Ten Things i ask for zis New Year...

O New Year...you ancient thing...

these are my dreams for you...

1) smoke-free, one whole year (progress thus far? check.)

2) new home that IS a home. all this beige in my apt. bugs me out. i miss our green carpet in az.

3) paintings and photos and drawings that spill out into the digital atmosphere and gather money.

4) writing enough. writing more. writing to live. out loud.

5) a little being in my belly that grows and then coups my heart. my life. my little baby born.

6) i want this new volunteer opportunity with foster children to spill over the brim and make me break down, make me re-grow. again. get bigger. big. larger. large. gather the whole wide world in its arms.

7) minimize the distance between my family and i.

8) eat food like i'm taking medicine. it's meh vitamins. it's life. Stop fucking around.

9) Start making money that doesn't depend on The Man.

10) read and believe that i will do all of these things...

Day 133 - Moms, Anniversaries, and DMVs

1. Moms

Sometimes, I miss my mom so much that it hurts. Such is the case today.

But I'm also very very grateful. I just spent five blissful days with her, whooping it up here in sunny San Diego.

My mom is one of my best friends. I feel blessed that I mean that.

Like tourists, we traversed this town. From art fair to botanical garden. From the open green hills to the loud downtown.

At the risk of sounding like I work for the San Diego tourism department, I must say, I'm so in love with this city.

Per usual, we also tackled a home project. Couldn't resist spray-painting my old wicker furniture. We opened the garage and surrounded the chair, the end table, the chest of drawers. From ratty tan to chocolate brown, we transformed my bedroom stuff, all nice and new. Brick orange cushion for completion.

My mom has the ability to unwind me. Sometimes I get so tight. So serious. She just can grab the end of that string, and skip off into the sunshine. When it's all said and done, I'm new again. Unraveled. Disheveled. Smiling. Remembering to let go...

Of course I also have the habit of taking it too far. Ravished for the younger and freer me, I probably maybe perhaps smoked a few cigs while she visited. I probably maybe perhaps drank coffee, soda, and rum. And better yet, I think I probably maybe perhaps needed all that.

Let's face it. Stress management has never been one of my strong suits. Too-shay.

I miss you mom. I wish we lived in the same city.

2. Anniversaries

I'm going to brag here. I just can't help it.

Dave and I celebrated our six-month wedding anniversary over the weekend. With my mom in town and his mom and step dad also stopping in for the weekend, the morning of our anniversary, we quickly shared some lovely sentiments and a heart-felt spoken "Happy Anniversary" to each other before crawling out of bed. He went off to sail with his family. Mom and I, off to the gardens. (That all sounded so bourgeoisie) I didn't think anything of it, I figured we'd celebrate after our guests departed.

Later that evening, he came smiling up the stairs with a fist full of pink and white balloons, one of which, in red lettering said "Happy Anniversary." His other hand? A bouquet of lilies. His mother and step dad followed close behind him, with a smooth rectangle of tiramisu cake. What a guy. What a guy.

I love getting love in all the girly, cliche ways that hipper girls might renounce. Flowers are pretty. Balloons are awesome. And cake is divine. I have a theory that girls who claim to not like these things are actually insecure. They think YOU don't like these things. So they claim the same.

Or they saw a movie somewhere where the quirky protagonist girl said something witty to her potential mate like, "Why would you buy me flowers? It's a waste of money for something that just wilts and dies all over my kitchen table."

Which was really just the screenwriter's lazy way of using character development. The underlying message of the dialogue was meant to communicate this: This girl is so different and unique than all the other girls this guy has ever met. And the guy is supposed to know he's met someone real special and that perhaps his whole life might be changed from here on out.

So some poor girl out in the audience thinks to herself, hmmm...maybe if I don't like flowers than I'll be unique and special and someone will love me just like this guy loves Amanda Peet.

But sadly, the results are simply this: These girls miss out on one of the oldest and simplest forms of male to female courtship. Here's a flower. It means I love you. I'm not much of a talker. But I got you this pretty thing. Because I want to give you things. Because you're pretty. And I like you. And I want to continue touching your boobs.

We're so smitten with this display of affection that we let them. As well we should.

In a more advanced form of male to female courtship, Dave handed me two tickets to the dance tour of "So You Think You Can Dance" in downtown San Diego in November. Row Five. Center Stage.

WHAT??!!! (Can you hear me jumping up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs like Mary Murphy?!) This male to female show of affection says: I love you so much that I went out and did for you (for us) what might make you love me till we die.

Add to that, that my mom witnessed our anniversary exchange. Which means, Dave earns mad brownie points. Which means, I'm all the more ecstatic. Because I'm petty and I love it when things look good. Kidding. Kind of. Let's face it, everybody wants their parents to adore their chosen life partner. Life isn't as fun without that key element.

Anyway, "Happy Anniversary" to the the love of my life. For the seven years before our wedding day and to the 70 years after--my love continues to thicken and grow in my heart. It digs deeper; it gets more complicated; it gets more light than ever.

