Week 4 in review

Not much to say folks. While last week showed a slight improvement over the previous, the past seven days were certainly what one could call a backslide. I'll keep this briefer than usual, since my shame, combined with an inconsistent daily intake of nicotine, has left me in a kind of odd, frenetic, bi-polar state. It's so bad in fact, that in today's post to my regular blog, I machine-gunned Snow White and one of the dwarfs. Yeah, they're dead, and Grumpy's on the run.

Day 20
I have 14 smokes on holiday Monday. Not bad.

Day 21
After much calculation, I determine that I've had 13 smokes over the course of the day. I realize I'm becoming quite tired of keeping track.

Day 22
Eleven smokes. Wasn't I at 10 or less for the better part of last week?

Day 23
Too many and yet not nearly enough -- 12 smokes. This sucks.

Day 24
Patio Friday. It never fails -- 26.

Day 25
Eight smokes. Not really a shock, since I get up at the crack of 5 p.m. on Saturdays, significantly limiting my smoking time.

Day 26
I have 10 cigarettes today and seriously consider putting an end to my quest. For a while afterward I consider putting an end to calling it a quest, since that would suggest that I'm actually striving to do something.

I got nothing

Perhaps if I had a cigarette, I could think of something to write?

IV. Instead of smoking, why not...

16. Buy several bulk-sized tubes of Krazy Glue, a few wide paint brushes and 20 lbs of pork sausages. During the middle of the night, use brushes to slather generous amounts of glue on windows and doors of local juice bar/vegetarian restaurant. Glue sausages to building.

17. Practice moves from movies such as Hero or House of Flying Daggers. Visit local Buddhist temple dressed as large duck. As a substitution, dress as samurai using costume from suggestion #6. Confront temple monks.

18. Petition satellite radio executives to cancel plans for proposed new station, Radio Margaritaville. No. Seriously.

19. Naked cole-slaw wrestling with significant other or willing stranger.

20. Purchase orange jumpsuit and stitch or dye string of numbers to its back, between shoulder blades. Don jumpsuit and pre-bought novelty handcuffs -- don't scrimp, aim for authenticity -- and go for light jog through large shopping mall. Alternative location: Business district during lunch hour.

For more of this list, visit the following:
Instead of smoking, why not...
II. Instead of smoking, why not...
III. Instead of smoking, why not...

Puss 'n' disputes

Look at him.

All beady eyes and sighs and whys when he lights up another of those ridiculous looking cigarettes. He could at least open the office door so I could run for my life.

Meow. Meow. Meee-owww!

Self-centred jackass. Yeah, keep ignoring me. Wait until you fall asleep and I'm playing hopscotch on your head. Maybe a little accidental clawing in the nether regions will straighten you out some.

Meow. Meee-owww!

Un. Freaking. Believable. Just because he doesn't have the sense not to inhale that crap doesn't mean I should be forced to suffer the indignity of yet another wheezing, sneezing Tuesday afternoon.

Meee-owww-cough-cough!

Bastard.

Online distraction

Here's a little interactive something for those of you who are trying to distract yourselves from an overwhelming nicotine urge, or those simply searching for something to do while you sit numbly in your cublicles, wallowing wistfully in the memories of the just-finished long weekend, wishing furiously that this work day would be over.

Not so startling turn of events

Just now, for about 15 seconds or so, though in many ways it felt far longer than that, my heart did this weird speed jogging thing that left me dizzy and clouded my vision. At least I assume it was my heart. After all, I'm not a doctor, pharmacist or healer of any stripe. If I don't take steps to correct my behaviours and the vices that so steadfastly accompany them, and this presumed coronary incident is any indication, my dream of joining the Riverdance contingent is all but dead.

Week 3 in review

This was my most successful week, although the promising four-day start, when I did not have more than a half-pack each day, was followed by a disappointing -- in terms of smoking at least -- long weekend.

Day 13
I have 10 smokes in a long day where I battle against my urges for control of my soul. I chew my nails, eat sunflower seeds and distract myself as best I can.

Day 14
Another 10-pin day. Nine more perfect frames and I'll have rolled a perfect game. I feel angry, catch myself grinding my teeth on numerous occasions and realize I have no more fingernails to chew on.

Day 15
I went to the office, attended a team meeting and came to some interesting conclusions about the nicotine patch. Today, my moments of lucidity battled ceaselessly with muddle-headed confusion. Co-worker Sarah suggests that quitting smoking is a good excuse for, well, just about anything. I sit and dwell on this comment for some time, wondering how I may use this newfound philosophy to my advantage. In total I had nine smokes and spent the evening at home fighting the urge to sleep and failing.

