Change Has Come
The one good thing about having been the youngest of 4 children was implementing archived plans in the new occupation of a long coveted bedroom. A sibling had left in a Ford Tempo taking him/her on a one way ticket to freedom. Education.
Still serving my sentence, I was upgraded to a larger cell in the east wing. A hurled twin mattress was the new pass allowing entry through a doorway which had previously required permission and favour to enter. Dragged was a cheap fibreboard dresser and a solid collection of pigs along a narrow strip of time and tag worn wall to wall. Planting my small collection of plastic farm animals in the center of the room, I was Columbus. I was Noah.
In this new room I rearranged old objects; pinned idols (Billy and beyond) on walls of genuine imitation wood panelling; stubbed toes on doorjambs; made loose plans; gossiped and dreamt of freedom. I'd walked through this room 10,000 times.
I daydreamed of who I'd marry, recalling the psychic game of predestined unions. 3 watermelon seeds stuck to my forehead. Each seed had a boy's name assigned to it. The seed that remained was the boy I was going to marry. Mrs. Rick Springfield.
On 500 of 10,000 passes, variational occurrences of wondering who the noogie and wedgie-giving, stringy haired, skinny kid would grow into popped up like crocus.
In high school I could talk on the phone for 3 hours, watch television for 6, eat 2 square meals, smoke a half a pack of cigarettes, sleep 8 hours, and continue to dispense no less than 2 noogies or wedgies per day (a childhood past time).
20 years later, I've stopped watching television. I'm one of those people who not only identifies with characters, but who mentally throws herself into the screen. I was the bonneted Anne of Green Gables rebelliously duking it out with Marilla. [click] Or any one of the girls from the Facts of Life, depending on what the weekly disparagement was. When Tootie outgrew her rollerskates, I felt her bunions. It was like a Vulcan Pain Meld.
At 37, I prefer seeing people rather than talking to a disembodied voice who is usually in the midst of a distraction. Or worse, using me as a distraction. When the phone rings in our house now it does so exactly 3 times before heading to message land. In that time, if I choose to answer - these days a 1 in 10 chance - this is generally how it goes down.
ring ring
Where the fuck's the phone?
ring ring
Oh.
Cigarettes, cigarettes... where the hell are my cigarettes...
ring ring
Singing: There they are!
(Tripping over x, stubbing 3 toes) [BANG] OWWWW!
The Comrade: Hello? [sparking up]
Future Grandmother of My Children: I've made a resolution to be Super Woman this year!
The Comrade: 3 years running?
FGoMC: I've never been Super Woman. I'm talking about going on my cross trainer daily.
The Comrade: Oh? Oh.
FGoMC: Yes. My youngest and I purchased one years ago. This year I'm finally going to do it.
The Comrade: Shall I start designing the cape now?
FGoMC: Yes! I'd like something pink with big flowers on it. Nothing garish like icky black or one with webs.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that Spiderman never wore a cape.
I don't remember the last time I made a New Year's Resolution. Well, last year I did make a lukewarm resolve to take more pictures. Good start. These days resolutions mean a wall of yellow tagged monitors where the actual retail price reflects dots per square inch capability.
I'm been thinking about things I should change. A new year is as good an excuse as any.
I think the wedgies may have come to a complete halt.
Sigh.
I asked if he wanted one. He said he did. I explained what was involved and he still wanted it. I warned him. I did. But it was like he begged me for one. So I gave it to him. A Super Atomic variety. And paraded him around for a bit. His feet didn't touch the ground. He screamed to come down. I complied. With his back to me he dislodged pants and underwear by repeated yanking from one side of his bum. He turned around in a slow, steady Jack Palance style, whose glare bore straight through me. 5 years old. Arms akimbo. He was 3 feet of undiluted hate.
Something I could work on is keeping track of things. Of course, there are some things I could let go of too, but that's an entirely separate post. I mean I don't keep track of certain things.
Like St. Agur cheese.
I will treat this precious hunk of bacteria like an over-possessive lover, spreading only a communion's worth on my tongue. It will then be carefully rewrapped and replaced to a remote spot in the refrigerator. 4 weeks later, during a monthly tour of fridge duty, a hardened, encrusted, inedible version of its former self will emerge, untouched further, and I will weep bitterly.
Keeping track of my period had fallen under the stinky cheese category.
Fatty, the love of my life: Drugstore? What do you need at the drugstore?
The Comrade: Um... drugs? And things?
The worst liar of all time. Also a non-habitual drug taker.
At home I had a calm conversation with myself.