3. DMVs

Went to the DMV today to finally get my California driver's license.

At the first counter, the guy said, "I like your name. Darcy. That's nice."

Me (smiling): Thanks.

DMV employee: Have you ever seen the TV series "Pride and Prejudice"?

Me (replying in my head): You mean, 'Have I read the classic piece of epic romantic literature written by none other than Jane Austen?'

Me (actually said): The character Mr. Darcy?

DMV employee: Yes, that's it! Mr. Darcy. That's who I thought of when I heard your name. Very English sounding. I love it.

At the second counter, the woman said, "You and I share the same middle name."

Me (smiling): Oh, your middle name is "Jo"?! Are you from the Midwest?

2nd DMV employee: My parents are.

Me: Well that explains it.

We share a laugh.

By the end of our time together, she had complimented my ability to take a good thumb print and also said "Pretty picture!" after snapping my new driver's license shot.

O.k. so my trip to the DMV was lovely. What the hell? Did I just walk into some kind of DMV twilight zone? Where the most upbeat and supportive employees uplifted residents all day long? Next time I go they'll be distributing champagne and cookies at the buffet table. Knock on wood.

While the customer service was friendly, I have to say California government lags lags lags. First off, my written driver's test was actually written. What? Written. Like pencil and test sheet. And when I was done, I watched my fave employee with the middle name Jo grade it by hand. By hand. What kind of backwards shit is that? Don't they know that most states have these electronic things, they're called computers, that not only save paper but also increase efficiency?

And to boot, they said, "Your license will arrive in the mail in a few weeks." What? Um, in Arizona and Minnesota AND in po-dunk North Dakota (circa early nineties), you get, hold your breath, the darn thing printed off right there. Weird. Why is CA so behind?

To further this point, the other day I got pulled over by a stoic motorcyle cop. Why? Um, I was also interested to find out. Apparently it was for talking on my cellphone while driving. Without a hands-free device. Apparently that's a law they enforce here. I thought they were kidding. And when he handed me the ticket, he said I could call a number and pay, but I would have to "wait a month or so, so that they can get the ticket in the system." Hmm... it's no wonder Cali has budget problems.

Which brings me to my last point. Which is quite far down here, so I'm hoping some of you have dropped off before getting here, so you'll miss one of my few Republican-like confessions.

Now, most of you know that I'm a Democrat through and through. I tend to agree with and therefore vote blue, the majority of the time. But I have to say, one negative thing, I've noticed since living in this dark blue state (the first one in my life, Arizona and North Dakota are blood red), is that (begin redneck twang here and kick dirt with cowboy boots), "There sures are lots of laws here. Lots of big bureacracy, red tape. I don't know if I like the gubernent' deciding all my bizness." Sometimes a point is a point.

Day 97 - To My Old Friend 'The Cigarette'

So here we are. Three months after My Big Quit. A few drags here and there that I snuck in a drunken stupor--I've nearly forgotten them. Better yet, I've forgiven them. 

Today is a bit like a memorial service. A memoir. A good-bye.

Dear Cig,

I've left you so many times over the last few years. Every time, I think this is it I'm done. But I always knew, if I was low and needy, you'd be there. I always tucked you away in this special place in my mind. Loving you in secret.

You are my life noir. My dirty little playmate. You make me feel delicious, dark, and carefree.

Each time I take you back I welcome you. It's right back where we left off. We hang out on the back patio together. We pour a glass of thick red wine. We look at the stars. We breathe each other in deeply, thinking, O I've missed you...

But as days turn to weeks, I start to feel your weight on me. I'm remembering why we left each other. Why this wasn't a good idea. Your old familar hug starts to feel like a noose. 

You're so needy the way you cling to me. You demand that I stop at the nearest dingy gas station to pick you up at 7 dollars a pop. I don't have the money to spend on you, to pay the fees you incur. I start to realize you never really made me feel good anyway. You never give back. I resent you.

It's all so rocky--so love / hate. When I don't have the fire to light you, I panic. I think I'll lose my mind without you. You've always been so lovely in the mornings. 

Yet our patio stints are more frantic now. Quick pulls just to quiet my rising anxiety. We don't even sit out there anymore and watch the sky. Worse yet, my friends don't even like you. You're controlling and smelly. You're no good for me. I know I have to leave you.

I pick an arbitrary date in the future. And then I relish our last weeks together. I get nostalgic and fearful. I start to think perhaps we could make it after all...

But I know better. We're doomed. As the day approaches, a knot grows in my stomach. It flutters around, kicking my organs. You start to freak out in protest. You use your best manipulations, begging to stay, distorting the truth, trying to confuse me. I see how desperate you are.

On 'Q' day I quietly put the pillow over your face to smother you. I can hear and feel you screaming. It breaks my heart. In the next week, you never stop clawing at my throat. I'm sad and mad and angry and weepy and happy and despite my mixed bag of feelings, I know it's the right thing.  I want you to leave me alone.

