Cold Turkey, Wild Turkey, It’s All the Same to Me

Sweet Baby Jesus, the last two weeks have driven me to drink!  More!  They’ve driven me to drink more.  I have to say that my good friends Jim Beam and Jack Daniels have been very supportive during this time.  Who was it that decided that I should quit smoking the same week that PMS was ratcheting up my moodiness to unprecedented levels?  Oh yeah, that was me.  Freakin’ moron. 

I decided to quit smoking while Mr. Dingo was in Miami two weeks ago to save him from the effects of my nicotine withdrawal wrath.  The first three days were miserable.  I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t think of anything but not smoking.  At night, Marlboro 100s danced through my restless sleep like the ridiculous animated concession stand characters that are shown right before the previews in the movie theater.  Does anyone else find it disturbing that these advertisements show a soda, box of candy, and a bag of popcorn going to the concession stand to buy a soda, box of candy, and a bag of popcorn to eat during the show? 

Speaking of movies, I went to see The Other Boleyn Girl during the great Dingo Smoke-Out.  When I see someone in a movie smoke, it usually makes me want to light one up myself.  Say what you will about the anti-smoking lobby’s efforts to remove smoking scenes from PG-13 movies, but I think we have already established that I am a sucker for blatant advertising.  However, the only thing smokin’ in The Other Boleyn Girl is Eric Bana. 

On Day Four, I sorted through Cigarette Mountain (as we affectionately call the pile of cigarette stubs that overflow the cigarette bucket on our terrace) looking for any stub that hadn’t been smoked down to the filter.  It was a low moment, and not one of which I am particularly proud.  My frantic search was futile.  In anticipation of the great smoke-out, I sucked everything down to the gold stripe on the filter.  I was wondering why it was getting harder not to smoke instead of easier.

Day Five.  I was bitter about Mr. Dingo’s Miami junket.  I imagined him in the lush, color-saturated tropics basking by the pool in shades and suntan oil surrounded by long… lean… creamy… cigarettes.  And ashtrays.  I swear, by Day Five if we had any dirty ashtrays in the apartment I would’ve been licking them like a Tootsie Roll Lollipop. 

Day Six was so much better.  Mr. Dingo was returning home, Dingo Girl and I had a great session with her trainer (more about that in another post), and all was right in the world.  I think I have this thing beat.  Not counting the time I stalked the gaggle of women down Madison Avenue just to inhale their second hand smoke, I hadn’t touched a cigarette in six days. 

Day Seven.  Woohoo!  March 17th.  One week without cigarettes.  The entire world threw a party for me.  You may have passed by a few of the celebrations.  There were streamers, crazy costumes, and even parades!  NYC threw a huge parade for me up Fifth Avenue.  Mayor Bloomberg couldn’t attend because he was in Albany inhaling the fumes from Elliott Spitzer’s political career.  But dear readers, reader, Mom, I’m glad you were there for my big day. 

Today marks the second week since I’ve had a smoke.  The second week was much easier than the first, but it was no picnic.  There’s been a lot of stress this week with quitting my job (yes, I told the lying bastards to go fuck themselves), grading papers, grading mid-terms, working on my thesis, training Dingo Girl, creating lesson plans, blah, blah, blah, and there have been times when I just wanted a cigarette to help calm my nerves. But I resisted the temptation.  Instead of sitting out on the terrace smoking a cigarette, I sat on our bench hand in hand with my two greatest allies in this no-smoking campaign.  Jim and Jack.  God bless ‘em.