It's wet and dreary and cold and that's just how it's going to be for the next few days. Blah.
But, I ran last night. 35 minutes. Have you heard of some guy named Prince? He sings songs. He put out this album a long time ago called Purple Rain - do you know it? I'm going to tell you something, and I need to know that it won't change our relationship...I've never listened to Purple Rain before last night. I'm not going to be all dramatic and claim it changed my life or anything, but I will say that if I'd known before how awesome that album is, I may not have waited till I was almost 31 before I started this running thing. Talk about a great beat for moving your ass! Between the music and my little pep-talks ("you're doing a great job, Natalie, you're doing so good! You're going to get skinny and thin and it will be awesome! Good job! Keep going! This is easy!" What? You don't do that? Why not?), the 35 minutes were over fast enough and there was sweat pouring off my face and I felt like I'd won a prize. (I did - a shower. That Jimi interrupted to torture me with a cup of cold water. Why does he think cold water in the shower is funny?)
I have a confession to make: After not smoking the entire month of January, I've bought and smoked 2 packs of cigarettes in 2011. *hangs head in shame* I'm back on the wagon today, though. I like smoking, the physical and social act of it, but everything else about it is bad and horrible and I don't want to be a smoker anymore. And smoking cigarettes, even if it's only one a day, still makes me a smoker. *sigh* Why is life so hard?
I hate bigots. Especially ones that are elected to public office and use that platform to spread their bigotry and hatred and fear of everything they don't understand.
Ugh. I'm going to work. Have a great Wednesday!
Showing posts with label Smoking is Dumb. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Smoking is Dumb. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sunday Morning.
I tried to find 15 minutes yesterday to get my write on, and I totally had the time, I just really had nothing to say and it turns out I'm not so good at forcing myself to write for 15 minutes as I am at say, forcing myself to walk for 20 minutes. Baby steps, right? I can't expect to go from no will power to tons of will power in a week.
Another reason I didn't do much writing yesterday is that I was still upset about Friday night. I really got my feelings hurt. I allowed my feelings to be hurt. People I don't interact with, people I don't even know, people who don't know me, I gave them power over me and permission to hurt my feelings and make me cry. I'm working on trying not to let that happen so often (ever). I'm grateful for the Buddhist lessons Jimi has taught me over the years that allowed me to recognize the situation and my reaction for what it was; it allowed me to get over it much more quickly that I could've done on my own even a few years back. But don't misunderstand, it still hurts. Words are cruel sometimes and hurt even if you don't want to let them.
Enough about that.
I slept until 2 in the afternoon yesterday, after going to bed around midnight Friday night. I'm not sure why I slept for 14 hours, but I guess I was tired. I've not done that in a good long while, and it was pretty nice to get the sleep, I guess, but I felt like I'd wasted the day by the time I crawled out of bed, and I was tired and groggy for hours even after I'd taken the dog for a 35 minute walk through the neighborhood in an effort to get the blood flowing and some of that rare sunshine on my face.
We'd had plans to go to Indianapolis for the Winterfest beer-tasting event, but there was an issue with the tickets and so our plans were cancelled. :( But, the backup plan involved hanging out at Rick's with him and Kim and drinking some Browning's Black Ale and watching a new-to-me episode of Showtime's Shameless (which, by the way, is fantastic and brilliant and completely hilarious). Eventually, we needed food, and Kim and I had been craving pizza for days and Danny Mac's was right up the road. And it just so happened to be Saturday night, and there were Mojo people there, and Karaoke. We didn't leave the guys with much of a choice.
The pizza was good, the booze was cheap, the company was pleasant, and the entertainment was vast. And can I take a moment to mention how much I love it when people comment on how good or cute or adorable Jimi and I are together? It makes my freakin' day, every time. Because it's taken 4 years of compromise and love and laughter and we are good and cute and adorable together and I like it when people notice. Anyhow, so we're having a great time - I sang Hotel California, Kim and I did Blind Melon's No Rain together, we're drinking and talking and laughing and having a grand ol' time. And I started jonesin' for a cigarette so bad I couldn't hardly stand it. I begged Kim to go outside and smoke one and just let me have a puff, just a PUFF. She refused, because she is a good friend and she loves me, even though she was fiendin' pretty bad herself. (She's a once-in-a-blue moon sort of smoker - I think a pack lasts her like six months or something ridiculous like that.) Everyone kept saying "Don't do it! Don't do it!" and I wanted to not, but I want to so much worse. My first test of being at a bar as a non-smoker and if I'd had someone willing to give me a cigarette I would've smoked it without hesitation. But no one would give me one.
Until we took Terry home. Terry passed me a smoke from the back seat and said "Now, I'm not encouraging this, but I understand..." and he gave me one of his nasty menthol cancer sticks and I smoked it and it was so delicious and disgusting and gross and good. And the head rush was so much better than I remembered it. Oh, smoking I miss you so bad. But it was gross by the time it was done, and I could smell it on me, and taste it on my tongue and my breath and I felt guilty and ashamed for breaking my longest non-smoking streak ever. I'm not one to beat myself up for long, though, and I had forgiven myself for my lapse well before we were pulling into our driveway 10 minutes later. And I don't have any urge or desire to smoke now; I wanted it then, and that was more than enough to remind me of why I'm not a smoker anymore.
I told you I'd tell on myself.
And now it's Sunday morning. I think Sunday mornings are my favorite; there's a certain feel to a Sunday that a Saturday, even with its promise of no work the next day, can't compete with. When I lived in El Paso, I'd get up real early on Sunday mornings, fix a pot of coffee, then go out to the concrete patio in the back yard and watch the sun come up and paint the mountains orange and red and yellow and brown and purple. Sometimes I'd call my mom and talk to her across the miles until I was more homesick than I'd been to start with, picturing her at the snackbar in the kitchen, putting on her makeup and drinking her third cup of joe. Then the ex would be awake and I'd hurry inside to be a good wife catering to her man's every need, and we'd watch Sunday Morning on CBS and I'd picture my Daddy at home in his recliner, watching the same program while he ate his biscuits and gravy or maybe manicured his fingernails while breakfast was cooking.