It's easier and harder then I ever imagined. As the days melt into weeks and months, I've only snuck into your bedroom twice. And it's always been tinged with morning-after guilt. You mean nothing to me.

Most days I don't even remember you. I forget we ever happened. I realize how inconsequential you really were to my being. I think why didn't I leave you sooner?

But I must have you in my bones, because sometimes I walk by a cafe and there you are on the patio. You look bohemian and vibrant. You smell so good. I inhale deeply. I think, o my you're divine. Then I shake my head.

I remind myself to look behind your smoke screen. You look so pretty, but your insides are dusty ash. I crave the pink heart of life without you. My mind is cloudless. I am free to feel what I really feel. Without you, everything is brighter. The electric pulse of the city. The cool smell of the ocean in the air. The sleep without you cuddled in my pores. The light in my eyes is real.

So fare thee well my twisted companion. Sometimes I'll miss you, but mostly I won't. I've gone three months without you, and aim to go three hundred more.

P.S.  F#*% you too.

Day 75 - Sunday, Fun Day

So remember how I told you about that all-girls bookclub of 20-30 somethings that I was trying (ok begging) to join? Well, they did in fact let me in and yesterday I attended my first meet-up.

I nervously set my alarm in case I overslept. Like a schoolgirl, I hand-picked my outfit, laying each piece out thoughtfully.

I debated with myself as I peered into my messy closet. No, no...that's overdressed. OR This outfit looks like I'm trying to hard. OR trying too little on that outfit. But THIS ONE, this is just right. Seemingly effortless, casual, and stylish. Bingo.

The setting for our Sunday soiree of potluck and book swap is a shaded park in Mission Hills, an old neighborhood in San Diego known for its old-growth trees, historic architecture and quaint walkability. I get a little excited/anxious as I quick check myself in the mirror. New friends...here I come!

I stop at Trader Joe's to pick up a dish. It's whole wheat tortilla chips and guacamole dip. I grab a gallon of chilled green tea with mint for my sippy cup. As the grocer places my goods in recycled bags, I'm pleased with my selections. I think they say, "Look, I'm conscious! Befriend me!"

I note that an intense urge to smoke hits me as I breeze down the freeway to my destination. I want to roll the window down and thoughtfully take pulls. I'm a rebel, a misfit, that's where I fit in, my craving seems to coax. I ignore that Junkie brain, and unwrap my dark chocolate instead. I shove squares of truffle in my mouth at 70 miles per hour.

I get lost and I'm late. After a call to my beloved human GPS (Dave) who recently bought me a real GPS (Garmin), I pull up to the green park nestled in the city. A cluster of about twenty girls congregates near the center, sitting cross-legged on blankets. I creep up to the food table and no one looks up as spear watermelon and scoop hummus unto my plate. Even when I give my I'm sorry I'm a loser face to the chatty group, no one seems to pay attention. I am relieved when I finally sit down on the fringe.

And then I fall in love. These girls are knee-deep in a conversation about whether or not one of Jodi Picoult's recent books lacked her usual spunk. Which parlayed into which of her books were faves and which flops. I have opinions on this very matter. I share them. People laugh. I fit right in.

When they ask me about the book I brought, "The Glass Castle" by Jeannette Walls, I express succinctly and steadily what I love about this memoir. The dysfunction. The heart-ache. The genius. When I'm done, a girl turns to me and says, "I read that book, I loved it."

When the swap starts, I'm secretly pleased with myself. My book is coveted. It's one of the first to reach White Elephant retirement, meaning it's been stolen/traded two times and therefore can be swapped no more. I end up with a collection of the best American essays from 2006. I'm thrilled about this as I think it might help me improve upon this very blog.

We form a circle and chat about where we're from and where we've been. We talk about babies and careers. We talk about movies and books. As the girls start to thin away into their cars and their lives, I end up talking at length with a girl, who also recently married and who recently moved here from Nashville.

Randomly, she cut Dave's hair a few weeks ago. Through their conversation, they deduced that her and I coincidentally belonged to the same book club. Considering the one-in-a-bunch chance of that, me and her e-mailed a few times, and met for the first time today! It's fateful enough that I pay attention to it. I'm eager to see it through, to find its path.

She's in a similar place as me in life, and we got along excellently. I'm hoping hoping hoping, perhaps I've got me a friend.

Look at me now, world. All growed up.

Day 66 - The Way We Were

Airline travel normally doesn't bother me. Traveling relieves a person of looming obligations and tasks. Your job is simply to get where you're going. What you do in the meantime is Zen. You are free to BE. To read. To watch. To listen.

But I have to say, this two-legged trip into the green and golden plains lacked a little due to a few annoying seatmates. On the first leg to Denver I huddled in the middle seat, between two unthinking males. They both selfishly hogged both of my potential armrests without apology.