Day 16
I spend the day playing silly little math games in my head, continually trying to convince myself that having only nine cigarettes yesterday somehow entitles me to 11 today, thus maintaining an average score of 10 or less smokes per day. Using a ruler and a number 2 pencil, I scribble several equations down on a piece of paper. When I reach for the protractor, I come to my senses and desist. In the end, I only have 10, which comes as a surprise, even to me.

Day 17
I awake with absolutely no hope of continuing my half-a-pack or less streak. It's Friday for heaven's sake. I smoke 25 on the patio, each smoke reminding me that I had surrendered the day before it had really begun. I realize my companions and regular acquaintances at the local, if they were in the know, would likely have no interest in my struggle. It also dawns on me that many of the latter and perhaps some of the former would, in fact, take pleasure in my failures. I wonder if I'm becoming bitter, or going somewhat mad, or if my mind is offering me something ugly and mean to hold on to, anything to help me kick the habit.

Day 18
A surprise morning call from friend Rob leads to a 1 p.m. porch party at my house. He, Donna and I sit on the stoop until well past midnight, drinking Corona and rum and socializing with various neighbours. It all seems very un-Torontonian. I smoke 26 cigarettes.

Day 19
I have 12 smokes. Looking back on the week and the weeks before that, I see the pattern. Friday and Saturdays are glaring moments of weakness, where smokes accompany drinks in a haphazard flurry of self-destruction. It is also the time I spend surrounded by friends and acquaintances, 90 per cent of whom smoke as well. The suggestions I read on smoking cessation websites tell me to give up the booze and the little human contact I have, anything that I associate with smoking. I wonder how long I can hold my breath?

When not to smoke

OK. At this point, despite my sporadic and half-baked attempts at quitting smoking, I'm certain it's become abundantly clear that my rough-and-tumble, on-again, off-again love affair with tobacco runs pretty deep. However, despite my questionable regard for rules in general and outward disdain for many of the agreed-upon rules of societal conduct, I've seen some folks spark a butt at some highly inappropriate moments.

So, in this moment of long weekend, morning-after weakness, I will provide some helpful suggestions, times when you really shouldn't light up a smoke:

• when you're riding a bike
• when you're picking your dad up from chemo
• when you're eating a bologna sandwich
• when you're pumping gas
• when the guy is filling up your barbecue's propane tank
• when the priest is handing out communion wafers
• when you're having an asthma attack
• when someone in the car with you is having an asthma attack
• when you're waiting in the supermarket express lane
• when the judge is passing sentence on you
• when you're covered in kerosene

What kind of smoke would you be?

Belinda Stronach, 39, Human Resources Minister
If I was a cigarette, I would wish to be a long sensual type, like a Marlboro 100. The type of graceful, slender thing that might have found its way into Norma Desmond's claw-like cigarette holder in Sunset Boulevard. Yes, I realize she was quite mad, but there's a certain appeal to that, too.

Tobey White, 19, Second Cup cashier
I'd be one of those half-smoked cigars that Wolverine is always chomping on, bub. He's baaad-assss! Snikt!

Sylvester Stallone, 58, actor
I'll tell you what kind of smoke I wouldn't be: one of those little wussy hand-rolled numbers that scumbag Travolta kept rolling in Pulp Fiction. Remember the scene at Jackrabbit Slim's? "You can have this one cowgirl." Give me a break! I read for that role you know? My audition was great and then in waltzes Mr. Scientology and I'm out on my ear. The Academy gives him a best actor nomination and what the hell did I get? Judge Stinkin' Dredd, that's what.

Keith Richards, 61, musician
Bollocks. If I was a wot? Piss off mate.

Smoking cessation aid or mind-control device?

Today my work colleagues and I gathered for our monthly meeting. To attend, I spent an hour dragging my sorry carcass through the bowels of the city's public transportation system, a commute that might seem tame to many but often reminds my misanthropic self of the 10-year trek Odysseus endured after the Trojan War. Regardless, I arrived at work safely and reasonably unharmed -- as long as everyone agrees that the further deterioration of my faith in humankind is not, in and of itself, harming.

NB. I have begun to notice dear reader, an occasionally dark disquiet lying snake-like beneath the surface of my words. Take them with a grain of salt, or a pinch if you like, as you might season a plate of those tasteless frozen things you find in the French fries section of your local supermarket freezer.

During the meeting mentioned above, co-worker Natalie sporadically broke out in bouts of mad giggling and full-body spasms, bizarre ritualistic twitchings that quite obviously disturbed the other members of our sextet. I gave no serious thought to this at first, as she, Jen and Sarah -- and possibly Lara, though I have no concrete evidence to support my suspicions -- regularly indulge in sweets of every shape, size and ethnic origin. Sugar was the most obvious culprit I reasoned, though what followed cast doubt upon my theory.