Okay, there are some definite symptoms here. So, if I am pregnant how much of my lifestyle would I really have to change? I mean, a slight variance, maybe. Maybe a bit of exercise in the department of moderation. Maybe no more tequila shots... in succession.
Just wanting to verify, I went online to research the potential effects of reduced espresso intake, smoking the occasional Virginia Slim, and/or sliding in one or two drops of scotch like a christening on an unborn child.
In no particular order:
Sudden Infant Crib Death
Low Birth Weight
Low Immune System
Fetal Alcohol Poisoning
Great!
En route to the drugstore I imagined myself pregnant. I mean, really imagined myself pregnant.
I was instantly protective of my body's new inhabitant
In a Schwartzenegger way.
Walking through the fluorescent lit lanes of cotton balls, anti-chafing devices and adult diapers, I reached the Family Planning section of the local drugstore. At ramming speed, with blinders on, I pushed passed feminine protection products, thumbing them like a Sicilian. Though I wasn't 100% sure, I thought: I wouldn't need pads for nine months!
I also couldn't have triple vodkas either.
Less reason for celebration.
At the destination, I scrutinised no less than 4 varieties of home pregnancy tests, choosing a modest no name brand as every penny began to count now that I was saving money for a college fund.
Hm... what's that strange cramping? Oh, right. I read about that. It's normal. But, didn't it say it was usually located to one side? Ah, it's probably nothing.
Glowing all the way home, as only a pregnant woman would, I had to wait a couple of hours to perform the test effectively. The chemical which would spell m-o-m-m-y in my pee needed 4 hours to collect. 2 down, 2 to go. Frequent trips to the bathroom? Just another symptom of pregnancy.
Or a bladder inflection.
And then it came.
A small, warm, red gush.
And I was a little sad.
And not prepared.
I hadn't picked up any protective sheathes.
I had been too busy thumbing them.
Later I told Fatty, the love of my life, all about it.
He was a bit sad too, but more relieved.
Timing.
He thought 2 years max. would be better.
The next day we went to the house of the Future Super Woman.
The Comrade: blah, blah, blah... pregnancy scare.
Super Woman: What?! Pregnant?! [SHRIEK]
The Comrade: It was just a scare, darling.
Which made her take her eldest aside.
Super Woman [in private with her eldest]: Were you two planning, darling? You know, not that it really matters, or that I care all that much.
Fatty: One day, Mom.
Super Woman: Well! I shall start knitting now! [SHRIEK]
The Comrade: You know something? If I had been pregnant I would have told him or her one day, 'You were conceived purely from love.'
Super Woman: Well, he's guaranteed to be a complete shit, then.
Fatty: What the hell's that supposed to mean?
Super Woman: Oh, nothing, darling!
So I'm not pregnant. But that's okay because this marks the first time in my life that I would actually welcome having a child. The first time that I've thought that I wouldn't fuck up a child too much. Maybe just 2 years in therapy. Or a session or 2 in regressionist therapy of the future.
I will be a Mom one day.
Wow. This is really big for me.
This pregnancy scare made me consider every single cigarette I put in my mouth.
I had no intention of quitting. I had none, and don't laugh, because I honestly didn't think cigarettes affected me adversely. I didn't have a cough, I didn't hack up blackened lung butter. I never could run anyway.
But then I got sick. Bundling up, crossing the street with a fever, I asked the variety store clerk for a pack of Dunhills in the voice of a tracheotomy survivor.
Doing research one day, I found out what happened to me each time I opened a pack and lit one. I was going from one fix to the next looking for the perfect level of nicotine in my system. I was chasing the dragon. I had become a textbook junkie. Totally in denial. This absolutely messed with my self construct. I am not a drug addict!
I am a drug addict.
On Limewire I typed "Quit Smoking" in the search parameters. I ended up downloading some guy with a thick southern drawl who kept repeating "Yer gettin' sleeapey, real sleeapey. Yep. Sleeape now." This went on for 13 minutes. Then for about 3 minutes there was a barrage of: "You cannot smoke. You will not smoke. You must not smoke. But you can be in a room full of smokers and it will not bother you."
10 years ago I had quit smoking for 6 months. For those 6 months I didn't go out. How could I? I had associated every good memory with cigarettes. Every friend I made. Every lover I took. Every laugh expelled. Every hurt felt. Cigarettes were my constant companion.
Bunkering up in my apartment, Comrade NonSmoke cleaned everything. Then I joined the gym and became buffed. I became a Reformed Smoker. Lecturing, gazing disapprovingly upon the poor sods who huddled outside of office buildings. I became an anti-smoking Nazi cunt. The worst.