Not fair. You have a aisle or a window seat (with a completely free armrest all to yourself) and here I am in the middle AND I have no armrest. Not even half of one! I try to make my body so narrow as to not touch either of you unaware schlubs and I simply can't melt that far into myself so your shirts stop brushing my arm.

On the second leg, from Denver to Fargo, I was relieved to see a skinny shy teenager filling the seat next to my window seat. That is, until I realized his nose ran for miles and he refused to go blow it. He filled the silence every 23 seconds with a gooey obnoxious sniffle. Go blow your nose kid. And cover your mouth when you cough, oh my gawd, you better not get me sick. I cuddle against the window. I cover my face with my hair.

But none of that's here nor there as I descend into the cauliflower blue sky of my youth. As I watch the defined lines of the farms unfuzz in my view, I realize I forgot my camera. I'm sorry for that; I wanted to show you...

It's a joyous embrace with my mother, brother, sister, and brother-in-law. We drive happy and chatty to my grandmother's house. A content me wraps my arms around the little star of Nova, my beautiful and charming niece. For the rest of the afternoon relatives stream in and out of the house, a steady hum of talking and eating.

Towards the dark part of the night, we head to the main Broadway drag in downtown Fargo to watch my cousin play in his band Cousin B. Dempsey's bar is ripe with good sound and Josh rocks the bass, of course, and his band bedazzles us. All of this I would have guessed.

What I wouldn't have guessed was that everyone and their mother would be there. It felt like a high school reunion! My sister ran into her old friends. My brother ran into his old friends. I ran into my old friends. My cousins were there too. My oldest and bestest friend (and partner-in-party-crime) Tiffany met me there. Overly ecstatic, tired & unfed, and in-step with my former Fargo self, I definitely drank too much.

There's something about Fargo that lures me into this defunct version of myself. I've often wondered if it's the particular gridlines on the map. That particular place in space sucks me in a weird wormhole of myself but not really me behavior. But unchecked debauchery frequently rules. I'm sad this post isn't ALL sunshine...the punchline drags and blows...

On my two month anniversary of NOT smoking, I smoked three cigarettes. How poetic. Arg. There goes my two-month-anniversary how-far-i've-come-on-not-smoking blog post I was planning. Stupid stupid Fargo, you have me wrapped around your crooked finger. I need to unwind.

Don't leave me yet. Tomorrow is beautiful and pure, I promise. I felt and loved the day right as rain. With a copious amount of sunshine.

Day 36 - Road Trip

I heart road trips. And for the first time in a long time, I'm driving alone--from ocean to desert. While the frantic morning zips by, the promise of grey road and blue sky beckons. In the car, the stereo sounds the steady voice of an audiobook gifted to me by my wonderful mother-in-law. As an audiobook first-timer, I'm pleasantly surprised by how quickly I am absolutely ensconced in the true story account of the humanitarian hero Greg Mortenson in the book "Three Cups of Tea."

I listen and choke back tears as the story of his fantastical struggles to build schools and medical centers in remote regions of Pakistan unfolds during the picturesque drive. It reminds me of my yet-to-be-tackled volunteering goal. My spirit renewed, I promise to follow through. One of the things I find the most heart-breaking and unnecessary in today's modern world, is the extreme poverty, hunger, and lack of medical help of our Third World countries.

As if by divine "coincidence", I turn on my lap top to check my email when I reach Phoenix, and a message awaits from one of my first and fave organizations to volunteer for, "Planting Peace," which provides medical treatments and education and sustainable solutions to some of the world's most impoverished regions. I am ecstatic to hear from them, as I sent several emails (as explained, the address was unmanned, oops) a few weeks ago. I hope to help soon.

So, in Phoenix, I immediately traveled to a nearby fave hip and arty wine bar to meet two of my best girl friends for pinot noir and bruschetta in celebration of B's last night as a single girl. Their pitch-perfect company, rift with our smart girl humor and airtight analyzations (of course we're right, guys), rendered me happy and blessed. This much-needed night wiped away my recent loneliness. Sigh of relief. Sigh of relief.

But sadly, and I'm just going to say this (I'm really just hoping no one's reading this far down): Like an animal out of a cage, my bliss led me--right before returning home in a half-drunk happy stupor--to smoke one half of one cigarette. Arg.

So there it is. I said it. Am I disappointed? yes. Crushed? yes. Self-mad? yes. Is there anything I can do to change it? no. Is there anything I can do to change the future? yes.

I contemplate some form of self-punishment, or implementation of road blocks to this result. No drinking? No celebration attendance? No vacations? Kidding, but kinda seriously, these are my i-want-to-smoke Achilles heels. I need suggestions/ideas...how to make-it-right and not slip again? Prevent unraveling?

Sigh. And then slap my own face.

Anyhoo...let's end with pictures from the long drive into the desert...

Day 24 - Independently Owned and Operated

Happy 4th of July!

1) LOVE: I'm actually celebrating my first 4th of July as a NOT-independent woman. And I couldn't be happier. I spent years being scared witless of marriage and its "chains". I feel blessed to say that marriage, or yet, my major commitment to my man, has made me a better person. As opposed to what I originally thought, which was: If I got married, I would soon wither and die.