Sunday mornings for a long time were each measured against those of my childhood, where I watched my parents dance that same dance over and over; Sunday Morning and Star Trek on the television; sausage or bacon sizzling away in the pan on the stove, drippings destined to be a milk gravy in the style of Granny, but never quite as good as Granny's; biscuits in the oven (Bisquick drop biscuits if fate was smiling on me, but canned ones were more common and just fine, too); the smell of coffee competing with smell of the meat; and everyone generally in a good mood and loving each other. My childhood was so happy, and the memories of those mornings are like everything about why it was so happy and good, all rolled up into one easy example. I had a family full of people who loved me, no matter what, and who loved each other. How blessed am I.
I guess that's why I tried so hard during my marriage to recreate Sundays from when I was little; everyone was happy and glad. In my marriage, especially in El Paso there at the end, that was not the case.
I haven't watched Sunday Morning regularly since I lived in Texas. Even if I'm up early enough, which I often am, I don't think to turn on the television or to look for the show. And if Jimi gets up before me, well, there are cartoons that are on TV all the time, did you know that? And apparently there's a rule of some sort in Jimiland that says if a cartoon is on, and it's in the morning, you have to watch the cartoon. It's just the way of the world. It works out just as well, though; I'm not trying to find happiness through the recreation of childhood events anymore - Jimi and I, we make our own happy way. We don't have any traditions or habits even for this most-tradition/habit-laden day of the week; we just do what we feel like doing whenever we get up and get doing things. Probably that will change, along with the rest of the universe, if we have a child, but for now, these unconventional, random days we have are still filled with the same happy and joy that I remember from when I was little; somehow, we manage to make happy even without coffee and biscuits and gravy.
Another reason I didn't do much writing yesterday is that I was still upset about Friday night. I really got my feelings hurt. I allowed my feelings to be hurt. People I don't interact with, people I don't even know, people who don't know me, I gave them power over me and permission to hurt my feelings and make me cry. I'm working on trying not to let that happen so often (ever). I'm grateful for the Buddhist lessons Jimi has taught me over the years that allowed me to recognize the situation and my reaction for what it was; it allowed me to get over it much more quickly that I could've done on my own even a few years back. But don't misunderstand, it still hurts. Words are cruel sometimes and hurt even if you don't want to let them.
Enough about that.
I slept until 2 in the afternoon yesterday, after going to bed around midnight Friday night. I'm not sure why I slept for 14 hours, but I guess I was tired. I've not done that in a good long while, and it was pretty nice to get the sleep, I guess, but I felt like I'd wasted the day by the time I crawled out of bed, and I was tired and groggy for hours even after I'd taken the dog for a 35 minute walk through the neighborhood in an effort to get the blood flowing and some of that rare sunshine on my face.
We'd had plans to go to Indianapolis for the Winterfest beer-tasting event, but there was an issue with the tickets and so our plans were cancelled. :( But, the backup plan involved hanging out at Rick's with him and Kim and drinking some Browning's Black Ale and watching a new-to-me episode of Showtime's Shameless (which, by the way, is fantastic and brilliant and completely hilarious). Eventually, we needed food, and Kim and I had been craving pizza for days and Danny Mac's was right up the road. And it just so happened to be Saturday night, and there were Mojo people there, and Karaoke. We didn't leave the guys with much of a choice.
The pizza was good, the booze was cheap, the company was pleasant, and the entertainment was vast. And can I take a moment to mention how much I love it when people comment on how good or cute or adorable Jimi and I are together? It makes my freakin' day, every time. Because it's taken 4 years of compromise and love and laughter and we are good and cute and adorable together and I like it when people notice. Anyhow, so we're having a great time - I sang Hotel California, Kim and I did Blind Melon's No Rain together, we're drinking and talking and laughing and having a grand ol' time. And I started jonesin' for a cigarette so bad I couldn't hardly stand it. I begged Kim to go outside and smoke one and just let me have a puff, just a PUFF. She refused, because she is a good friend and she loves me, even though she was fiendin' pretty bad herself. (She's a once-in-a-blue moon sort of smoker - I think a pack lasts her like six months or something ridiculous like that.) Everyone kept saying "Don't do it! Don't do it!" and I wanted to not, but I want to so much worse. My first test of being at a bar as a non-smoker and if I'd had someone willing to give me a cigarette I would've smoked it without hesitation. But no one would give me one.
Until we took Terry home. Terry passed me a smoke from the back seat and said "Now, I'm not encouraging this, but I understand..." and he gave me one of his nasty menthol cancer sticks and I smoked it and it was so delicious and disgusting and gross and good. And the head rush was so much better than I remembered it. Oh, smoking I miss you so bad. But it was gross by the time it was done, and I could smell it on me, and taste it on my tongue and my breath and I felt guilty and ashamed for breaking my longest non-smoking streak ever. I'm not one to beat myself up for long, though, and I had forgiven myself for my lapse well before we were pulling into our driveway 10 minutes later. And I don't have any urge or desire to smoke now; I wanted it then, and that was more than enough to remind me of why I'm not a smoker anymore.
I told you I'd tell on myself.
And now it's Sunday morning. I think Sunday mornings are my favorite; there's a certain feel to a Sunday that a Saturday, even with its promise of no work the next day, can't compete with. When I lived in El Paso, I'd get up real early on Sunday mornings, fix a pot of coffee, then go out to the concrete patio in the back yard and watch the sun come up and paint the mountains orange and red and yellow and brown and purple. Sometimes I'd call my mom and talk to her across the miles until I was more homesick than I'd been to start with, picturing her at the snackbar in the kitchen, putting on her makeup and drinking her third cup of joe. Then the ex would be awake and I'd hurry inside to be a good wife catering to her man's every need, and we'd watch Sunday Morning on CBS and I'd picture my Daddy at home in his recliner, watching the same program while he ate his biscuits and gravy or maybe manicured his fingernails while breakfast was cooking.
Sunday mornings for a long time were each measured against those of my childhood, where I watched my parents dance that same dance over and over; Sunday Morning and Star Trek on the television; sausage or bacon sizzling away in the pan on the stove, drippings destined to be a milk gravy in the style of Granny, but never quite as good as Granny's; biscuits in the oven (Bisquick drop biscuits if fate was smiling on me, but canned ones were more common and just fine, too); the smell of coffee competing with smell of the meat; and everyone generally in a good mood and loving each other. My childhood was so happy, and the memories of those mornings are like everything about why it was so happy and good, all rolled up into one easy example. I had a family full of people who loved me, no matter what, and who loved each other. How blessed am I.