There was a lull in the meeting spurred by Jen's need to exit the room and the subject of my souring relationship with tobacco was broached. It was during this break in the proceedings that Natalie shared her recent success with the nicotine patch. According to Natalie, the patch was extremely effective and she's been smoke-free since Feb. 20. While I applauded her conquest outwardly and sincerely -- though I must confess to a slight pang of envy at her accomplishment -- inwardly I worried about the possible ramifications of this so-called patch pumping nicotine, mind-control drugs and eco-friendly propaganda directly into her bloodstream as it sat leech-like on her skin.

When the meeting resumed, Natalie's intermittent tremors continued, amplified by a Chewy Chips Ahoy she munched on from the package at the table's centre. The sugar boost exacerbated her wild-eyed laughter and increased the intensity and number of her seizures. I worried about the possible long-term effects of her recent dependence on the patch and how its particulars might conflict with the regular intake of glucose.

Each of her outbursts was followed by a lucid moment of calmness and possible introspection. As she chewed chocolate chip cookies, I wondered if she was thinking about having a cigarette -- or putting on a patch. Or going out and saving a tree.

Me? I chewed gum. And all the while, I thought about smoking.

Progress has a price

If I hold tough, this could be the third day in a row that I smoke half-a-pack or less. And let me tell you up front that my head is doing funny things already, not quite aching but throbbing in a weird lava lamp kind of way, and I've spent the whole day trying to maintain my concentration on even the simplest of tasks.

Just sitting down to write this post took a Herculean effort -- OK, perhaps Herculean is an exaggeration, I'll settle for Achillean if that's all right with you. Anyway, this was only after I had a beer, showered, watched some television, played a video game, shaved, ate a sandwich and brushed my teeth for the third time today. I think I gave Donna a kiss when she got home too, but I'm feeling a little out-of-body at the moment, so who can tell for sure?

All this happened in the two-and-a-half hours since I knocked off work, so although I didn't notice it at the time, I may have rushed through some stuff.

My head is a muddy mess.

Week 2 in review

My second week was an utter loss, dear readers. But as promised, here is a breakdown of my efforts, or lack thereof.

Day 6
I had 14 smokes today, a jump from the previous day's six. But the increase in nicotine did ease the withdrawal-induced pains -- ugly thudding things --in my shoulders and calves.

Day 7
My birthday. Two packs easy, as with much confusion and drunkenness, I puffed away the hours with a table full of smokers and a guy with a pipe, which might count as a smoker to some but not to me. I'm a purist.

Day 8
A mere three today, not unsurprising considering the previous evening's entertainments. Instead of smoking, I read my thesaurus. Today the thought of smoking was disgusting, sickening, nauseating, repellent, revolting, repugnant, unappetizing, loathsome, abhorrent, odious, vulgar, gross and vile. Still, I had three. I wonder if cigarettes might be addictive?

Day 9
Fourteen smokes. I am a worthless worm.

Day 10
Again the total rises. I had19 cigarettes today and am beginning to feel helpless against my own addiction. I stayed home this evening, a rarity of almost biblical proportions for a Friday night. And what did I do on this first Friday night at home since my 35th birthday? Not much really, though I did catch myself watching one of those awful reality shows: Fear Factor. But not just any old Fear Factor my friends. It was Couples Fear Factor. Good God save me.

Day 11
The first house party/barbecue of the season happens at my place. With windows open, fans blowing and the 9-volt removed from my smoke detector, approximately 20 people invade the kitchen and, for the most part, stay there. The room was a sweltering, cloudy mess, more closely resembling downtown Los Angeles on a humid summer's day than a brightly painted kitchen in Toronto. The food was delicious but I feel that, compared to my own protesting lungs, the steaks and porkloin got off easy.

Day 12
I only had five smokes today. But again, as is the case on my best days, my reluctance to smoke is based more on the sickening feeling in my gut, brought about by my decadence and overindulgence the night before, than it is by any attempt at resistance by me. Beginning tomorrow, now that the most insane part of May is over, I must begin to put forth a far more serious and concentrated effort.

Confrontation

I huddled in my nook, a solitary smoker seeking cover from the rain -- and some inner solace from my own disgusting wretchedness. I slinked deeper into the corner to avoid the rays of sun slowly creeping from the clouds and threatening to singe my leprous, nicotine-ripened flesh. It was then that I spotted her, all purple socks and Birkenstocks, a semi-transparent bag bearing the logo of the local health food store in one hand and a book on tantric vegan cooking tucked beneath one pasty arm.