2) LIFE: I am, however, freed from my cigarette addiction. Well almost. I don't smoke and haven't for 3 weeks. I'll probably be an addict forever. One is not an option for me. Social smokers: I despise you.

3) CAREER: I am also freed from the notion that this matters. Well, it does and it doesn't. And you know exactly what I mean.

Be safe. Live free. Eat Strawberries.

Day 19 - The times, they are a' changin'

Started my "diet" today. I crave salt and grease, bread and cheese (my faves). Eating poorly is an addiction too. It's the food that calms, that slows the thumping heart, acts like a sedative. It's eating to fulfill a need, and I don't mean the need to stay alive. I mean that one that wants the white sugar--white bread and white sugar--or in other words, the middle-class crack.

The craving reminds me of cigarettes. I want to pump the drug into my system; I need it to relax. I need it to forget. I need it so my body can disengage from my mind. Sink into the couch, numbed by the habit. Knowing better. Junkie, junkie, there you are...

Eating copious amounts of white sugar surely isn't bagged on as much as puffing on cigs, but it's almost equally destructive. And I am a bread lover. And a pizza lover. And a chip lover. And a Cheetos lover. And a chocolate lover. And french fries make my world go round.

And of course, I'm addicted to the high of these salty snacky comfort foods. Their dense sedation lures me on every menu. Sure, I look at the salads and think yum, but by the time the waitress comes, I'm ordering my taste buds a heaping plate of stuffyourface. Bacon cheeseburger with fries...oh heck yeah.

And I have to admit, I'm a very lucky girl, insomuch as I've been able to really eat whatever I want my entire life without much consequence. I've been blessed with a very good metabolism. I have a body I'm happy with, which I know, is a gift. Most people who do have to work at staying thin, probably want to punch me in the face--'it just ain't fair' they say.

And I agree. Mostly because there's reasons beyond vanity to eat well. While it might not show on the outside, it surely wrecks havoc on the inside, and on my mood, my emotions, and on my ability to see and feel clearly. And while right now I have youth on my side, in the long-term, I just won't be so lucky.

But that's not to say I'm not without specific motivations. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with a mild case of Hashimoto's thyroiditis, which is an autoimmune disease that basically eats your thyroid gland alive. It's not serious they say, but to me it is. And eating like shit surely's got something to do with the fact that my body wants to attack itself to save me.

They prescribed me a pill and said 'take this every single day for the rest of your life.' I asked them if diet and health would affect something like this and they said 'no no no. No one's sure how/why it starts and it's irreversible.'

I never even filled the prescription. But for the next three months I did three things: quit smoking, ate better, and exercised. When I went back, they checked my levels again and said 'Well Darcy, looks like the medication is working well!' Needless to say, I wasn't shocked.

Since then, I have obviously went back to my bad habit ways, and god knows where these levels are at now--I'm scared to find out. But I gottagottagotta know because I can't be laissez faire or righteous about this medication if I really truly need it, especially if Dave and I decide to grow a little Kaushagen in the next couple years. But I HATE medication, synthetics in my system. So before I go in to check levels, I gottagottagottagottagotta give it my best shot. For good. No really, 'for good.'

Day 14 - Bloated Post

I almost forgot I quit smoking, until I realized I mowed down two plates of pizza rolls, one mini frozen pizza, half a bagel with cream cheese, two diet cokes, two cookies, and a banana--all by mid-afternoon. Well o.k., truth be told, I really didn't even realize it completely until I called up Dave and asked him to pick me up a chocolate malt and french fries on his way home from work. Even though I was stuffed.

Then it hit me. Why was I so anxiously stuffing myself? Oh yes, that's right...I was on Day Ten of not smoking, and to replace my lung-rusting addiction, I've decided instead to kill myself via complete artery clognation. Hurray!

And soooo...it reminds me that I got only a short leash left on the white sugar carb train. My healthy eating foray begins on Monday. I gave myself two weeks of shoveling face after quitting smoking to ease the pain of letting go. Right now, I can definitely say, as Monday sprints at me, I am questioning my sanity.

However, in the spirit of trial-by-fire human research, I am starting to notice a very defined pattern in all this goal-setting business. It seems before every new implementation, there's always wild internal mind resistance. Lots of reasons why not. Can'ts and won't works.

And while this particular goal actually might deserve the largest amount of real fear, considering it will probably be hands-down the hardest to maintain/sustain, I do believe, I am starting to not give a flying fuck.

To the future and beyond! (o.k. I might've had too much sugar today AND perhaps I'm guilty of mock bravado here AND I'll post the more specifics of my healthy eating tenents as I inch closer to the edge...)

Day 12 - Gratitudes

I keep racking my brain for words for today, but am at a loss for picture thoughts. All and all, I feel really good, filled with gratitude. I am the start of a second week of not smoking, looking forward to the end of this week as that's when your brain starts to (mostly) forget to count the days and that you smoked at all. Until then, touche.

