The Making Of Today Would Have Angered PETA And Made Them Send Naked Ladies To My Apartment In Protest

I started out today with the intention of talking about how this quitting smoking thing has been going now that I'm one month and almost six days in, how I got this far, how I have managed to avoid putting on weight, etc., but Wednesday got in the way.

I woke up at 4:00 a.m. I hate 4:00 a.m., but there it was giving me its inky black stare, so I got up and wrote about the Miss Homeless Belgium pageant. A word of advice: don't write articles about places in Europe at four in the morning when, until last year, your knowledge of geography had you thinking that Australia and Japan were next door to each other. Later in the day, I learned that although Hungary is in central Europe, Belgium is not, and more countries have lederhosen than I ever thought would.

I also blame part of my brain fart on the fact that our apartment is deadly cold right now. It's hard to concentrate when you have to slap your thighs together under your desk to keep warm. We live in a building that is about 80 years old and has a huge boiler in the basement, and they don't really get the thing running consistently until the cold outside becomes a serious issue, so I get to sit around in two shirts, thick pants, two pairs of socks, and a cardigan while huddling over a tepid cup of coffee in an effort to suck what ambient heat I can out of the steam. I feel like an indoor hobo.

INDOOR HOBOES. Go ahead. Yell that a couple of times. It feels good.

After the Palinode went to work, I decided to put some water on to boil to make breakfast. One wrong burner and a near grease fire in a dirty pan later and I was bashing my foot with the leg of a ladder and stepping on a cat while I tried to poke at the deafening fire alarm with the end of a broom. I can actually reach the button on the fire alarm if I climb to the top step of the stepladder, but I am afraid of the top step of the stepladder, and I didn't want to fall and break my neck only to have my body burned up in a fire that didn't kill me. For some reason it was really important to me this morning while I was tripping on cats and getting bashed around by ladders and starting fires that my cause of death be very clear when they found my remains.

There was no fire, by the way. There was a lot of smoke and alarm bells, but no fire.

Then, I sat down under a comforter on my bed to drink a cup of coffee and sit very, very still, because every time I moved, I did something wrong. And then I moved. And I spilled coffee on my bedding. And when I jumped up to keep the majority of the spillage off the bed, I stepped on another cat's foot.

So I took a nap, because it seemed like the safest and most cat-friendly course of action given the events of my morning.

My afternoon was blissful, if spending a few hours hunting up writing work can be considered blissful, which it can't, although I have to admit that it is better than nearly burning one's apartment building down and repeatedly trampling on one's house pets.

What I'm trying to get around to telling you is that today is not a good day to talk about how I have been quit smoking for nearly 36 days. All I want to do is suck back a couple of bottles of Stella Artois and about 15 Benson & Hedges red stripe king size cigarettes. I do not want to tell you about how I am not smoking.

You won't believe this.

Only a few minutes have passed, and I JUST LOST THE KEYS TO OUR MAILBOX. I managed to do that between that last paragraph and this one, and it makes me want to eat a whole cake made of cigarettes right now, except that I won't, because as much as that would be all kinds of cancerous tasty, I am kind of into quality of life these days, and the image of a future me dragging around an oxygen tank with hoses up my nose just isn't tantalizing enough to drive me to indulge in that cigarette cake.

So, I'm still not smoking, which is good, and no cats were seriously harmed in the making of today, which is also good, and I still have a building to live in, which is the most good.

Go me.

Me at MamaPop: At 35, Hello Kitty's Got Guts, And We Like It

Grace in Small Things: Part 326 of 365