Her leaky eyes bulged toad-like behind black-rimmed, cat's-eye glasses, and I could smell the sunscreen bubbling from her pores. A huge, wide-brimmed straw hat bearing a red ribbon sat atop her tiny, 1870s schoolteacher head and lank auburn curls rested on her narrow shoulders. She approached me, unpleasant mid-30s eyes straining to disapprove, even as her 12-year-old broom-shaped body struggled against the breeze.

"That's a disgusting habit," she said, pointing to the butt dangling from my lip.

"And how are you today?" I replied, my intestines rumbling at her unprovoked, though not unexpected, verbal assault.

"You're just a slave of the tobacco companies," she insisted, pointing a bony finger at me, a dozen GREENS+ vitamin bottles rattling in the bag around her wrist.

"Live and let live," I say.

"That's just it," she screeched. "You're preventing me from realizing my right to live a full and healthy life free of the toxic chemicals you so wantonly pump into your body." A hideous triumph sprawled across her face. Her narrow chest rose and with a deductive crescendo she added, "Second hand smoke kills."

I twitched involuntarily then, a full-body flutter not unlike the feeling you get when blasted by a particularly bone-chilling wind. She stared at me, the corners of her mouth curling up into what might be construed as a smile, the look a weasel might give a chicken before snatching it from the henhouse. Crooked, off-white teeth poked from her gums at Picasso-like angles and I caught the glimmer of several mercury-amalgam fillings. No vitamin supplement to boost your likelihood of brushing, I thought.

"You're less likely to suffer the ill-effects of cigarette byproducts if you leave my immediate vicinity," I told her as gently as I could, my voice nearly drowned out by the rumblings of a passing semi.

"You should pay more health tax than me," she stated matter-of-factly, ignoring my thoughts about her departure. "Smokers are a burden on the healthcare system."

I lit another smoke and, though full of guilt and self-loathing, stood up tall with shoulders wide, ready to bare the burden of blame.

"Perhaps the astronomical cigarette taxes I already pay should be pumped directly into the healthcare system?" I countered helpfully. "And placed in a special fund that only assists smokers?"

"Well that's not fair..." she began.

"And for you, well, I suppose we could set up a fund that only treats healthy individuals such as yourself, after years of chewing vitamins, visiting holistic healers and inhaling burning oils fails to prevent you from contracting cervical cancer and you need to rush off to a conventional doctor for treatment that's long overdue."

"You're an idiot," she said succinctly and stomped away, her pipe-cleaner body casting no reflection in the store windows as she passed.

III: Instead of smoking, why not...

11. Contact conspiracy-oriented websites and confess to the assassination of Pope John Paul II using an undetectable, top-secret, government-issue poison.

12. Purchase 30 bags of ice. Invite your ward's alderman to your house for drinks. If this proves difficult, simply lure the official by using a guaranteed-to-succeed ruse such as, "I'd really like to make a substantial donation to your next campaign fund but would feel more comfortable meeting you first, before parting with such an extravagant sum." Once your representative is comfortably seated, there are two ways you can proceed. If you like the cat and mouse game, feel free to spend several hours chatting amiably while pouring generous drinks for him and non-alcoholic beverages for yourself, until said official is out cold. If you're the impatient type, one drink mixed with a generous amount of knock-out pills or other disabling substance should suffice. When your prey is unconscious, place him in bathtub. Fill bathtub with pre-purchased ice. Remove kidney. (Refer to medical texts if necessary.)

13. Go out for dinner. Order a Coke and something with a sauce. Halfway through your meal, motion the waiter over. When he arrives, look concerned. Ask if the sauce contains oregano (or basil, mushrooms, etc.) and claim a serious allergy to the ingredient you've chosen. When he goes to check with the kitchen, fill mouth with pre-bought package of Pop Rocks. Drink Coke. Drool. Await waiter's return. (For added realism, droop head back and clutch chest.)

14. Acquire a skittish, medium- to large-sized cat, 5 empty tuna tins (156 g each) and ball of twine. Using twine, attach one tin to cat's tail and others to each leg. Set cat loose in china or crystal shop.

15. Go to local church during Sunday mass. Nail doors shut. Blast Black Sabbath albums until parishioners surrender.

For more of this list, visit the following:
Instead of smoking, why not...
II. Instead of smoking, why not...
IV: Instead of smoking, why not...

Don't hate me because I'm potentially cancerous

They say that once you've quit smoking -- and during the attempt too, I imagine -- you will suffer from psychological and physical withdrawal symptoms. And honestly, although I expect them to be torturous in their own right, those side-effects are, for the moment, the least of my concerns.