I guess that's why I tried so hard during my marriage to recreate Sundays from when I was little; everyone was happy and glad. In my marriage, especially in El Paso there at the end, that was not the case.
I haven't watched Sunday Morning regularly since I lived in Texas. Even if I'm up early enough, which I often am, I don't think to turn on the television or to look for the show. And if Jimi gets up before me, well, there are cartoons that are on TV all the time, did you know that? And apparently there's a rule of some sort in Jimiland that says if a cartoon is on, and it's in the morning, you have to watch the cartoon. It's just the way of the world. It works out just as well, though; I'm not trying to find happiness through the recreation of childhood events anymore - Jimi and I, we make our own happy way. We don't have any traditions or habits even for this most-tradition/habit-laden day of the week; we just do what we feel like doing whenever we get up and get doing things. Probably that will change, along with the rest of the universe, if we have a child, but for now, these unconventional, random days we have are still filled with the same happy and joy that I remember from when I was little; somehow, we manage to make happy even without coffee and biscuits and gravy.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Give me a pat on the back and I'll tell you more about my crazy.
Kimmie and I made a pact that we'll do at least 20 minutes of cardio each day. I did 30 minutes on the treadmill tonight, after dinner, while doing little arm exercises with my 2 lb. weights, and I ran at least 10 of those minutes. I'm so proud of me!
Stop laughing at me. Baby steps, dammit.
It felt good. Like, really good. I got in a zone; no music or TV or book, just me, the weights, the conveyor beneath my feet, and that spot over there on the wall. Breathing was easy, even when I was running - I could FEEL 2 weeks of no cigarettes, and it felt good.
Baby steps.
When my 30 minutes was up, before I showered (because I got sweaty!), I took a good, long, hard look at my naked self in the mirror.
Holy crap, when did I let myself get this way?
I'm tempted to take a picture, once a week or so, to chart my progress, but then what if the computer got stolen and someone hacked into it and found the pictures and it turned out the person who stole it was someone who knew me and secretly hated me and so they posted all the pictures all over the internet and then everyone had seen my shame and OMG the HORROR!!! Of course, if I did go through with taking the pics, I'd totally intend to post them in the internet eventually, with all the naked lady bits covered by a big black bar, of course, but only after I had worked out like a madwoman for months and had a crazy-awesome AFTER picture to put up right there next to the embarrassing BEFORE (now) one. Realistically, you should be thankful I've got an unnatural fear of being burglarized.
That's another thing that contributes to my crazy - I'm always afraid someone's going to break in and steal our shit. The second year we were living in Shelby Park (a used-to-be-way-ghetto-but-now-it's-coming-around-thanks-to-church-folk-moving-in neighborhood on the outskirts of Old Louisville), on the Monday before Thanksgiving, I came home for lunch in the early afternoon and found that some lovely soul had thrown a brick through our kitchen window. The thief stole a couple of computers and cell phones, Jimi's Dad's shotgun, and my sense of security and safety in my own home. Until we moved from that house, I never again came home without thinking "I wonder if someone's broken in again?" Our buddy Steve had moved in just a block and a half away, and his home was broken into nearly half a dozen times in as many weeks. I didn't like leaving the house much after all that. I don't worry about it so much since we've moved, but it's still there, in the back of my mind, like a little tickle.
Jimi's watching some jacked up movie about genetically modified vampire cows that are self-impregnating while still in the womb. Netflix has opened up a whole new world for us.
I fear for the fate of my treadmill. As I've mentioned, the thing is ancient, but it works. It started to smell toward the end of my workout tonight - a burning belt-like smell. I told Jimi I'll be glad if it just gets me through the winter - get me to Spring-time, when I can run in the warm in the park. If it goes out, I'll be forced to either brave the cold or utilize that gym membership Jimi's been carrying for me for 2 years now - the one I've never used, not even once. I have a feeling that I'm going to end up at the gym.
I haven't had my camera out in days. I'm hoping to wake up to a foot and a half of snow on the ground, or that maybe that much will at least fall over the course of the next few days - that would give me plenty to photograph. Of course, that's wishful thinking and reality will probably bring us only a light dusting, but that will do, also; I can accept a dusting, if I must - I'll take pictures of it too.
Seriously, this movie is ridiculous. Monster vag-eating slimy fetus cow creatures. Isolation, is what this thing is called. It's whack, yo. I can't believe I'm watching this crap before bed - I'm going to have awesome dreams.
On that note, sleep tight, my friends, and don't let the cow fetuses bite. :)
Stop laughing at me. Baby steps, dammit.
It felt good. Like, really good. I got in a zone; no music or TV or book, just me, the weights, the conveyor beneath my feet, and that spot over there on the wall. Breathing was easy, even when I was running - I could FEEL 2 weeks of no cigarettes, and it felt good.
Baby steps.
When my 30 minutes was up, before I showered (because I got sweaty!), I took a good, long, hard look at my naked self in the mirror.
Holy crap, when did I let myself get this way?
I'm tempted to take a picture, once a week or so, to chart my progress, but then what if the computer got stolen and someone hacked into it and found the pictures and it turned out the person who stole it was someone who knew me and secretly hated me and so they posted all the pictures all over the internet and then everyone had seen my shame and OMG the HORROR!!! Of course, if I did go through with taking the pics, I'd totally intend to post them in the internet eventually, with all the naked lady bits covered by a big black bar, of course, but only after I had worked out like a madwoman for months and had a crazy-awesome AFTER picture to put up right there next to the embarrassing BEFORE (now) one. Realistically, you should be thankful I've got an unnatural fear of being burglarized.
That's another thing that contributes to my crazy - I'm always afraid someone's going to break in and steal our shit. The second year we were living in Shelby Park (a used-to-be-way-ghetto-but-now-it's-coming-around-thanks-to-church-folk-moving-in neighborhood on the outskirts of Old Louisville), on the Monday before Thanksgiving, I came home for lunch in the early afternoon and found that some lovely soul had thrown a brick through our kitchen window. The thief stole a couple of computers and cell phones, Jimi's Dad's shotgun, and my sense of security and safety in my own home. Until we moved from that house, I never again came home without thinking "I wonder if someone's broken in again?" Our buddy Steve had moved in just a block and a half away, and his home was broken into nearly half a dozen times in as many weeks. I didn't like leaving the house much after all that. I don't worry about it so much since we've moved, but it's still there, in the back of my mind, like a little tickle.