I'd given them so much power: my old friends, the cigarettes.
Sleeape now. You can be in a room full of smokers and it will not bother you. But you do not want to smoke. Nosir. If you smoke you will puke. Sleeape now.
After 18 minutes he starts pulling me out. I remember everything. I didn't really fall asleep. It was the first time I'd listened to him and with hypnosis you really have to be careful.
When you wake up, kill all things that have 2 eyes.
But for now, sleeape.
5,4,3,2,1
awake
alert
Sitting in front of my monitor
I quit out of iTunes
Then light a cigarette.
I don't feel like I'm going to puke.
And strangely, the chorus of Rebel Yell rose in a recess.
After finishing the smoke, I stubbed it out. I panned from the butt to the large pack of Dunhills that only had 4 removed. To my own amazement I said, "That was the last cigarette I'll ever have."
And then I wrote it down.
Friday, January 13, 2006
The Comrade had her last cigarette at 5:00pm
And then made herself a big plate of brussel sprouts.
No ceremony.
No credence.
They didn't deserve it.
The following is an example of one of the distinctions between men and women:
A man has a friend. This friend totally screwed him over. The man will lay out the transgression. Maybe there will be fisticuffs. Maybe not. After it is aired, and after a sufficient number of apologies and suggested methods of appeasement occur, the man forgives the friend. And they never speak of it again.
Women don't do this.
Someone screwed over a woman? Oh, Jesus. That poor sod is done for. For good. Betrayal? Head for the hills, all!
Cigarettes had been that wonderful friend who ultimately exposed himself as the greatest betrayer. Who turned me into a junkie.
I look at them now with disgust. Just like that.
Fatty hasn't quit yet. He wants to, but he's not ready. As much as it kills me to keep quiet, anything I do say ends up making things worse. So in the interim he continues to smoke the occasional cigarette. I allow him to do it in the house as it doesn't bother me. [Thanks Tex] Watching people smoke doesn't bother me.
It's been nearly 96 hours since I quit smoking. The worst of it is apparently over. Astonishingly it has been remarkably easy for me. Cold turkey with one free hypnosis session.
I feel calmer.
My libido seems like it just had a coffee.
Mostly I feel like I'm holding a new truth.
And I'm starting to prepare my body for a future, eventual inhabitant.
Still serving my sentence, I was upgraded to a larger cell in the east wing. A hurled twin mattress was the new pass allowing entry through a doorway which had previously required permission and favour to enter. Dragged was a cheap fibreboard dresser and a solid collection of pigs along a narrow strip of time and tag worn wall to wall. Planting my small collection of plastic farm animals in the center of the room, I was Columbus. I was Noah.
In this new room I rearranged old objects; pinned idols (Billy and beyond) on walls of genuine imitation wood panelling; stubbed toes on doorjambs; made loose plans; gossiped and dreamt of freedom. I'd walked through this room 10,000 times.
I daydreamed of who I'd marry, recalling the psychic game of predestined unions. 3 watermelon seeds stuck to my forehead. Each seed had a boy's name assigned to it. The seed that remained was the boy I was going to marry. Mrs. Rick Springfield.
On 500 of 10,000 passes, variational occurrences of wondering who the noogie and wedgie-giving, stringy haired, skinny kid would grow into popped up like crocus.
In high school I could talk on the phone for 3 hours, watch television for 6, eat 2 square meals, smoke a half a pack of cigarettes, sleep 8 hours, and continue to dispense no less than 2 noogies or wedgies per day (a childhood past time).
20 years later, I've stopped watching television. I'm one of those people who not only identifies with characters, but who mentally throws herself into the screen. I was the bonneted Anne of Green Gables rebelliously duking it out with Marilla. [click] Or any one of the girls from the Facts of Life, depending on what the weekly disparagement was. When Tootie outgrew her rollerskates, I felt her bunions. It was like a Vulcan Pain Meld.
At 37, I prefer seeing people rather than talking to a disembodied voice who is usually in the midst of a distraction. Or worse, using me as a distraction. When the phone rings in our house now it does so exactly 3 times before heading to message land. In that time, if I choose to answer - these days a 1 in 10 chance - this is generally how it goes down.
ring ring
Where the fuck's the phone?
ring ring
Oh.
Cigarettes, cigarettes... where the hell are my cigarettes...
ring ring
Singing: There they are!
(Tripping over x, stubbing 3 toes) [BANG] OWWWW!