Worked today, and pleased to say I felt lovely and light. Customers and co-workers: smiling gentle people that I like. The art and color absolutely eases my transition back to work. As do my favorite ballet slippers.

As for exercise. Dave and I took our bikes out tonight! We rode, grinning and giggling like schoolchildren, to the aforementioned rattlesnake and mountain-lion infested canyon preserve near our house. With Dave and fast bikes, I felt much safer ;-).

Some pics of our first official California bike ride...

Day 11 - I Heart Dave

Hung out with Dave last night and today. First stop, semi-posh party in posh part of town. Cute dress? Check. Good food, good company, and good fun? Check. Took up the drums and then the guitar in a bit of a chick band RockBand wii fest. Forgot about myself, guitar strap hanging from my neck. I felt the crowd below me as my fingers and feet pounded out the sound. I completely understand why musicians crave the stage. The RockBand makers geniously tapped into that human fantasy somehow--rendering themselves bazzillionaires.

The rest of the night, Dave and I talked to nearby party passerbys, but mostly, we made our own little circle of humor and fun near the food, or the cocktails, or the hot tub. It was relaxing to just enjoy his company, feet in the warm hot tub, ocean-salty California night, soft yellow globes in the lawn. By midnight, we were too many drinks deep, and I knew I was one drink away from bumming a cigarette. Dave suggested departure. Thanks to him, I'm still 100% smokeless.

After party smokey smoking thoughts...

I tend to gravitate towards smokers. Why? I mean really, aren't they just more interesting, fun, and free? Perhaps. Or perchance it's my adoration of dysfunction--no joke--from mild to heart-breaking; there's a special place in my heart.

But really, it's probably because I have smoked nearly all of my adult life, and know that these folks and I--we share a secret. Like a rebel gang of misfits, our dirty little habit tells others and each other, "Oh I don't give a shit what they say. I do what I want." Walking into a party of strangers, you meet fellow smokers in the smoker's area (there's always an area), and you have insta-friends.

After you've smoked for so long....when you quit.....it's like a part of your identity is gone. Which is probably one of the most unsung reasons why so many people fail in their quit pursuits. The romanticized version of your former smoker-self beckons. You covet her dreamy artsy aloofness, her i don't give a damn. She taunts you for your squareness. You're stripped of your instant smoker friend pass. Nothing to ease your social nervousness, or to short-cut meet your intense human need for love and acceptane.

Worst of all, when you see the smokers, you feel as if you betrayed them. By quitting the pack, you're really saying, "It was wrong all along." It makes you sick to think you're now administering judgement upon your former fellowship. The guilt alone is enough to make you sit down, light a cigarette, breathe deeply, and say "It's o.k. See? I'm one of you."

Most never-smoked non-smokers look at smokers in disbelief--they just don't get it. I'm not saying "getting it" is a virtue. And I'm definitely not saying smoking is cool or yummy. I'm just saying, it's not a simple thing. Quitting is an intense task--not only physical but mental--it's all tied up with identity and loss, guilt and self-medication. So's alls I'ms sayings is...tread kindly with the addicted, and genuinely congratulate the formers ;-)

O.k.o.k.o.k. enough philosophy of smoke, smokers, and smoking. Last but not least, Dave and I bought our bikes today!!! Hurray! To the mountain (more like bike paths) we go.

Day 10 - These Thoughts are Throw-Aways

Today is quiet thus-far. I'm writing this earlier than normal as I actually have a social engagement to go to this evening! (clapping and cheers) Some friends of Dave's, a couple, who I really dig, are throwing some kind of birthday bash. I am giddy with excitement. This sounds so desperate, but seriously, I'm lonely out here. And plus, I get to wear a dress.

I'm on day six of not smoking, and the physical withdrawals are pretty calm, no violent uprising. The new screw is the mental aspect, that swoops in after the physical. I can't even count on my fingers how many times I've envisioned myself on the back porch today, looking off in the distance, cigarette in hand. The vision is alluring and lethal. I reach for more coffee.

My body has decided I've done enough for now. Congratulating me on my accomplishments thus far. But today the visions of putting down everything are vivid. A little lazy voice in me says, "Do you realize the kind of commitment it takes to be happy? You don't have it in you..."

I finished my "page a day" goal for today, but I think that's the kicker. I can't see beyond it. The thing with the writing is that I really really care. I kind of sort of believe it might just be all that I have left. Which for some reason, registers any kind of action as purely terrifying.

Some people, I believe, are afraid of failure. And therefore never try. However, others are actually more paralyzed by the idea of success. I've decided that I can't decide which one I fear more: success or failure. I'm convinced it's a healthy dose of both.

Day Seven - Oh Why This?