Jimi's watching some jacked up movie about genetically modified vampire cows that are self-impregnating while still in the womb. Netflix has opened up a whole new world for us.
I fear for the fate of my treadmill. As I've mentioned, the thing is ancient, but it works. It started to smell toward the end of my workout tonight - a burning belt-like smell. I told Jimi I'll be glad if it just gets me through the winter - get me to Spring-time, when I can run in the warm in the park. If it goes out, I'll be forced to either brave the cold or utilize that gym membership Jimi's been carrying for me for 2 years now - the one I've never used, not even once. I have a feeling that I'm going to end up at the gym.
I haven't had my camera out in days. I'm hoping to wake up to a foot and a half of snow on the ground, or that maybe that much will at least fall over the course of the next few days - that would give me plenty to photograph. Of course, that's wishful thinking and reality will probably bring us only a light dusting, but that will do, also; I can accept a dusting, if I must - I'll take pictures of it too.
Seriously, this movie is ridiculous. Monster vag-eating slimy fetus cow creatures. Isolation, is what this thing is called. It's whack, yo. I can't believe I'm watching this crap before bed - I'm going to have awesome dreams.
On that note, sleep tight, my friends, and don't let the cow fetuses bite. :)
Thursday, January 13, 2011
I bought 5 packs of cigarettes today.
I did.
I don't feel guilty about it, either.
I saw them, and I just had to have them.
I don't feel guilty about it, either.I saw them, and I just had to have them.
I didn't even know they sold candy cigarettes anymore. I thought they'd been outlawed.
Apparently, I was wrong.
And in case you were wondering, yes, they are still just gross sticks of corn syrup.
Oh, and as of today, I've not smoked in FOREVER. Or, you know, 11 days, if you're counting. Go me! :)
Saturday, January 1, 2011
I fail at resolving things.
We're, what?, 21 hours? into the New Year and I've already messed up several of my resolutions: I've not started the budget working, I smoked half a cigarette I bummed from Momma on the way home from the jail, and I haven't done a bit of exercise today. No one is more surprised by this development than I.
On the bright side, I did put $200 into savings on Thursday when my check hit the bank, and two days later, I've not moved that money back into checking, so that's gotta count for something, right? (Of course, I've not gone anywhere where I'd be tempted to spend money, but still...)
Our New Year was exactly as I'd predicted, but with the added bonus of a half hour spent dancing together in the living room. I'm a horrible dancer, but as with the painting, I've decided I'll never get better by NOT doing it, so what the hell? If I can't dance comfortably in my living room, I'll never be able to dance anywhere. And Jimi's a great dancer; maybe he can teach me a thing or two eventually.
So we danced. And I got my kiss at midnight. And then we went outside to share the last cigarette EVER, and the cold rain had arrived just on time and we were glad we had stayed home and didn't have to drive anywhere. And then we had hot monkey sex. (TMI? Sorry.)
Today we'd planned to go visit Brother, and Momma called around noon to ask if she could go along too, so the three of us made the drive down, the visit, the drive home. It was a good day. It was good to spend the time with Momma, and it was good to see Brother face to face, to hug his skinny little waist, to touch his long bony cold fingers and know that he was in front of me, real and okay, not terrified or miserable or hurting. It was good to have a conversation with him where I not only recognized the words he spoke as being English (which was hard to do a time or two in the last four years or so), but also understood those words fit together to form coherent sentences and phrases and paragraphs of thought (which didn't happen much in the last four years or so). Off the shit, my brother is funny and clever and a great story-teller and sincere. He's a different person.
We're all praying that this version will stick around.
At some point tonight, I'm going to feel guilty about the no exercise thing and I'm going to either go for a walk or I'll spend thirty minutes on the balance ball trying to sit-up and crunch my way to a less-fat belly. I won't see results immediately and I'll be pissed off and assume I'm not doing it right. I'm guessing I'll end up on the ball because it's freakin' cold outside - down to 25, I think is what the bank clock said when we passed it on the way home an hour ago. 25! from 60-something yesterday! It's so much easier to make working-out resolutions when the weather is mild.
Oh, and the smoking thing. Eff My Life, I suck at having will-power. I rationalized that I deserved it because it was a long road trip and going to see Brother was stressful and it would make me feel better. And then the angel on my other shoulder was all "Shut the eff up dumbass, you know you're just making excuses and that you'll never actually quit if you keep rationalizing that cheating doesn't count, that you're still somehow 'quitting' if you're puffing along on 'just one'." I hate it when that bitch talks sense. So I smoked half a cigarette of Momma's. It didn't even taste good. There was no pleasant head-rush. And then I felt like an asshole.
And I'm scared of the budget thing. Let's just call a spade a spade; I'm scared to see the mess I've made and I don't want to face it and if I just bury my head in the sand and pretend it's no big deal eventually it won't be, right? Right. Jimi's going to the Gun Show tomorrow (with Steve!), so I guess I'll spend my alone-time tackling this long-standing member of the "things that scare me" list. Conquering fears and all that jazz. Yeah. Something like that. Growing up and facing the music, more like it.
But personal growth is supposed to hurt, isn't it? Isn't that how it goes - you do a bunch of shit that's miserable and unpleasant, be it working out or sticking to a budget or suffering through nicotine withdrawals, for what seems like an eternity at first, until it doesn't suck quite so much and then one day you look around and you're thinner and working out isn't so miserable and you've got all kinds of money in savings and you've raised your credit score a hundred points and you can breathe and taste and smell better. Years of not doing the right things pile on top of each other and eventually the world is going to demand a reality check and some punitive damages. I'm 30; losing weight, stopping smoking, getting my finances in order like a big girl - these are things that will only be harder to accomplish and cause more damage the longer I ignore them. No time like the present.
On that note, if I exercise for an hour tomorrow, can I skip it tonight?
On the bright side, I did put $200 into savings on Thursday when my check hit the bank, and two days later, I've not moved that money back into checking, so that's gotta count for something, right? (Of course, I've not gone anywhere where I'd be tempted to spend money, but still...)