The Comrade: Hello? [sparking up]
Future Grandmother of My Children: I've made a resolution to be Super Woman this year!
The Comrade: 3 years running?
FGoMC: I've never been Super Woman. I'm talking about going on my cross trainer daily.
The Comrade: Oh? Oh.
FGoMC: Yes. My youngest and I purchased one years ago. This year I'm finally going to do it.
The Comrade: Shall I start designing the cape now?
FGoMC: Yes! I'd like something pink with big flowers on it. Nothing garish like icky black or one with webs.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that Spiderman never wore a cape.
I don't remember the last time I made a New Year's Resolution. Well, last year I did make a lukewarm resolve to take more pictures. Good start. These days resolutions mean a wall of yellow tagged monitors where the actual retail price reflects dots per square inch capability.
I'm been thinking about things I should change. A new year is as good an excuse as any.
I think the wedgies may have come to a complete halt.
Sigh.
I asked if he wanted one. He said he did. I explained what was involved and he still wanted it. I warned him. I did. But it was like he begged me for one. So I gave it to him. A Super Atomic variety. And paraded him around for a bit. His feet didn't touch the ground. He screamed to come down. I complied. With his back to me he dislodged pants and underwear by repeated yanking from one side of his bum. He turned around in a slow, steady Jack Palance style, whose glare bore straight through me. 5 years old. Arms akimbo. He was 3 feet of undiluted hate.
Something I could work on is keeping track of things. Of course, there are some things I could let go of too, but that's an entirely separate post. I mean I don't keep track of certain things.
Like St. Agur cheese.
I will treat this precious hunk of bacteria like an over-possessive lover, spreading only a communion's worth on my tongue. It will then be carefully rewrapped and replaced to a remote spot in the refrigerator. 4 weeks later, during a monthly tour of fridge duty, a hardened, encrusted, inedible version of its former self will emerge, untouched further, and I will weep bitterly.
Keeping track of my period had fallen under the stinky cheese category.
Fatty, the love of my life: Drugstore? What do you need at the drugstore?
The Comrade: Um... drugs? And things?
The worst liar of all time. Also a non-habitual drug taker.
At home I had a calm conversation with myself.
Okay, there are some definite symptoms here. So, if I am pregnant how much of my lifestyle would I really have to change? I mean, a slight variance, maybe. Maybe a bit of exercise in the department of moderation. Maybe no more tequila shots... in succession.
Just wanting to verify, I went online to research the potential effects of reduced espresso intake, smoking the occasional Virginia Slim, and/or sliding in one or two drops of scotch like a christening on an unborn child.
In no particular order:
Sudden Infant Crib Death
Low Birth Weight
Low Immune System
Fetal Alcohol Poisoning
Great!
En route to the drugstore I imagined myself pregnant. I mean, really imagined myself pregnant.
I was instantly protective of my body's new inhabitant
In a Schwartzenegger way.
Walking through the fluorescent lit lanes of cotton balls, anti-chafing devices and adult diapers, I reached the Family Planning section of the local drugstore. At ramming speed, with blinders on, I pushed passed feminine protection products, thumbing them like a Sicilian. Though I wasn't 100% sure, I thought: I wouldn't need pads for nine months!
I also couldn't have triple vodkas either.
Less reason for celebration.
At the destination, I scrutinised no less than 4 varieties of home pregnancy tests, choosing a modest no name brand as every penny began to count now that I was saving money for a college fund.
Hm... what's that strange cramping? Oh, right. I read about that. It's normal. But, didn't it say it was usually located to one side? Ah, it's probably nothing.
Glowing all the way home, as only a pregnant woman would, I had to wait a couple of hours to perform the test effectively. The chemical which would spell m-o-m-m-y in my pee needed 4 hours to collect. 2 down, 2 to go. Frequent trips to the bathroom? Just another symptom of pregnancy.
Or a bladder inflection.
And then it came.
A small, warm, red gush.
And I was a little sad.
And not prepared.
I hadn't picked up any protective sheathes.
I had been too busy thumbing them.
Later I told Fatty, the love of my life, all about it.
He was a bit sad too, but more relieved.
Timing.
He thought 2 years max. would be better.
The next day we went to the house of the Future Super Woman.
The Comrade: blah, blah, blah... pregnancy scare.
Super Woman: What?! Pregnant?! [SHRIEK]
The Comrade: It was just a scare, darling.
Which made her take her eldest aside.
Super Woman [in private with her eldest]: Were you two planning, darling? You know, not that it really matters, or that I care all that much.
Fatty: One day, Mom.
