way to Salem, NH to teach. (If you can believe this: That commute was actually better than the 50 minutes each way I drove when I lived in Dover, NH and commuted to Salem. This is why New England is weird. All those little states...)

Okay, so every morning I would wake up every morning at 5:15 am, make myself a pot of coffee, get dressed and watch the news, and drive to work while listening to NPR.

**** If you are my mother, you can stop there. That is all I did. There is no more to this post.****

The above is horseshit, but significantly less embarrassing than the truth:

Every morning, I would wake up late as shit -- thereby eliminating time to make coffee -- wear whatever was not on my floor, throw my wet hair in a pony tail while trying to remember where-in- the-name-of-all-that-is-holy I parked my car last night, haul-ass to the Dunkin Donuts drive through, get a coffee, and smoke three cigarettes on my way to work.

"Dunkin Donuts!" you cry! "Not Starbucks?!? You are a Starbucks loyalist!"

Um, only because the Dunkin Donuts ice coffee down here is inexplicably horrible. In New England it is made of Unicorn Milk and the Dust of Sacred Fairy Burial Grounds.

Anyway, on the way home, I would repeat the morning procedure -- except by then my hair would be dry.

Let's examine what I've just told you for a moment, shall we? I just said I purchased not one, but two Dunkin Donuts Medium Iced coffees with cream and sugar every day for 180 days (give or take the occasional sick/snow/fiercely-hungover-and-dry-heaving day) and smoked SIX cigarettes in the car alone.

I then got home, got on the phone and smoked another half a pack.

But let's just run the numbers on the commute alone: That's six cigarettes x 180 days = 1080 cigarettes. That's 54 packs of cigarettes at about $4.00 a pack.

PLUS the two iced coffees at approximately $2.50 apiece.

$900 on coffee. Nine. Hundred. Dollars.

Oh, and $216 on smokes. Just on the commute.

Allow me to serve these numbers up with a side of perspective: That total was about 10% of my bi-weekly take home.

Appalling.

But that's not even the story, folks! This is:

One morning I am running Especially Late. "Especially Late" means I will arrive to school and school will have started without me. "Especially Late" means I am drying my hair by smoking an extra cigarette and rolling down the windows more than usual.

"Especially Late" does NOT, however, mean skip the iced-coffee. Ooooh nooo. I got my iced-coffee.

Then I got on the highway.

Then I realized I was out of smokes.

Panic. Panicpanicpanicpanic. What to do? What to do...

You, sensible person, are wondering what the panic is all about. Legitimate pondering. You, sensible person, are clearly not addicted to cigarettes. You, also, would never do what I did:

I got off the highway and got the smokes. Yes, even though it would make me an additional 15 minutes late -- I thought it was worth it.

But how to explain the lateness? One cannot stroll into work a full 30 minutes late without some kind of excuse.

And I hear "I ran out of smokes" does not exactly suggest professionalism.

So I called school and told them I got pulled over.

Yeah! Because that's better.

W.T.F. ??

Yes, I said I got pulled over for speeding and that it made me late, and the receptionist chuckled and said she'd find coverage for my class and I took a giant sigh of relief full of nicotine and smoke and felt much, much better.

Until I actually got pulled over.

Karma is real, bitches. Real.

But wait. It gets better:

I got pulled over in front of the school.

Oh yes I did, and you know who saw it all go down?

Oh, right, um, everyone.

Cover: Blown. Self: Humbled. Employment Status: Surprisingly, still solid.

I owned up to what happened, and everyone thought it was pretty funny, and felt my real speeding ticket was sufficient punishment for conjuring up an imaginary one.

That pack of smokes cost me $78.50 (plus the increase in my insurance premium, as I assure you, that was not my first dance with the po-po -- click here for details) but I learned a valuable lesson that day:

Telling the truth is infinitely cheeper than lying.