Our New Year was exactly as I'd predicted, but with the added bonus of a half hour spent dancing together in the living room. I'm a horrible dancer, but as with the painting, I've decided I'll never get better by NOT doing it, so what the hell? If I can't dance comfortably in my living room, I'll never be able to dance anywhere. And Jimi's a great dancer; maybe he can teach me a thing or two eventually.
So we danced. And I got my kiss at midnight. And then we went outside to share the last cigarette EVER, and the cold rain had arrived just on time and we were glad we had stayed home and didn't have to drive anywhere. And then we had hot monkey sex. (TMI? Sorry.)
Today we'd planned to go visit Brother, and Momma called around noon to ask if she could go along too, so the three of us made the drive down, the visit, the drive home. It was a good day. It was good to spend the time with Momma, and it was good to see Brother face to face, to hug his skinny little waist, to touch his long bony cold fingers and know that he was in front of me, real and okay, not terrified or miserable or hurting. It was good to have a conversation with him where I not only recognized the words he spoke as being English (which was hard to do a time or two in the last four years or so), but also understood those words fit together to form coherent sentences and phrases and paragraphs of thought (which didn't happen much in the last four years or so). Off the shit, my brother is funny and clever and a great story-teller and sincere. He's a different person.
We're all praying that this version will stick around.
At some point tonight, I'm going to feel guilty about the no exercise thing and I'm going to either go for a walk or I'll spend thirty minutes on the balance ball trying to sit-up and crunch my way to a less-fat belly. I won't see results immediately and I'll be pissed off and assume I'm not doing it right. I'm guessing I'll end up on the ball because it's freakin' cold outside - down to 25, I think is what the bank clock said when we passed it on the way home an hour ago. 25! from 60-something yesterday! It's so much easier to make working-out resolutions when the weather is mild.
Oh, and the smoking thing. Eff My Life, I suck at having will-power. I rationalized that I deserved it because it was a long road trip and going to see Brother was stressful and it would make me feel better. And then the angel on my other shoulder was all "Shut the eff up dumbass, you know you're just making excuses and that you'll never actually quit if you keep rationalizing that cheating doesn't count, that you're still somehow 'quitting' if you're puffing along on 'just one'." I hate it when that bitch talks sense. So I smoked half a cigarette of Momma's. It didn't even taste good. There was no pleasant head-rush. And then I felt like an asshole.
And I'm scared of the budget thing. Let's just call a spade a spade; I'm scared to see the mess I've made and I don't want to face it and if I just bury my head in the sand and pretend it's no big deal eventually it won't be, right? Right. Jimi's going to the Gun Show tomorrow (with Steve!), so I guess I'll spend my alone-time tackling this long-standing member of the "things that scare me" list. Conquering fears and all that jazz. Yeah. Something like that. Growing up and facing the music, more like it.
But personal growth is supposed to hurt, isn't it? Isn't that how it goes - you do a bunch of shit that's miserable and unpleasant, be it working out or sticking to a budget or suffering through nicotine withdrawals, for what seems like an eternity at first, until it doesn't suck quite so much and then one day you look around and you're thinner and working out isn't so miserable and you've got all kinds of money in savings and you've raised your credit score a hundred points and you can breathe and taste and smell better. Years of not doing the right things pile on top of each other and eventually the world is going to demand a reality check and some punitive damages. I'm 30; losing weight, stopping smoking, getting my finances in order like a big girl - these are things that will only be harder to accomplish and cause more damage the longer I ignore them. No time like the present.
On that note, if I exercise for an hour tomorrow, can I skip it tonight?
Friday, December 31, 2010
One last word before the year is finished...
We didn't go to the gun show. (SCORE! - oops, did I say that out loud?) Truthfully, though, I've only managed to postpone the inevitable - we're going on Sunday.
It was beautiful today - the temps got up over 60! We decided to take advantage of the unseasonal warmth and took Finn to the dog park to run and play. (I took pictures, but I'm still not used to my camera and so none of them are worth posting.)
See?
When we got home, Jimi went down for a nap and Finn and I took a nice long walk down Southern Parkway. (Finn had gotten his exercise, but I'd not yet gotten mine.) It sprinkled briefly a few times, but nothing substantial; the weather mostly just stayed awesome. It still is.
Our party plans for the evening have been scrapped, as well. (Act surprised, I dare ya!) There was already one strike against the idea: the simple fact of driving around on New Year's Night. People are dumb and do dumb things a lot, but on nights like tonight, there's an extra dose of dumb in the air and on the roads. Next, looks like Jimi's starting to get a cold, so there's strike two. The beautiful weather is supposed to turn to shit right about the time we'd be leaving for home, so there's strike three. And so I picked up some mixers and we'll have our own little celebration* at home. Jimi apologized for letting me down. I told him to stop being stupid; when given a choice, I'll always go for the option that allows me to not wear a bra. Besides, I'll still get my kiss at midnight.
Tomorrow we're ringing in the new year with a visit to my brother. I missed out last week, lame as it may be, because I was hung over and honestly didn't feel that I could make the 8 hour trip. (3 hours down, 2 hours to visit, 3 hours home - too many hours) I miss my brother. It will be good to see him again, though I wish the circumstances were better. His head seems to be in a good place, though, so perhaps things WILL work out for the best this time around.
I painted yesterday. I'm going to do it again, maybe even tonight. My problem is I don't know what in the hell to paint. I'm not good enough to paint actual "things" - my pictures need to be abstract, or at the very least, an intentionally vague representation of the thing from which they're modeled. Since I can't figure out what to paint, I decided I'll just paint anything. Whatever shows up when I put the brush to the paper. I'll figure out where I'm going with it eventually. Right? If not, I've already paid for all the supplies, years ago, so it's not like failure would actually cost me anything.
I think I mentioned I want things to put on the walls. I've gotten on a kick, and the end result is going to mean me taking pictures of lots of things, having large prints made, then sticky-ing them up on the walls all over the house. Who needs frames? No frames means I can change them out more frequently. (I'm sorry I'm so tacky. I can't help it; it's part of the fabric of my being.)