You know what I'm really going to miss? The smug fulfillment that only comes from staring into the face of a non-smoker, one who has inexplicably paused to give you a snotty, disapproving look as you take a drag from your king-sized du Maurier, and blowing a rich, white billow of smoke right in his eye.

Even better is the complete feeling of contented contempt you throw back in the face of someone who, beyond rational thought, despite the fact that you were already smoking a butt on the patio of your local watering hole on a sunshiny May afternoon, sits down at the table adjacent and, dripping snide, asks if you can put out your smoke. "No," you say with a venomous grin. "Could you take your screaming infant to a more appropriate locale? You know, like home. Or Antarctica."

Saying good-bye to all that, well, that's going to be tough.

Excess

It's been said that nothing exceeds like excess and, with that in mind, I must admit to being exceedinglingly excessive in my pursuit of drink and smoke last night. But it was my birthday, so what the hell?

I smoked two packs over the course of the day, including more than a pack while sitting on Kilgour's patio into the wee hours of the morning. As beer after beer was consumed, accompanied by round after round of birthday rum, my hands reached endlessly for my smokes. You smokers understand that strange unwritten rule of physics, the one that says the number of cigarettes you have increases exponentially the more alcohol you consume. I had too much of both and today even the thought of a smoke is revolting.

But I won't be too hard on myself. Given enough time each of us will always find someone else peering crone-like over our shoulder, happily pointing out our mistakes and failures. By the way, when one of those people enter your life, do yourself a favour and tell them to piss off.

Still, perhaps overindulgence is the key, especially with the party at my house this coming Saturday. Just smoke myself gross using my own brand of shock therapy, until each cigarette becomes a more repulsive proposition than the last. Hmmm. Perhaps.

In closing, although I have never licked the bottom of a dirty ashtray, I do believe that I can state with a reasonable degree of certainty that that is what my mouth tastes like now.

What cigarettes are to me

Cigarettes are to me, what...

• engagement rings are to Jennifer Lopez
• kibbles are to bits
• dangerous is to Mike Tyson
• Siegfried is to Roy
• spaces in heaven are to Jehovah's Witnesses
• gas is to the internal combustion engine
• snotty remarks are to the French
• porn is to the Internet
• body modification is to Dennis Rodman
• bored, undiscerning television viewers are to Survivor.

Week 1 in review

I've decided, for the time being at least, that this record should include a weekly review summarizing my progress, or regress as the case may be. Though I'll aim for brevity in these weekly reports, you may want to prepare yourself for the opposite, as I'm sure you've already noticed great swaths of clever internal monologue externalized on these pages.

Day 1
I make rash agreement with co-worker to attemp to quit smoking. I consent to keep a blog detailing this undertaking. I smoke more than a pack that day. A nervous flutter spends its day in my gut, doing strange, cruel things.

Day 2
I smoke 27 cigarettes on the second day of my quest. That's twice now that I've smoked more than a pack in a day. This is more than I smoked before I decided to quit. Stated goal appears to be having opposite effect. In my defence, it was friend Steve's birthday. Ensuing party conflicts with objective.

Day 3
Slight success. I break the under-a-pack mark and smoke 16 cigarettes. I experience no feeling of achievement.

Day 4
My wife Donna discovers the plan. She does this honestly, led to my blogs by my own desire to have her read them and tell me what a fantastic scribe I am. She expresses surprise but does not mention task again.

Spend early evening, all night and wee hours of the morning on patio of local pub owned by friend Pete. Patio not subject to citywide smoking ban. I smoke close to 2 packs in this span, although exact count impossible to note because drunk friend Dermot, who I haven't seen in several years, appears on patio waxing nostalgic. Dermot believes in smoking but not in purchasing his own. Proceeds to help himself throughout evening.

Day 5
On Sunday, likely spurred more by a cigarette hangover than by actual force of will, I have only six cigarettes. I do not get overly excited. With my own birthday in a couple of days, that of friend Dwight on Friday and a barbecue at my house on Saturday, it's probable that I will falter and stumble several more times before I can make a concerted effort. Some may call these events an excuse, I simply wish to enjoy these celebrations with my friends without being labelled "that miserable bastard in the corner."

II: Instead of smoking, why not...

6. Purchase an authentic samurai costume and sword. (Use Internet if viable source of costumes or swords is not available in your area.) On weekends, don outfit and use sword to trim bushes, shrubs and trees in full view of neighbours.

7. Build a pit in the backyard. Capture large squirrel. Capture small raccoon. Borrow neighbour's Pomeranian. (If this isn't possible, visit the Canadian Kennel Club for more about dog breeds.) Place all three in pit. Stand back.

