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If someone doesn’t give me a cigarette right now I’m going to blog …


How are you?

You’re good?

That’s great!

You know what?

I really, really want to stab you in the head right now. I don’t even care who you are. I want to find a sharp object and just ram it into your head in a stabbing motion over and over. Maybe through your eye. I don’t know. I just want to stab you … in the head. Call me Mr. Mcstabby because I really, really feel like stabbing you in the head.

Shocked? Well here’s another for ya. I’ve quit smoking. AGAIN. It’s been 48 hours, 45 minutes and 38 seconds since my last cigarette and I’m not happy about that at all.

its hard keeping this one on one hand and the ...

This image is making me (more) insane. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m chewing a plastic straw, I have a supply of gum that would make any child envious and I am basically going bat-shit fucking insane right now.

Fuck, I need a cigarette!

Please don’t chime in with comments like, “I know you can do it!” or “Great job!” Fuck. OFF. Any of that shit gets posted to the comments and I will seriously track you down and kill you. I’ll also buy a pack of cigarettes afterwards and smoke and smoke and smoke, all the while flicking ashes onto your still-warm corpse.

So, don’t do that.

I’ve been down this road before.

“Quitting smoking is easy, I’ve done it a thousand times,” said Mark Twain, and fuck him, he’s a real asshole, you know? This is attempt number four by my count and attempt number 8 million by the wife’s.

She’s a real “counter” with shit like this.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you’ll quit, Todd, but remember that time you drank 87 beers, swore you were going to and threw all your cigarettes in the toilet? And then remember how the next morning you went to the store so hungover you forgot to pants on and bought a new pack?”

Yes, dear, I do remember that.  I honestly tried to block that memory, but now, thankfully, you’ve brought it rushing back. Reminding me of previous failures at life is likely exactly what I need right now.

So, there’s that.

If this whole update seems disjointed in any way just let me know, I’ll mail you your own box of dicks.

It IS disjointed. I know that, of course. It’s because of the quitting smoking or something.

The bitch about quitting smoking (and I know it’s different for everyone), isn’t the withdrawal. The physical aspect of that is gone in a few days.

For me, the worst part is the little ways in which your brain absolutely fucks with you throughout the day.

You're so damn bossy, U.S.www.howtoquitsmokingfree.com

You’re so damn bossy, U.S.

Did you just wake up? It’s time for a smoke.

Just get into the car? It’s time for a smoke.

Just get out of a meeting? It’s time for a smoke.

Want to kill five minutes? It’s time for a smoke.

You can prepare yourself to fight the urge to smoke after a meal. That’s the easy part. But its the unconscious urges you can’t plan for. like when you’re alone in the car and at exactly 3:17 p.m. you brain says, “Hey, buddy, grab those smokes off the passenger seat and light one up, OK?” The suggestion is so subtle, the brain is such a fucking saboteur, that my hand is on the seat searching through used gum wrappers and my lips are pursed before I realize what’s happening.

“No brain you fucker! Bad brain! Bad, bad brain! Shit!”

I don’t know how to explain it to a non-smoker any better than that really.

It’s when you least expect it that some part of your mind says to you, “Hey lets go have a cigarette,” an activity that you actually enjoy. So, the response is natural and pure, and for a split second, you’re a smoker again because right before you catch yourself part of you says, “Yes, we will go have a cigarette!”

That part of your brain is a complete asshole.

I know that shit stops eventually. Statistics show that after like 5 million years as a non-smoker your brain says, “Well, fuck it. I guess he’s not going to fall for that shit anymore,” and it gives up. But we’re not there yet. Right now it’s fucking annoying as shit.

And, during this latest smoking-cessation attempt, I’ve noticed a new little side affect that hadn’t been part of my previous failures. I’m sweating like a motherfucker! It’s gross. I would submit, it’s grosser than smelling like cigarette smoke. To prove that point, smell me now and then let me go have a quick one (Smoke ’em if ya got ’em!) and smell me again. Oh, I was wrong, you say. Well, fuck you very much.

I’ve quit smoking for substantial periods of time before (like when I was pregnant and in basic training – baha!) and I really don’t remember this flood of smelly flop sweat. When the fuck did that become a thing?

Quitting sucks, don’t be a quitter.

Ah Sunday, relaxing Sund … A lesson in reading your spouses insane side.

Are you the early riser in your house?  If so you and I have something in common.

Go us!

You and I look forward to the few peaceful moments that come with getting out of bed early and enjoy the  precious few quiet moments we have in alone in the house.   If you watch TV in the morning you’re careful to monitor the volume.  You might even be selective about which lights you turn on in order to not disturb the other sleeping people in the house.

You’re, like I, am trying to milk every precious second out of the serene, tranquil morning that you can.*

I like to turn the coffee pot on, tip-toe into the living room and, because I live in Europe and get the American Forces Network on my TV, watch yesterday’s evening news – this morning, while surfing on the iPad.

Weekdays I get a half an hour tops.

But on weekends I typically get a lot more.   So much so that I might even, don’t tell the wife, take a quick 15 to 30 minute nap.   Because life in the 40’s is just that fucking exciting!  Don’t tell the kids …

Then two hours later she wakes up and berates me, while wiping the sleep from her eyes, for not having done ‘anything’ for the past few hours.

Read that last bit again, I’ll wait.