Super Woman: Well! I shall start knitting now! [SHRIEK]
The Comrade: You know something? If I had been pregnant I would have told him or her one day, 'You were conceived purely from love.'
Super Woman: Well, he's guaranteed to be a complete shit, then.
Fatty: What the hell's that supposed to mean?
Super Woman: Oh, nothing, darling!
So I'm not pregnant. But that's okay because this marks the first time in my life that I would actually welcome having a child. The first time that I've thought that I wouldn't fuck up a child too much. Maybe just 2 years in therapy. Or a session or 2 in regressionist therapy of the future.
I will be a Mom one day.
Wow. This is really big for me.
This pregnancy scare made me consider every single cigarette I put in my mouth.
I had no intention of quitting. I had none, and don't laugh, because I honestly didn't think cigarettes affected me adversely. I didn't have a cough, I didn't hack up blackened lung butter. I never could run anyway.
But then I got sick. Bundling up, crossing the street with a fever, I asked the variety store clerk for a pack of Dunhills in the voice of a tracheotomy survivor.
Doing research one day, I found out what happened to me each time I opened a pack and lit one. I was going from one fix to the next looking for the perfect level of nicotine in my system. I was chasing the dragon. I had become a textbook junkie. Totally in denial. This absolutely messed with my self construct. I am not a drug addict!
I am a drug addict.
On Limewire I typed "Quit Smoking" in the search parameters. I ended up downloading some guy with a thick southern drawl who kept repeating "Yer gettin' sleeapey, real sleeapey. Yep. Sleeape now." This went on for 13 minutes. Then for about 3 minutes there was a barrage of: "You cannot smoke. You will not smoke. You must not smoke. But you can be in a room full of smokers and it will not bother you."
10 years ago I had quit smoking for 6 months. For those 6 months I didn't go out. How could I? I had associated every good memory with cigarettes. Every friend I made. Every lover I took. Every laugh expelled. Every hurt felt. Cigarettes were my constant companion.
Bunkering up in my apartment, Comrade NonSmoke cleaned everything. Then I joined the gym and became buffed. I became a Reformed Smoker. Lecturing, gazing disapprovingly upon the poor sods who huddled outside of office buildings. I became an anti-smoking Nazi cunt. The worst.
I'd given them so much power: my old friends, the cigarettes.
Sleeape now. You can be in a room full of smokers and it will not bother you. But you do not want to smoke. Nosir. If you smoke you will puke. Sleeape now.
After 18 minutes he starts pulling me out. I remember everything. I didn't really fall asleep. It was the first time I'd listened to him and with hypnosis you really have to be careful.
When you wake up, kill all things that have 2 eyes.
But for now, sleeape.
5,4,3,2,1
awake
alert
Sitting in front of my monitor
I quit out of iTunes
Then light a cigarette.
I don't feel like I'm going to puke.
And strangely, the chorus of Rebel Yell rose in a recess.
After finishing the smoke, I stubbed it out. I panned from the butt to the large pack of Dunhills that only had 4 removed. To my own amazement I said, "That was the last cigarette I'll ever have."
And then I wrote it down.
Friday, January 13, 2006
The Comrade had her last cigarette at 5:00pm
And then made herself a big plate of brussel sprouts.
No ceremony.
No credence.
They didn't deserve it.
The following is an example of one of the distinctions between men and women:
A man has a friend. This friend totally screwed him over. The man will lay out the transgression. Maybe there will be fisticuffs. Maybe not. After it is aired, and after a sufficient number of apologies and suggested methods of appeasement occur, the man forgives the friend. And they never speak of it again.
Women don't do this.
Someone screwed over a woman? Oh, Jesus. That poor sod is done for. For good. Betrayal? Head for the hills, all!
Cigarettes had been that wonderful friend who ultimately exposed himself as the greatest betrayer. Who turned me into a junkie.
I look at them now with disgust. Just like that.
Fatty hasn't quit yet. He wants to, but he's not ready. As much as it kills me to keep quiet, anything I do say ends up making things worse. So in the interim he continues to smoke the occasional cigarette. I allow him to do it in the house as it doesn't bother me. [Thanks Tex] Watching people smoke doesn't bother me.
It's been nearly 96 hours since I quit smoking. The worst of it is apparently over. Astonishingly it has been remarkably easy for me. Cold turkey with one free hypnosis session.
I feel calmer.
My libido seems like it just had a coffee.
Mostly I feel like I'm holding a new truth.
And I'm starting to prepare my body for a future, eventual inhabitant.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
3:33 p.m.
|
2 comments