I'm eating ice cream and pizza. Soda and chips. Mostly because it feels like my lungs want to lunge out of my chest. My throat screams at itself. I'm getting too much oxygen. My head is heavy and breathing. All I know about today is that I want to sleep, so I don't have to feel my uncomfortable body as it fights with my head. My head keeps calmly placing my starving addiction in the corner: No, sit, stay here. It's for your own good.

I somehow made it through work feeling light and nice. Stumbling through customer questions, remembering not so much, feeling satisfied.

A few hours, and it's yoga. I think thank goodness. We'll see. It's the beginning of it, haven't exercised this much since college perhaps. Can't remember what it feels like to be full of health. If ever there was...

Wondering if my personality hinges on my downfalls, my negative selfs. Or worse, wonder if this chasing perfection is just an American obsession that is actually pure narcissism? Have I fallen victim to a cliche?

So why want this, I ask myself. And the answer is many-fold. First, just to follow a nagging feeling. Secondly, I feel like I have a real opportunity and genuine perspective right now to actually try and see what happens. Perhaps nothing does, and I simply feel better. I want to know what that means--to feel better.

Also, I have this annoying tug that tells me 'Most people do way more than you.' And it makes me feel guilty. Because I'm able-bodied and smart. I didn't have a tragic childhood, and people tend to like me (debatable, I know). Shouldn't I have done more by now?

And so, I figure, now's a great time, as good as any, to tackle the things I've always thought I wanted to do, small or large. Even if I don't think they add up to any one thing, or career, atleast I'm doing something. I'm very much hoping this attempt will atleast remove the low-grade discontent and restlessness. It's pretty much the only good idea I have left.

I'm not sure if it's good enough, or even hits the mark. But I really have a sneaking suspicion that it really was this easy all along. Do what you know will make you feel good. And you do know what it is, I'll betcha. Most people don't do that (me included) because it's just too scary or time-consuming, and deep-down, we're afraid to win.

Day Six - Withdrawals. Are. Tough.

Heart is pounding. Refridgerator humming, makes me anxious. I'm hungry and not hungry, chewing gum. Pass, day, pass. Sunshine streams through, isn't it a happy day? Shouldn't you be free? Stop yelling at yourself.

Junkie, junkie. You're a maniac. A down right slovenly f@&#. If I could see you I'd punch you in the nose. A mirror? No, no--it's not me, it's him.

Quitting smoking is a little like an exorcism. Screaming ghost, go away. When does the pain peak? Oh tomorrow and the next; this isn't the worst of it. It's physical for days. Then it's weeks of mental.

The Dalai Lama thinks change is facilitated more readily by a sense of urgency. If we only knew the potential of our body and soul to bring about goodness, then we might adopt habits and goals quickly. 'Think about death' is his kind of advice. You won't be here forever, so every moment is precious. These thoughts might catapult us to change.

And so I think about it, as I look to my next tasks. Eating well...exercise....out of debt...work on 'the book'...a piece of art. Am I supposed to do this right NOW? With urgency. I beg myself to wait, wait, wait.

I want to keep pushing myself, because I want real change. I pick yoga/pilates/exercise as next task. Starting tomorrow, five days a week. This is one of those even harder more continuous goals. A job is a one-time thing: get one. Quitting smoking is a one-time thing: just quit. The pain of these wears off. I'm better at goals like that. Much better.

But exercising five days a week, that means fighting your inner complaints and lethargy five times a week. Stuffing a sock in the mouth of Lazy, another funny friend. Lazy and Junkie love each other. BFF's, two peas in a pod. What if I don't even recognize myself? I'm afraid. Of real change.

Day Five - Losing Sleep, Ignoring Time

Couldn't sleep last night for the life of me. Woefully, with nostalgic gusto and internal good-byes, I puffed and put out my last cigarette before bed. Laid next to Dave, reading "The Power of Now," until flipping the lamp off. Tossed and turned (people say that a lot but I really did), until hours later, night ate me alive.

Morning sounds an alarm. Get up. Shower. Iron outfit. Pour coffee. And then, like a soldier mindfully preparing for battle, carefully cut open "the patch" and apply it to my hidden skin. It's right under my heart and I start to worry. Rip it off. Re-apply to the side. What organ gets poisoned now? It starts to itch.

Work is easy. First day paperwork filled out in the back room. Nothing to fret for, lose sleep for...I think about yesterday and scribble a note to my ego: 'See? Dumbass...' Right after leaving, I tear off the clear plastic nicotine bandage in my car. I don't need it. Work is weak this week (only one more day); so I'm free to feel the Junkie scream as I smother him. There's no better way to quit than cold turkey--cold sweats and crawling skin, make me feel alive.

Thinking all day about that book from last night. Trying hard to find the narrow edge of Now, the razor slit of time wedged between the open-wound Past and the healed Future. Tolle insists that's where bliss is; it's the only place where things get done. The Now presents a moment2moment inner purpose of ours; that is, to access the Now right Now, which in essence, is always.

Don't let the present be a means to an end. That doesn't mean not having goals. Goals are essential for your "outer purpose." But make sure you FEEL and BE in your present. Own it completely. It relieves one of the ego attachment to the future, which doesn't exist.

