A Commonplace Book

One year ago today, I smoked my last cigarette. This one year mark is particularly significant because it means that I’ve made it through a whole year’s worth of ritualized annoyances without cigarettes (for anyone who has ever smoked or still does, you know how huge this is). So, on top of the normal reasons to smoke like family get-togethers with my mother-in-law, passive-aggressive school teachers, stacks of essays to grade, my children’s bickering, this year has also included chronic health problems, an eight pound weight gain (and now loss), and worst of all–a family vacation that included visiting my father-in-law. And I didn’t smoke. Not one puff.

Of course, I’m glad I quit smoking, and I miss it like hell. These two states of mind cannot be mutually exclusive, I’ve discovered, when kicking an addiction. I can’t be all Pollyanna about quitting smoking and still continue to choose to live smoke free every day. And believe me, still, 365 days later, it’s still a choice. For certain, some days pass when I don’t think about it at all, and on other days it seems that I think about smoking every minute of the day. I have to honor my struggle by acknowledging (usually out loud) that this not smoking thing is sometimes SUCKTASTIC. I watched High Fidelity last week, and John Cusac’s character was smoking in a restaurant…Ah, the good old days…

Anti-smokers and smoker-haters would remind me that smoking is disgusting and smelly, and yes it is both. Three things I don’t miss are the smell on my clothes and in my hair, cleaning up butts, and freezing my ass off to get my fix.

But here’s what I do miss about smoking. I miss the girl I was when I started. I was a smart, edgy girl in college, and I smoked as a way of being bad without REALLY being bad. I wore knee-high black boots (jeans tucked in, naturally) and black eyeliner. I drank cheap wine and cheaper beer and hung out at poetry readings. I loved this girl, and I clung to this image of myself for as long as I could.

As a parent, I became a sneaky smoker. Only a few people knew that I smoked, and I always hid outside to have a cigarette. This was fun. I think we all need to be a little bit bad sometimes, and sneaky smoking was how I took a break from all the self-induced pressure of being a great mom and a great teacher and a great person. Also, smoking separated me from the gossipy PTA mombots, and I loved that too. I’d call up Mrs. Lipsticky, light up a smoke, and go on about how these women were all so effed up or about how my family could be so ungrateful.

But here’s something else I discovered. I’m generally a nicer person as a non-smoker. I know this now. I look back at all of the things that used to annoy me, and they don’t bother me that much anymore. Maybe removing the constant craving for nicotine has mellowed me out a little. But I’m also more sensitive. When I used to get angry (and go smoke), I now get hurt (and sometimes go cry). This is a shift that I’m still trying to negotiate.

But on the whole, and with a deep sigh, I’m congratulating myself for diving back into, instead of using cigarettes to hide from, the sometimes painful struggle that is life. And yes, it has been worth it. Every minute of it.

My relationship with Judy, also known as Mrs. Lipsticky, has given this date with some much-needed new meaning. All my love goes out to my fabulous friend on her day.

 

To quote my favorite spiritual guide, Ralph Waldo Emerson (RWE):

“We talk better than we are wont….For long hours we can continue a series of sincere, graceful, rich communications, drawn from the oldest, secretest experience, so that they who sit by, of our own kinsfolk and acquaintance, shall feel a lively surprise at our unusual powers.”

To (BFF) Nina and the Manhattanites, I know I don’t have to say anything, and I know that words will fail. Instead, I send love, and I hope for peace.

 

“The problems that exist in the world today cannot be solved by the level of thinking that created them.” 

-Albert Einstein

 

 

Friends old and new, you’ll have to bear with me because I’m feeling a little mushy today, and I have to send out some props to my sister, Roxy the rock star (a Gwen term—it’s the highest praise a four-year-old can think of).

 

Roxy has always been super-fantastic as far as sisters go, but this weekend marked the monthiversary of biblical-level tribulation for Roxy and Vic. A month ago, Roxy took Vic to the ER for a weird reaction to a bug bite. Doctors diagnosed him with cellulitis and sepsis. Vic was rushed to the ICU, where he stayed for two-and-a-half weeks getting IV anti-biotics and hyperbaric treatments (and became the first person I know, beside Michael Jackson, to hang out in the hyperbaric chamber).

 

Did I mention that Roxy and Vic have three children? Did I mention that Vic’s mother, Bunny, is a little, well overbearing (there was a particularly weird incident that I won’t discuss here out of respect for Vic, but trust me when I tell you it was so far over the line, the line wasn’t visible from where Bunny was standing). Bunny moved into the ICU and spent her time criticizing everything about Roxy and Vic’s lives. She practically threatened to remove the cats from the house because they would compromise the sterility of the home environment. R and V have three kids—there goes your sterility right there. Especially the littlest, five-year-old CJ. I love my nephew madly, but he’s a drooly little sucker.

 

Anyway, during the time when Vic was sick, Roxy also finished up the soccer season; she was the team’s only coach (although next year we’re going to make Reg help because he’s a psycho on the sidelines and we need to channel that energy in a more constructive way). Then, about a week after Vic got out of the hospital, Roxy, Vic, and the kids moved into their new home (and I have to pause for a moment and send our super-big props to Reg, Gill Smoke, and Wes for their kick-ass work). But before they moved in, they had been working on the house, and they were in mid-improvement when Vic got sick. Roxy worked alone to get the house as ready as possible for the move, and I’m talking serious work like pulling up carpet and steaming down wall paper.

 

After the move, Vic underwent surgery, and then on the day Vic got out of the hospital for the second time, Roxy threw the best birthday party ever for CJ; it was camp-themed with a fire pit, smores, and ghost in the graveyard for 16 children. Then she got all three kids ready for back to school (which included negotiating new bus pick-ups).

 

Vic is recovering, but he’s still receiving IV antibiotics, and a nurse comes to their house every other day to perform a procedure that requires an apparatus Vic and Roxy refer to as the “puss (rhymes with us) vac” (huge yuk factor).

 

We all know that the most important thing is that Vic lived, and there was a terrifyingly iffy time frame when we weren’t sure if he would. We’re all so unspeakably grateful. However, perhaps in our gratitude, we may have not fully and properly acknowledged the person who kept and continues to keep it all together. So here’s to you Roxy—a rock star of a wife, sister, aunt (and daughter-in-law, even if Bunny’s too self-absorbed to see it).

 

Vic, for Christmas, diamonds are nice.

It is the first anniversary of Steve Irwin’s death, and my RT people know that four years ago, right after Gwen was born, the Croc Hunter and the whole gang at Australia Zoo played a very important role in our family. Mira became a little obsessed with the whole Irwin clan, to the point where she insisted we call her “Bindi,” and she called her father and me “Steve” and “Terry.” Perhaps her imaginary family helped her deal with the “baby koala” who stole her mommy? So, work “crikey” into a conversation today in honor of Steve-O–a true wildlife rock star.