I realized I left off my list of 2011 resolutions the biggest resolution of them all: I'm really, actually, finally going to stop smoking, starting midnight tonight. I've got 4 cigarettes left in my last pack, and they'll be gone by midnight, even if it means breaking them in half at the stroke of midnight. I'm done with this monkey on my back; I'm done with the coughing, I'm done with spending the money, I'm done with stinking, I'm done with upping my risks of heart disease, heart attack, stroke, cancer, emphysema, infertility. I never meant to start smoking in the first place, and for the first - oh, I don't know, 5 years? - I convinced myself I could quit at any time. Then I started trying to quit and learned otherwise. It's been 12 years. That's too many years, and I don't want to spend another day as a smoker.
So there ya go. I'll tattle on myself if I cheat, and I expect (please?!) that you will all give me holy hell each and every time I slip up. I need to do this for me, but a little encouragement never hurt, you know?
I'm going to go fix another drink and smoke one of those last 4 smokes and watch this Trailer Park Boys movie Jimi's got on. (Have you seen this shit? It's ridiculous.)
*celebration = Sitting in front of the TV, watching Twilight Zone or something on Netflix, me on the computer, him curled up with the dog, the cat in front of the space heater. But our cups will be full. And love and happy will be in the air. And then we'll set off bottle rockets at midnight and hopefully not set our neighbors' houses on fire.
It was beautiful today - the temps got up over 60! We decided to take advantage of the unseasonal warmth and took Finn to the dog park to run and play. (I took pictures, but I'm still not used to my camera and so none of them are worth posting.)
See? When we got home, Jimi went down for a nap and Finn and I took a nice long walk down Southern Parkway. (Finn had gotten his exercise, but I'd not yet gotten mine.) It sprinkled briefly a few times, but nothing substantial; the weather mostly just stayed awesome. It still is.
Our party plans for the evening have been scrapped, as well. (Act surprised, I dare ya!) There was already one strike against the idea: the simple fact of driving around on New Year's Night. People are dumb and do dumb things a lot, but on nights like tonight, there's an extra dose of dumb in the air and on the roads. Next, looks like Jimi's starting to get a cold, so there's strike two. The beautiful weather is supposed to turn to shit right about the time we'd be leaving for home, so there's strike three. And so I picked up some mixers and we'll have our own little celebration* at home. Jimi apologized for letting me down. I told him to stop being stupid; when given a choice, I'll always go for the option that allows me to not wear a bra. Besides, I'll still get my kiss at midnight.
Tomorrow we're ringing in the new year with a visit to my brother. I missed out last week, lame as it may be, because I was hung over and honestly didn't feel that I could make the 8 hour trip. (3 hours down, 2 hours to visit, 3 hours home - too many hours) I miss my brother. It will be good to see him again, though I wish the circumstances were better. His head seems to be in a good place, though, so perhaps things WILL work out for the best this time around.
I'll forever be the optimist.
I painted yesterday. I'm going to do it again, maybe even tonight. My problem is I don't know what in the hell to paint. I'm not good enough to paint actual "things" - my pictures need to be abstract, or at the very least, an intentionally vague representation of the thing from which they're modeled. Since I can't figure out what to paint, I decided I'll just paint anything. Whatever shows up when I put the brush to the paper. I'll figure out where I'm going with it eventually. Right? If not, I've already paid for all the supplies, years ago, so it's not like failure would actually cost me anything.
I think I mentioned I want things to put on the walls. I've gotten on a kick, and the end result is going to mean me taking pictures of lots of things, having large prints made, then sticky-ing them up on the walls all over the house. Who needs frames? No frames means I can change them out more frequently. (I'm sorry I'm so tacky. I can't help it; it's part of the fabric of my being.)
I realized I left off my list of 2011 resolutions the biggest resolution of them all: I'm really, actually, finally going to stop smoking, starting midnight tonight. I've got 4 cigarettes left in my last pack, and they'll be gone by midnight, even if it means breaking them in half at the stroke of midnight. I'm done with this monkey on my back; I'm done with the coughing, I'm done with spending the money, I'm done with stinking, I'm done with upping my risks of heart disease, heart attack, stroke, cancer, emphysema, infertility. I never meant to start smoking in the first place, and for the first - oh, I don't know, 5 years? - I convinced myself I could quit at any time. Then I started trying to quit and learned otherwise. It's been 12 years. That's too many years, and I don't want to spend another day as a smoker.
So there ya go. I'll tattle on myself if I cheat, and I expect (please?!) that you will all give me holy hell each and every time I slip up. I need to do this for me, but a little encouragement never hurt, you know?
I'm going to go fix another drink and smoke one of those last 4 smokes and watch this Trailer Park Boys movie Jimi's got on. (Have you seen this shit? It's ridiculous.)
Happy New Year, Friends!
I hope 2011 is kind to you and yours,
and brings you happiness and fulfillment in all things.
*celebration = Sitting in front of the TV, watching Twilight Zone or something on Netflix, me on the computer, him curled up with the dog, the cat in front of the space heater. But our cups will be full. And love and happy will be in the air. And then we'll set off bottle rockets at midnight and hopefully not set our neighbors' houses on fire.
Monday, August 2, 2010
About Me.
I'm 30 years old. I turned 30 in April. For my birthday party, we had a cotton candy machine and a pink and purple Barbie Princess bouncy dollhouse. "How old are you, Natalie?" my mom asked with a sneer. "Only as old as I feel, Momma!" I answered with a smile.
I'm not married. I've been married, but I'm not married anymore.
I live with my boyfriend. He's been putting up with my particular version of crazy for nearly 4 years. We probably won't get married, but we'll live happily ever after anyhow.
I don't have any children. As far as I know, I've never been pregnant. I'd really like to know what it's like to be pregnant. I'm not sure I want the responsibility of raising a whole other person, though, so we'll leave this as it is for now.
I have a job. It is alternately the best job in the whole wide world and a soul-sucking whore. Which definition fits is dependent upon which day you ask the question.
I've never been a member of any organized religion. When I was growing up, it was a special treat if a friend or family member would let me tag along and go to church with them on Sundays. Yet I was raised by two parents who have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. My Granny read us Bible stories and taught us how to say our prayers. My entire religious upbringing consisted of "Know to whom you are thankful for your blessings" and "you don't have to go to church to get to Heaven". Now my religious views are something like: Don't be an asshole, and you'll probably be okay.