8. Master Elaine's "little kicks" dance from Seinfeld. Perform it each week during your trip to the supermarket, preferably by the deli counter. If it's a weekend, try hitting the baby food and diapers aisle.

9. Know someone who lives to argue? Of course you do. Find said person and say something outrageous. For example: "Richard Nixon's wife Pat was the gunman on the grassy knoll. She killed JFK." Be firm. Quote fictitious Internet sources as required. Sit back and enjoy.

10. Find recipe for five-course gourmet meal. Invite pretentious friends, colleagues and/or acquaintances to your house. Prepare gourmet meal and serve in dog or cat bowls. Do not provide cutlery. Situate communal water dish at table centre. Lap from it regularly.

For more of this list, visit the following:
Instead of smoking, why not...
III. Instead of smoking, why not...
IV: Instead of smoking, why not...

Distract yourself

NB: It's my nature to take what I consider healthy, good-hearted pokes at just about everything. But if I provide a link to an Internet resource, I do it in the sincere hope that it may offer someone out there a better chance at kicking the habit.

I've been searching the Web for resources to help me in my battle. The resources seem endless, as in an endless supply of so much nonsense. But then again I'm angry. Or in denial. Or at some other emotional stage typically summed up by psychobabble terminology. And though I'm not certain anything I find on the net will help me, I suppose it's my duty to offer links to some of these resources in the case that any ex-smoker-wannabes in need of help stumble on to my blog. Duty. Honour. Withdrawal.

So here's one:

The Smoking Cessation section at About.com has loads of articles, plus forums where you can share the agonizing pain of your transformation into a better, non-smoking person. You will find ads, called "offers" here, but they're in their own clickable section, not popping up in your face every five seconds. So if you're looking for an herbal solution that stops smoking cravings, as well as weight gain, anxiety and world hunger, you can find it.

Of particular interest to me was the list of 101 Things to Do Instead of Smoking. Go ahead and take a look, print it out and follow along if you like.

* Me waiting, whistling Don't Worry - Be Happy (55).

Done? Good.

After a very quick read-through, I counted at least 47 suggested activities during which I could smoke. It could have been more but for the sake of argument, I didn't count washing the dog (3), playing with Silly Putty (54) or riding rollercoasters (93).

If you're worried about your weight, teeth or eating habits, beware of sucking on tart candy (30), eating popsicles (32), creating a chocolate closet (48), hanging on to caramel apple suckers (49) and eating hot fudge sundaes (82).

Also, this was obviously written with a woman in mind, so I'll desist from taking too many potshots at turning your bathroom into a spa (12), getting a free makeup session (13), doing your nails (66) or giving yourself a manicure/pedicure (14) -- yes, I have heard the term metrosexual, but be serious.

I do have some thoughts about a few particular suggestions though:

34. Make-out with your special someone! Hubby hated kissing me when I smoked, but now he LOVES it...
My wife (Donna you may recall) is also a smoker. She is making no attempt to quit and in fact, knows nothing about my current efforts. Is it possible that I will no longer wish to kiss her once I've quit? Even worse, is there a chance that my new and improved, ashless-tasting mouth will become anathema to her?

37. Spend time with a kid.
I don't have a kid. I don't know any kids. For a variety of reasons, I have no desire to go to prison.

41. Walk in an old graveyard with the man you love.
If smoking is what Freud would call an oral fixation, what the hell does taking your most-loved to a graveyard mean? I shudder to think.

78. Go to church/talk to God.
Beyond the obvious problem this may cause depending on your belief system or lack therof, what should you talk to God about? Personally, I think I might ask something like: "Was creating something as wonderful as the tobacco plant, only to make it a source of addiction, prejudice and disease, part of the 'master plan?'"

This list has inspired me to begin my own list of distracting things to do instead of smoking. You can read the first installment at Instead of smoking, why not...

Instead of smoking, why not...

1. Visit a skateboard park. Watch Jimmy fall. Watch Jimmy choke back tears. Watch Jimmy limp. Repeat.

2. Practice a different voice. Master it. Make a list of friends and call each one up using your new voice. Unless you're truly gifted, avoid over-reliance on cliché accents such as English, Jamaican or Asian. Convince the abovementioned friends you're from Revenue Canada, the immigration department or from the local motor vehicle licences office. These are just a few suggestions. Be creative. Keep calls brief to maintain the illusion. Mention an outstanding debt or grave inconsistency in a fabricated form. (To make up a form, simply pick several letters and numbers and string them together.) For example: "We have some serious concerns about information contained in your 73-HW6-T claim form. We are legally bound to inform you that we are conducting an internal investigation. Your reference number is B-2549." Then hang up.

