It feels like a lifetime

I quit smoking five days, 19 hours, 45 minutes, and 10 seconds ago. What astounds me is that I have NOT smoked an estimated 58 cigarettes. HOLY. FUCK.

I had a lazy slug sloth weekend. I only left Sterling and Steele's house when Killer needed to go out. I watched a shit ton of television, ordered hot wings from a local pizza joint two days in a row, napped, had crazy dreams, took in a Law and Order: SVU marathon, and skipped a picnic that kicked off River City's gay pride activities because I just didn't want to go. Serena was disappointed that I decided to stay home, but I was feeling sluggy and it was hotter than shit outside yesterday. I was one with the AC and it was good.

Last night, Henrietta the Mostly Upstairs Cat yelled at me. I know, she's a cat, but SERIOUSLY. I was getting ready to climb in the shower and she was yowling at me like I was standing on her paw. (I wasn't.) She stood on top of her food container and sat on the edge of the tub and paced (pawed?) the carpet and meowed for minutes on end. After I got out of the shower, I pet her repeatedly and simultaneously explained that her moms would be home in less than 24 hours and yes, I missed them too. I think all of the pets are depressed. Killer took to sitting on the couch with me, looking forlorn, and it was difficult to get a moment's peace because Greysmoke was all up in my bidness, having decided that having her head rubbed vigorously was the way to spend her Sunday. Fluffernutter AND Tangerine came and hung out with me on their moms' bed last night and I explained again that yes, Moms #1 and #2 would be home very, very soon and the weird lady who was in their moms' space would be gone soon. That seemed to calm everyone down, but then I got terribly homesick for MY kitties and MY bed and almost went to my house to stay the night. Considering last night was my last night of house- and pet-sitting, though, I stuck it out. The decision was really made for me considering I was already in bed and falling asleep. And naked.

After a night of poopy sleep and crazy dreams, I got up at 7:00 so I could take out Killer and pack up my stuff. I had a doctor's appointment way up on the north side of town, as my former doctor's office stopped taking my insurance. After getting lost and driving back and forth on what turned out to be the wrong street for almost 15 minutes, I found my way to the office and got situated with 85 new patient forms to fill out. My wait wasn't long and the nurse who took my temperature and blood pressure was very nice, but popped the thermometer in my mouth and THEN asked me what one of my tattoos meant. She laughed and said, "I always do that!" I told her she should be a dental assistant. The doctor was nice, I left with refill prescriptions for several, highly addictive, possibly-hallucinogenic, controlled substances my thyroid meds and Effexor and headed for work.

As soon as I walked in the door, I encountered King V bitching about the digital cameras not working at a client event the day before. I stood there, bag over my shoulder, sunglasses on, holding a melting cup of ice*, wondering when I could break away. All I wanted to do after getting up at the ass crack of dawn, cleaning up my housesitter droppings, going to my house, changing into work clothes and shoes, extending as much love as possible in 15 minutes to George Who Feels Abandoned and Meows Thusly, being unable to find the new patient forms the doctor mailed to me, opening days' worth of mail, wondering what that SMELL is (forgot to take out some garbage), walking on cat puke (thankfully not while barefoot), getting lost on way to doctor's office, and being completely baked from the humidity was to get to my desk and sit the hell down. Luckily, I was able to break away after a few minutes and now, nearly two hours later, I am beginning to feel human, especially since I was able to reschedule lunch with a client and I've finally had some caffeine. That said, all my brain can seem to utter is, "God, I'm tired."

* King V noticed I'd brought a giant cup of ice to work with me and commented on the fact that I've been eating a lot of ice lately. He was worried that I'm exhibiting signs of diabetes, but my sugar was checked rather recently and was fine; also, I've been anemic for a while and chewing ice is a symptom of pica, which is "an abnormal desire to eat substances (as chalk or ashes) not normally eaten." Before I went on iron a few months ago, I could almost not control my urge to break into a local tire store and nibble on the steel radials. (I am totally, gobsmacked serious.) After I was prescribed iron to regulate my blood levels, I was fine. Urge to chew on tires passed. The only problem was that I didn't get the iron refilled and now I'm anemic again. Pica tends to affect pregnant women, who often wouldn't mind eating a nice scoopful of dirt. I've not wanted dirt - nor am I pregnant - but I've wanted to eat chalk, charcoal briquettes, tires, and now ice. Ice, at least, will keep me hydrated and not send me to the ER or loony bin when found in my mouth. I'm back on thyroid meds, I'm ready to go with my next refill of Effexor, I have a new doctor who seems pretty nice, my medical records are hopefully being photocopied and sent between offices, and I'm going to trot down to the pharmacy and pick up some iron so that my ice consumption can just be occasional instead of a panicked necessity. Seriously, the ice cube trays have never been so religiously monitored.

ALL of that said, I must admit that I really want a fucking cigarette. Five days, 19 hours, 57 minutes, and 39 seconds. Sigh.