I love Mormons. I would join their church, except for the whole tithing thing, and all the service requirements, and the religious beliefs.
I like to smoke. I like to drink. I like to cuss. I'm trying to not do all of these, or to at least do them not as much.
I am tactless. I'm an open book. I am obnoxious. I am self-obsessed. I'm moody. I'm lazy. I'm a perfectionist, when I do try.
I love plants. I don't exactly have a green thumb, but there are definitely shades of blue and yellow mixed in there somewhere. I've got a house and front porch full of things I've managed to not kill. I've never tried to garden, but I'm going to one of these days.
I want to have a year's supply of food stored in my basement.
I want to be a runner. Most days, I can't find enough motivation to take the dog for a walk.
I love to cook, but sometimes I forget. The work and effort required to get the kitchen clean, do the cooking, then clean the kitchen all over again...it makes me forget and carryout sounds easier.
My parents are fantastic, good, warm people. They adore me and love me and are on my side even when the rest of the world is against me. My Daddy told me once, "No one will ever love you the way your mother and I love you. No one will ever want good things for you the way we do. You can trust us always, because we will always want only the best for you." They've never let me down.
My brother is...not someone I want to talk about. I love him. I want good things for him. I want to bitchslap him.
I've only got the one blood sibling, but my cousin Stacy is like a sister who didn't live with us when I was growing up. Maybe she went to boarding school? A close one, though, because we still saw each other all the time. She was my partner in crime, my worst enemy, my true bff, the person I played "doctor" with (our own version, more "E.R."-esque, that didn't involve any touching or taking off clothes), the person I got into trouble with, the person who explored The Property with me, the one who I told all my secrets to and who loved me anyhow, the one who "got" me, always. (And later confessed that she looked up to me and wanted to be like me, and I'll always love her forever for thinking I'm cool.)
I'm a voracious reader. I prefer books, paperback ones, but a hardback will do, and if a computer's all that's available, bring it on, too. I don't want a Kindle and I don't want an IPad, but I will if I must. I love to go to the Book & Music Exchange and sort through the mishmash of titles on display - and I can't walk away from the shelves until my arms are full or my basket is heavy. I come home and line up my new-to-me selections on the second shelf from the top, on the bookcase closest to the front door in the front sitting room. Then I spend the next few days/weeks/months making my way through that shelf, saving this silly romance for later, after the serious Oprah's Book Club selection, and then after that we'll have Amy Tan because hers are always good.
I love elephants. My Granny loved elephants. Maybe I get it from her. Maybe they're just really awesome creatures. This video makes me teary-eyed, and made me decide I'm going to Thailand on my next real vacation. And I'm going to buy this:
I'm a sentimental sap. I hold on to ticket stubs and show programs and little origami figures he makes out of the foil ripped from the inside of a fresh pack of cigarettes. I have a treasure trove of shit/garbage/junk stowed in various boxes and drawers and bowls and vases all over the house. In our last home, I even displayed it, using push pins, on the wall in the kitchen. When we moved, I packed it all into a box. That box is in the upstairs closet. Yes, you probably will see me on an episode of Hoarders one day.
I don't watch television. (I'll give you a minute, I know it's a shock.) But no, I don't watch TV.
That's kind of a lie. I watched 6 episodes of Weeds last night. We have a Blockbuster subscription and they mail movies to our house. It doesn't count as TV watchin'. And Friday? When we were over at Rick's? I totally watched a half hour of DC Cupcakes (which I'd never seen, and adored) and (you'll never believe it) Say Yes To The Dress! (Can you believe it? Jimi and Rick both put on their big boy panties and let me watch the pretty dress show!) But before that, I probably didn't turn a TV on for 2 weeks. That's why I say I don't watch TV. I don't have "my shows". I don't care. It's all a bunch of shit, and most of it is gross or depressing or nasty. (But some of it is great, like the cupcake show and the pretty dress show and the one where those people have all those kids, that one's good too.)
I'm a bad story teller. I go off on tangents and forget the point and then can't find my way back to it and so I just get to the point and everyone's standing there looking at me like "Did you really just take ten minutes and a detour to talk about gun control legislation to tell us that cherries are on sale at Kroger?"
Now that you know all this...aren't you glad you started reading my blog? I'll bet you can't wait to hear what kind of crazy shit I talk about next.
I'm not married. I've been married, but I'm not married anymore.
I live with my boyfriend. He's been putting up with my particular version of crazy for nearly 4 years. We probably won't get married, but we'll live happily ever after anyhow.
I don't have any children. As far as I know, I've never been pregnant. I'd really like to know what it's like to be pregnant. I'm not sure I want the responsibility of raising a whole other person, though, so we'll leave this as it is for now.
I have a job. It is alternately the best job in the whole wide world and a soul-sucking whore. Which definition fits is dependent upon which day you ask the question.
I've never been a member of any organized religion. When I was growing up, it was a special treat if a friend or family member would let me tag along and go to church with them on Sundays. Yet I was raised by two parents who have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. My Granny read us Bible stories and taught us how to say our prayers. My entire religious upbringing consisted of "Know to whom you are thankful for your blessings" and "you don't have to go to church to get to Heaven". Now my religious views are something like: Don't be an asshole, and you'll probably be okay.
I love Mormons. I would join their church, except for the whole tithing thing, and all the service requirements, and the religious beliefs.
I like to smoke. I like to drink. I like to cuss. I'm trying to not do all of these, or to at least do them not as much.
I am tactless. I'm an open book. I am obnoxious. I am self-obsessed. I'm moody. I'm lazy. I'm a perfectionist, when I do try.
I love plants. I don't exactly have a green thumb, but there are definitely shades of blue and yellow mixed in there somewhere. I've got a house and front porch full of things I've managed to not kill. I've never tried to garden, but I'm going to one of these days.
I want to have a year's supply of food stored in my basement.
I want to be a runner. Most days, I can't find enough motivation to take the dog for a walk.
I love to cook, but sometimes I forget. The work and effort required to get the kitchen clean, do the cooking, then clean the kitchen all over again...it makes me forget and carryout sounds easier.
My parents are fantastic, good, warm people. They adore me and love me and are on my side even when the rest of the world is against me. My Daddy told me once, "No one will ever love you the way your mother and I love you. No one will ever want good things for you the way we do. You can trust us always, because we will always want only the best for you." They've never let me down.