I, fool that I am, thought this Sunday would be like all the others.   True my suspicions should have been ‘hyper-level 10 million level’ when she not only woke up at the same time I did but literally ‘feet hit the floor’ before mine.

Still though no cause to worry, right?

I drifted down stairs to find her brewing tea and the coffee pot already on.

Full-disclosure, though I am awake earlier it does not mean I am in any way capable of making a decision more important than, “should I scratch my crotch or not” for at least 4 cups of coffee and/or 30 minutes.

But not Dagmar, oh no, not her.

She can go from dead asleep to let’s go run a marathon.  Literally, let’s go run, put your stuff on, screw it lets just run in our pajamas, come on let’s go, let’s go!

Her, and you people that are like her, scare me deep, deep inside.   I cannot understand you and I’d be sympathetic if I wasn’t so full of rage toward you.    Slow the fuck down Sparky, we got the whole day ahead of us.

Normally after this many years my morning ritual, when she sees it, is

Well who needs coffee now?

My mornings are … wait huh. Okay I had a point when I start … boobies. Photo shamelessly ripped from Newscorpse.com

respected.   I’m afforded an opportunity to drink coffee, blow my nose, scratch my crotch and make sneering gestures at Fox news anchor Sheppard Smith (an unfortunate consequence of AFN is that during the 6 to 7 a.m. time period it’s him or Piers Morgan – even in my foggy state I pick Sheppard over Piers because Piers just sucks. Plus side note, I predict it’s only a matter of time before Sheppard is caught having dude-on-dude sex somewhere embarrassing, like Florida.  Side note to the side note if you Google “fox news anchor” and select images (if you’re a guy) you’ll thank me … hello ladies!).

And that’s how I overcame my addiction to methamphetamines using nothing but a case of motor oil and a stick of butter.

See what I did there?  I used a joke about getting off track to refer back to the getting off track so we could get back on track.   I’m a geniou … maybe I should just get back on track?

So there I am on the couch yesterday morning, hot and first cup of coffee in hand and there Dagmar is with her cup of tea (when did you become British for the love of God?).  Typical morning really only she’s up of her own volition and the sun isn’t – which tells me something is afoot.

Then it happens, then the statement is made and it is matched by action.   Slamming the footrest back into the sofa without regard to ‘quiet time’ rules at all she jumped to her feet.  Her eyes were wild and her muscles seemed, at least would have seemed, were I awake, to swell.

She became Hulk-Dagmar and there would be action this Sunday morning, quiet time and coffee be damned!

It got much worse as the day went on but I couldn’t take any photos because I was holding televisions up, or something

There. Would.  Be. Action.

I think she was also wearing a green t-shirt which likely led to the hulk analogy, also I was almost asleep.

There are certain ‘thoughts’ expressed in this house that are vocalized but never really acted upon.   For instance in all our years of marriage we have never ate ‘rice and beans’ the entire month even though I’ve been told she’ll do it, she totally can do it, and if I don’t watch out, we will do it.

Hint:  She won’t but it’s fun to hear.

That’s an example of a threat that, made during a ‘discussion about money’, will never happen.  I think it’s called a Paper-Dagmar Argument or something.   I should have paid a lot more attention in class.

Then there are the others.  They’re not threats, they’re warnings.   Things we’re going to do this weekend.  “We’re going to go hike up to the castle”, “we’re going to go to Ikea”, “we’re going to clean the house to within an inch of its life” and “we’re going to go to the blah, blah, blah.”

Any husband reading this understands that probability factors in to each of these ‘statements.’   Yeah maybe we’re going to the event this weekend but you dear wife might, you might blank-percent might, change your mind.   Most of us agree (at the time) that the plan is a good one and start influencing however we can the odds back into our favor.

Our ‘favor’ is code for those of you that are interested for, ‘staying at home, drinking beer and maybe having a fire.’

It’s in the married guy’s bible, chapter II paragraph 4.5.  Look it up.

The one that scares the shit out of me though is the cleaning one.  I can’t predict it, I’m helpless when the cleaning beast rips out of her chest ala Aliens and I know it’s going to hurt me.    The cleaning one is brought up a lot but it’s usually just a light, once over the house, nothing heavy.  But once in a while I find myself moving furniture out of a room and fear for the cat’s life.

So yeah it was the cleaning one.

This is the woman that makes me lift the TV up so she can dust UNDER it.  This request is made and granted during ‘normal weekend’ cleaning.

Can you guess what deep-cleaning consists of?

She once vacuumed a large area rug then turned it upside down and vacuumed the bottom of the rug because German-Puerto Rican people are inside.

This woman once cleaned out and reorganized my toolbox because she wanted me to start a blog or because she’s just that nuts.  You pick.

Truth be known, between moving furniture and polishing the undersides of things I was allowed to listen to podcasts and at about 1 p.m. or so was authorized beer.  The warden has a heart.

To anyone, and yeah I’m looking at you, that says, “You’re the man of the house you do what you want” well I guess your situation is different than mine.   Maybe your dynamic isn’t the same as mine.   To me when she really, really fuck really, wants to do it I’m not going to stop her and I’m going to be a dick if I don’t participate.

Besides I’m too busy holding up the TV so it can be dusted under to really argue and have you MET Dagmar?

*  I have no idea how this works with kids.  I just assume they wake up, poop on themselves, set the pets on fire, eat sugar and yell.    I’m not far off am I?  I forgot only barfing right?  Oh and the cartoons.  Never forget the cartoons.