3. In the middle of the night, or when you're certain she's away, transplant your neighbour's garden into your own backyard. Be exact. If she had petunias on the right, pansies on the left, and two bunches of ornamental grass in the centre, maintain that design. Take a snapshot beforehand if necessary. (N.B. This one may require the assistance of a friend or two. Pick colleagues who are trying to quit smoking as well. If that's not feasible, pick pals who are as equally bitter as you, but for different, more disturbing reasons.)

4. Dress to the nines. Visit the poshest and most elegant restaurants you know. (Research on the Web as required.) Phone up each one to assure it's booked solid during the dinner hour. Then show up and try to bribe the maitre d'. With Pez.

5. Pick the meanest neighbour on your block. On Sunday morning, wait until that there are plenty of witnesses. Then wash and wax his car. (Feel free to substitute other chores here; eaves cleaning, bush trimming, outdoor house painting, etc.) Knock on the door and loudly ask for compensation. When he refuses, sue for breach of contract.

For more of this list, read:
II: Instead of smoking, why not...
III: Instead of smoking, why not...
IV: Instead of smoking, why not...

Poetry of the damned

In honour of the fascist air slithering about the puri-tyranical, liberal-minded members of Toronto's city council, as well as that of other government groups, alliances and coalitions in any nook, cranny or corner of the globe where smokers have become a doomed homo sapien subspecies, I have composed the following:

A Smoking Limerick for the Big Smoke
Give up my lighter, my ashtray and dearly loved smoke,
For carrots and celery and grilled artichoke?
The thought seems obscene
A PC pipe dream
But it would be nice to stop being broke.

Open letter to Toronto

Dear Toronto.

I have tried to love you.

It's been almost a year since you rashly banned smoking in pubs and bars throughout your fine metropolis. When will you desist? I beg you, end the madness, before it's too late.

You insisted that it wasn't the right of a homeowner to cut down a tree on his or her own property. You forbade individuals from spraying pesticides on lawns or gardens. You told us we couldn't eat sushi or own pitbulls or handguns or samurai swords. And I laughed. Laughed as you, my beloved city, put the clamps down, enraging an impotent populace and exerting your own iron will.

I have done my best to put our differences aside, dear sweet city of mine. I have protected you from traitorous zealots within your own bosom, vile two-faced turncoats who dared to expound upon the virtues of rival jungles such as Montreal or Vancouver, all the while hoping, praying, that you would come to see the light.

But it isn't the same anymore my love. My pleas go unanswered and you've hardened your heart to my cries.

So then, that's it? No phonecall, no letter, no card? Not even a lousy e-mail? Fine. We're broken up. But don't expect me to recycle properly, or keep the noise down at my parties.

Oh, and one more thing. Even if there's a huge marble ashtray so close to me that it could be mistaken for my leg, I'll be tossing my smoldering butts on the curb.

Kennedy

The next day

I awoke dull-eyed and lank-tailed in the not-quite-full throes of a cigarette hangover. More like a small dangleover, I guess. It wasn't as bad as a night of drinking and smoking at the bar, when you could still smoke indoors that is, when gobbling two full packs was not unheard of, your smoke-and-lighter hand racing furiously all night with your drinking hand to see who would bring home the gold.

But still, it was something this morning, as I groaned at the bright daggers of sun slipping eel-like through the slats of the bedroom blinds. No, I didn't reach for my smokes right off, that's one habit I kicked some time ago. I prefer instead to reach for the steaming coffee mug Donna leaves for me on the nightstand, delaying one addiction while satisfying another. OK. I'll be honest, gallons of coffee a day is yet another habit I kicked to the curb years ago, and it's a rare day when I have more than my morning cup, although I sip throughout the day, enjoying it even more as the cool, muddy concoction it becomes by mid-day.

This morning however, after several hard, rapping backhanded shots at the snooze button, my eyes snapped open with the realization of what I had done the day before. That is, precisely, my agreement to try and quit smoking while keeping a diary of my attempt.

And since I'm being so bloody honest -- which means I'll tell the truth about what I tell you though I won't necessarily tell you everything -- I'm having my third smoke of the day even as I write this.

I know. I know. You feel cheated. Like Kathy Lee Gifford. Or Al Gore. This blog, after all, is subtitled A Quitter's Journal. But I can't help it. The more I think about quitting, stumbling haphazardly through my mind wondering about how I might approach such a gargantuan task, the more helpless and foolish I feel -- the more in need of my little white friends, who have never failed to quell my doubts in the past, if only for a little while.