All spiritual jive aside, these thoughts guide me today. Stay grounded. Don't think, "you'll be better when..." Perfection is now, which is what this journey is all about. Finding that space and feeling good there.

Day Four - Nicotine Patches Patch It Up

Today feels a little bit like panic. My thoughts are nervous. Tomorrow I start my new job, which is exciting, on the cusp of fun. However, coupled with the fact that it happens to lands on my predetermined "quit smoking" day, I'm absolutely terrified. All day and yesterday, my head ping-pongs back and forth. Should I push back my quit day one or two weeks? Should I forgo cold turkey for patches? Should I power through, keeping my prior commitment?

The last thought makes me feel like a warrior. I will overcome and defeat the enemy, no matter what the conditions. This is a challenge; I'll meet it head on! And non-smokers cheer.

Yet almost any self-respecting smoker or prior smoker will read this and know--quitting smoking on your first day of work is a big no-no. According to most quitting smoking help guides, cessation is stressful and should be done at a time of relative normalcy. For example, not on your first day at your new job.

Compounding my fears is my fear of jobs in general. Always a star employee, always valued. Suddenly expendable. My smart self tells me I was "saved" from those jobs. But now with this job, my scarred subconscious warns, "you're not safe, you never know, you just never know." What if in my withdrawals (which paralyze in the first few weeks), they deem me flighty and unteachable? My ego pleads with me, 'you can't lose this job, you'll crumble to bits.'

But isn't it powerful to be brave? Yes. It is. And that's what this year is about. And so I pause. Read this here. Sense my fears. Choke them. And compromise: instead of my normal cold turkey, I'll settle on the patch. Sixty dollars later and I have a plastic bag with the goods, a few hours left to smoke until tomorrow, and a thick tight knot in my chest.

Day Three - Pizza Rolls and Sunshine

I got meese a job! And proceeded to drink a bottle of wine--happy and go-lucky, jabbering on the phone. I haven't work worked since the campaign, three months of blissful 80-100 hour work weeks. Never worked so hard, yet minded so little. The tragedy of the last eight years under Bush and Dick rendered me heart-broken. And callous. Compelled to act. Thank god for the outcome.

Before that, I was writing for she-devils and warlords at a glossy magazine. Pained me every day just driving to work, then listen to the click-clack-clack of heels, the screaming nothing of blahblahblah. It was a blessing when I got economically-faulted "laid off," a gynormous relief not to belong.

To get what I thought I wanted all along--a job there--peeled open my eyes. This is it? This is what I wanted all these years of writing/writing/writing in my living room for thismagazine here and thatmagazine there, holding titles (while suffocating) to beef my resume so I could finally land something worthwhile down the line--something practical, something for my future, my almighty career?

At the end, awarded with misery and despair. Now my badges of honor. A source of pride that give me pure and unquestionable knowledge: I don't want that life. I gotta back up. Think again. Or don't think. Don't worry about what it looks like from the outside, if people deem me "successful" or not. Forget your "future," what's silent and beautiful "right now"? Feed your soul.

And so, this new job...it's part-time. But it gives me the giggles, I'm so happy. I'm back to selling art supplies and framing pictures. Remniscient of something I did in college, and loved it. No desk. Surrounded by color. Conversations with artists. Discount supplies for my own work. A part-time gig of not-so-early hours that still allows me the time (and energy) to work on words and art. The real creative kind, the little lovelies I love. The ones I have shoved in the back of my journals and sketchbooks, under the category: unsellable therefore useless.

So Day Three is full of sunshine. One goal down, already feeling a bit transformed and liberated. Letting go of that belief system that caused me to act as if my job was the whole of it. Maybe this is a form of enlightment (I'm reaching here). But this checked goal is definitely the background color for the next year. I believe it's yellow.

Day Two - Wait for it...

Today is Day Two of this 365 days of change. Do I feel different? No. Writing this, writing here, doesn't change me. I'm saddened by that. Isn't it enough to just SAY what's up, what's next?

Gearing up mentally for Monday--it's quit day. Stage one of multiple complex goals that lead to, who knows. For now, I'm enjoying my cigarettes. Relishing them actually. Thinking that maybe, perhaps, days won't be the same without them. The interior junkie is obnoxious, a sometimes friend. This junkie also likes pizza and pepperoni and won't go down without a fight. It's a weak day--a day without enlightment. Thoughts are small and repetitive. I need more coffee. Cheers to you, Junkie, I'll think of you in the quiet moments before bed.

Waiting for a call for a j.o.b. This is another portion of the 'do this first, then do that,' goal matrix I now own in my head. Normally, these things can be patterned out, portioned into an outline...1, then 2, and 3. But logically, I can't find the timeline. Do them all simultaneously? Or one by one? I hear the words of smart others, "don't have too many goals at one time." Recipe for failure, they say. But I'm afraid not to.