Smokescreen - my journey off cigarettes

In Smokescreen, I've combined blog posts from the four years during which I quit and started STAYING OFF cigarettes into a book for the Amazon Kindle! If you've ever chewed your nails off trying to NOT smoke, wish you never started smoking, hope one day you'll be able to smoke a magical cigarette made of nothing addictive and have a happily ever after, or know someone who needs to understand these things, GET the book!

My time

Air thick with algae and driftwood decaying, breeze light but crisp, the lapping of lake waves kept us company. 

The leather reins braided, playing loosely between my thumb and index finger. 

Into the water, hocks pumping, somehow we float, swim, snorting, then back to the beach. 

Down on two knees, a roll in the sand to scratch, wet mud in crevices cooling, the power of ages paws its way to standing. 

Back on, bareback gallop across familiar trails all the way home. 

Ya Down with OCD? (Ya you know me)

Mental Health Tip of the Day. 

I remember when a well-meaning family member told me that if i didn't stop tearing the skin off my fingers boys wouldn't want to hold my hand. 

I was 10. Maybe 11.

Of all the worst things you could tell a tween with anxiety and panic issues, this would be right up near the top of the list. 

Still. The advice was meant to be helpful. Probably motivating enough for the occasional picker. 

BUT I was not casual. I started tearing at my feet at 5 years old. To make the skin even. Peel a layer, another layer to even things out. Do the surgery on myself that could not save my father's life. All without knowing why. 

So If you have a 10 year old who is ripping their skin off in your own family, consider not saying this to them and instead suggesting some help for anxiety and OCD issues. They will do better with boys long term if they aren't living in a total hell of agonizing distress. 

Ya you know me!

Are you kidding me iPhone 5?

If anyone had told me that you would be able to speak a blog post into a phone I wouldn't have believed it. 

But that's exactly what I am doing. I am not sure how well this will work but if it does no one should have an excuse not to  blog. 

Dude, it works. 

This is a tired dumpster face

I

Day ? of dumpster cleanup, and I'm wondering why the bark collar on bando isn't working. Every time something goes kerbang into the dumpster he yowls his displeasure. 

We opted for the bark collar because at the apartment he suffers from both dementia and separation anxiety to go along with his OCD manifested in licking and scratching. All in all not bad for 93 and heart worm positive. 

ANYWAY that hundred dollar bark collar is going back to the store as soon as the 100 percent life sucking dumpster adventure is over. That was the point of this post. When you get a dumpster, the rest of your life must be put on hold to focus Utterly and completely on filling that dumpster. 

Today's dumpster fodder included an old litterbox that was hiding a black snake underneath. More boxes. Lids for things that no longer exist. Broken chair backs. LOTS of papers. Dust. Strapless purses moldy computer bags. Yum!

In a dumpster all things are equal. An accidental gold necklace is the same as a broken baby gate. Ashes to ashes. Dust to landfill. 

I took 150 pounds to goodwill today. The goodwill guy was happy to see me. He eyed my Disney tv and remote. I know who THATs going home with. 

George is calling me. Time to go haul another load. 

Travel light my friends. Travel light. 

the dumpster

We have, my husband and I, obtained a dumpster to try to get a handle on things. As you know, dumpsters are the Number 1 device for getting a handle on things.

We have the dumpster for 3 weeks, so that should allow quite a handle.

The last time we got a dumpster, the only thing that ended up going in was a king size bed - a bed I didn't really hate that much - and a bunch of empty boxes and wood to make it seem full. That wasn't much of a handle. It left me feeling depressed and incompetent of getting rid of stuff.

But this time we are ready to get rid of stuff.

stuff that is killing us.

so much stuff the house has expelled the people in it, mostly.

This time though, we are ready to get a handle on things, and we have spent hours so far trying, and together saying ONE TWO THREE, TOSS! hurling into the dumpster old desk drawers and bed frames and suit cases covered in cat hair and dust -- and I'm not so sure new species haven't evolved from the combination thereof.

meow-sneeze.

you really shouldn't have to go through so much to get a handle on things.

last night I thought the anaphylactic reaction I had from the cat hair and dust was going to send me to the ER. I could post a picture of my oozing eyes, but it's on my phone and I'm not sure how to beam it onto my old blogspot blog here. Plus it's really gross. It may keep you from ordering a dumpster, and I wouldn't want to be responsible for that.

There's so much more to do. but for the next three weeks I will allow myself to fool myself that the presence of the dumpster means we are getting a handle on things.

And I'll enjoy the days and nights of feeling the fooling notion that things are being handled. And I don't want to talk about what comes next.

Dear Internet: The more I read, the crazier I get

of course, the more I write the crazier i get

the more i work the crazier i get

the more i cook the crazier i get

the more i rest the crazier i get

the more i drive the crazier i get

and kind of like so on and so forth.

Dog years

The years leave me. I don't move through them; they pass through me. I notice friction of days cutting, the slicing and surging of minutes moving in and out. As I slow they mock me by rushing past. 

I have never been good with time. Early grief and loss left me without a sense of how long a long time is. Time felt heavy and expansive. Some seconds pregnant with lifetimes of despair. Some years gone painlessly, instantly. 

Time is best measured through the lives of dogs. I have lived five sequential dog lives. King (4-11), Henry (11-17), Jazz (22-32), Diva (30-42), Bando (above - 37-present). 

There have been overlaps and other dogs. Still are. Sophie and Ava are playing outside; Bando measures his days in car rides. But these Big Five dogs are my timepiece, my agenda, and my scrapbook. They have witnessed my undoings and my reconnections, my commotion and paralysis, their panting counting off the seconds like a ticking clock. 

As Bando's days churn by, we have begun to mark time the same way, one carpool at a time, one medication, one walk, one rest at a time. I don't need a watch or an alarm clock. We live the freedom of his waning days without measure. 

Smart post

A dozen years ago when I started blogging I never believed I'd post from my phone. That was before smart anything, and before all-you-can-eat long distance existed. We blog friends accumulated $600/month phone bills because we wanted to talk that badly. No text. No twitter. Posts were texting. Posts were tweets. And they were sonnets and love songs, duets and improv.

So here I am. In the doctors office waiting room. On a phone. Blogging. Like its nothing. Which is, for us from then, kind of what it has become.