So now what to do? I have always proclaimed loudly and to whomever would listen that if ever I should choose to quit smoking -- though I never would, because I enjoy it and you could die at any time anyway -- I would do it through sheer force of will. Fuelled by booze and the somewhat-attentive and mostly-drunk spectators at my local, I would say these words in my booming, drunk-guy's voice, full of twisted pride and self-importance. Each time, when I was done spraying spittle across the room and my not-so-captive audience, I had won myself over. Looking back, I feel less convinced.

But, for lack of a patch or some nicotine gum, that is how I shall begin.

Benedict Arnold

I've already finished a pack of cigarettes today and the sun hasn't quite gone down. I wasn't kidding when I said I wasn't going cold turkey. (I know you can't see me, but trust me, to the best of my admittedly limited knowledge, I don't look like an idiot. On the other hand, you could say smoking a pack of cigarettes in less than a full day is pretty idiotic.)

Donna brought me home a fresh case of white death when she came home, as she typically does, since I typically ask her to do so. It's beautiful really, this little box with its shrink plastic wrap that glistens in the dull light from the two working bulbs above my head. You smokers know what I mean, the rest of you can go to hell. If things go as planned, I'll be counted among your pink-lunged sanctimonious number before long.

AC/DC's Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution roughs its way from the speakers and I realize that although I'm not a singer, if I go through with this poorly planned attempt at cigarette denial, I will never have the smoky, crusty, rock 'n' roll pipes that only years upon years of self-destructive smoking can provide.

Geez, I'm rambling already. I'll be cracking another pack as soon as I've had dinner and I can feel the ball of smoke sitting in my belly, making me queasy. And what am I thinking? I can have one before dinner's served, that's what. I'm hooked like middle management on the promise of a cost-effectiveness scheme. I'm obsessed, like Quebecers are about being pseudo-European or Torontonians are about being cosmopolitan.

God in heaven, I love to smoke.

And yet, in some twisted masochistic turn, I have dared to challenge the claw-like grasp of Big Tobacco, the same giant taloned hand in which I have unabashedly wallowed for so long, lost in my own unrestrained celebration of the fragility of life, the universe and everything.

How can I even consider turning my back on my little friends, the white-robed bearers of the holy leaf?

I am a worthless, filthy traitor.

Enabling co-dependency

More about the pact mentioned In the beginning...

It was comical really, that years-ago mutual attempt by Donna and me, bound as it was by feeble promises to pay the other a five-spot each time one of our wills cracked like a peppercorn and we found ourselves rushing to elevators and down, through hallways and out automatic doors, dodging acid raindrops until finally slumping beaten but content, with a cigarette dangling from our respective lips, in some urine-soaked downtown building nook.

More comical even when each day's tally was taken and smoker's sins confessed and we realized that the difference between the amount of smokes I'd snuck and the number that she had so strived to avoid was no more than one or two. Can you picture it?

"I only had two smokes today," Donna says, somewhat proudly, wondering if I may have had less. "How about you?"

"I had four, I'm ashamed to say," say I, obviously ashamed.

"That's ten you owe me," she says, a shiny-white winner's grin widening on her face.

"Can you break a twenty?"

"No."

"I'll get some change at the store," I tell her. "I gotta buy smokes anyway."

"Can you get me some too?"

In the beginning...

What an absolutely foolish idea.

I've agreed to quit smoking for a month, and, while suffering the inevitable physical and mental tortures that will accompany such a foolhardy act, keep a blog documenting my successes, failures, and the aforementioned tortures for the world to bear witness. I wonder if this is an altogether new idea, likely not I suppose, but since I've only attempted to quit once before, I can't say whether it is or it isn't with any degree of certainty.

For the record, the once before was a doomed-to-failure pact with my lovely wife Donna, who, like me, enjoys smoking so much it's practically religion in our household. You'll find no glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary figurines in our house, no soapstone totems or ceramic Buddhas serving as bookends or lining the tops of tables or other assorted pieces of hand-me-down furniture, but you will find at least one ashtray in every room. (Well, not the bathroom. Even we have our pride.)

So then. Agreed with whom you may be wondering. A fair question. For now, let's just say a friend. One who doesn't smoke but once did, although it was only many years after her tobacco divorce that I made her acquaintance. She is a colleague from work, and no, before your minds race too quickly to sullied thoughts of extramarital entanglement, there is nothing between us other than mutual like and a love of the written word, the latter being the reason I have agreed to this quitter's chronicle.

All that aside, I have no intention of quitting today. I'll leave that cold turkey stuff for someone made of sterner stuff. That way I can ease slowly, like a glazed honey doughnut into a steaming mug of Columbian blend, into the ugly, dishevelled, short-tempered mess I'm sure to become.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a smoke.