My brother is...not someone I want to talk about. I love him. I want good things for him. I want to bitchslap him.
I've only got the one blood sibling, but my cousin Stacy is like a sister who didn't live with us when I was growing up. Maybe she went to boarding school? A close one, though, because we still saw each other all the time. She was my partner in crime, my worst enemy, my true bff, the person I played "doctor" with (our own version, more "E.R."-esque, that didn't involve any touching or taking off clothes), the person I got into trouble with, the person who explored The Property with me, the one who I told all my secrets to and who loved me anyhow, the one who "got" me, always. (And later confessed that she looked up to me and wanted to be like me, and I'll always love her forever for thinking I'm cool.)
I'm a voracious reader. I prefer books, paperback ones, but a hardback will do, and if a computer's all that's available, bring it on, too. I don't want a Kindle and I don't want an IPad, but I will if I must. I love to go to the Book & Music Exchange and sort through the mishmash of titles on display - and I can't walk away from the shelves until my arms are full or my basket is heavy. I come home and line up my new-to-me selections on the second shelf from the top, on the bookcase closest to the front door in the front sitting room. Then I spend the next few days/weeks/months making my way through that shelf, saving this silly romance for later, after the serious Oprah's Book Club selection, and then after that we'll have Amy Tan because hers are always good.
I love elephants. My Granny loved elephants. Maybe I get it from her. Maybe they're just really awesome creatures. This video makes me teary-eyed, and made me decide I'm going to Thailand on my next real vacation. And I'm going to buy this:
and two or three like it and I'm going to hang them all over my house.
I'm a sentimental sap. I hold on to ticket stubs and show programs and little origami figures he makes out of the foil ripped from the inside of a fresh pack of cigarettes. I have a treasure trove of shit/garbage/junk stowed in various boxes and drawers and bowls and vases all over the house. In our last home, I even displayed it, using push pins, on the wall in the kitchen. When we moved, I packed it all into a box. That box is in the upstairs closet. Yes, you probably will see me on an episode of Hoarders one day.
I don't watch television. (I'll give you a minute, I know it's a shock.) But no, I don't watch TV.
That's kind of a lie. I watched 6 episodes of Weeds last night. We have a Blockbuster subscription and they mail movies to our house. It doesn't count as TV watchin'. And Friday? When we were over at Rick's? I totally watched a half hour of DC Cupcakes (which I'd never seen, and adored) and (you'll never believe it) Say Yes To The Dress! (Can you believe it? Jimi and Rick both put on their big boy panties and let me watch the pretty dress show!) But before that, I probably didn't turn a TV on for 2 weeks. That's why I say I don't watch TV. I don't have "my shows". I don't care. It's all a bunch of shit, and most of it is gross or depressing or nasty. (But some of it is great, like the cupcake show and the pretty dress show and the one where those people have all those kids, that one's good too.)
I'm a bad story teller. I go off on tangents and forget the point and then can't find my way back to it and so I just get to the point and everyone's standing there looking at me like "Did you really just take ten minutes and a detour to talk about gun control legislation to tell us that cherries are on sale at Kroger?"
Now that you know all this...aren't you glad you started reading my blog? I'll bet you can't wait to hear what kind of crazy shit I talk about next.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
It's just one of those days...
I woke up this morning with a pretty severe pain on the right side of my chest every time I took a deep breath. After I figured out it probably wasn't a pulled muscle (because let's be honest, I've not done ANYTHING lately that could have resulted in a pulled muscle) I kinda started freaking out a little bit and had the thought "Oh God, what if it's lung cancer?! I KNEW I was going to kill myself by smoking!" I've cut down to about 2 cigs a day, but still. The damage is already done from the 11 years I smoked nearly a pack a day.
So I made a doctor's appointment. I told my boss my lung cancer fears. He (who is a lung cancer survivor and now only has one lung because of his ordeal) assured me that maybe they'd only have to take out one lung and that then I'd get a morphine drip and "that's the good shit".
"I don't like morphine - it makes me hallucinate," I replied. I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before, because this is the sort of non-work-related shit we talk about often in our little HR's Worst Nightmare office.
"Morphine's great when it's prescribed to you and you actually need it," was his smart-assed retort.
"Fuck You Boss! The one time I had morphine, it WAS a drip, BECAUSE I'd just had surgery, so there!"
"Really?" He seemed incredulous. One of these days, we're going to have to have a heart to heart about how I may like to smot a little poke every now and then, but that's as daring as I'm willing to be with drugs, knowing my tendencies to REALLY like stuff a little too much.
So I headed off to the doctor. Good news #1 - since the last time I was in their office a year and a half ago, I've dropped 14 lbs. YAY. Dr. R was super impressed with my Sudoku skills, and when I told him I'd greatly reduced the number of cigs and the amount of pot I was smoking, I didn't get a "I think you have a substance abuse problem" and "what are you trying to escape" speech. Always a plus, i think. :)
He said my lungs sounded great - Good news #2. He pressed on my abdomen just below my ribcage and had me take a big breath, and i almost came up off the table it hurt so bad.
"Ah. Maybe your gallbladder," Dr. R seems pleased with himself. "Now let's figure out the best way to spend your dollars getting you well."
"Let's do it all. I've got great insurance and I never use it, so let's just do whatever needs to be done to make this go away." It's true. I pay a lot of money every week to guarantee that if and when some medical situation does arise, I can get the best possible care without it costing me an arm and a leg on top of my payroll deducted premiums.
He ordered bloodwork, had me pee in a cup, ordered a chest x-ray (Good news #3 - i always like it when a doctor is willing to do tests to make sure I'm not falling apart or dying of lung cancer), and scheduled me for an ultrasound tomorrow morning. He gave me a script for phenergan, because apparently gallbladder issues can bring on nausea and he didn't want me getting sick this weekend with no relief.
I'm sure everything is fine. Jimi's being super attentive and sweet, (even more than usual, if you can believe it) and I love him for that.
I'd love to have a smoke, but man, after the thoughts that raced through my head this morning when I realized it hurt to breath, I can't bring myself to go out on the porch and light one up. Maybe this will be the catalyst I need to quit? Oh, let's hope so.
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