Like an ol' pig

I'm scared. I'll admit it. Tomorrow is my Quit Day, and I'm just scared.

I've started another blog just for the withdrawal fits. I know I'm taking the latest'n'greatest smoking cessation drug, and I've been hearing all about how it really, really helps a lot of heavy smokers quit. I'm just so afraid that I'll be one of the rare failures.

If you want to glance at that blog, you can. It's public. I named it Bay's Travail Blog. It's all one topic, though, so it might not appeal to everyone who reads this blog. I was lucky and another Chantix blogger found my blog and invited me into the circle of Chantix quitters, so I'll be getting some moral support from people who are going through the same thing. Four of us actually chose 8/8 as our Quit Day, entirely apart from each other. And that's cool.

In other news, I bought a new kitchen faucet today, and Wesley and I spent much of the afternoon trying to wrestle the cruddy old faucet out of the sink. We did not succeed. The cruddy old faucet is still half attached and shows no signs of budging. I have mental images of us hiring a plumber to replace a stinkin' faucet. And the horrid thing is -- the directions on how to install the new sink are so easy, I could do it by myself!

So while I chain smoke for what might be the last time -- really! and truly! -- I just wanted to tell a little, tiny, nostalgic story about my mother.

I always liked to have my back rubbed when I was a child. I would sit next to Mama anywhere we went, and I would lean against her until she started rubbing my back. Mama never even noticed that I was manipulating her for several minutes. I mean, it was pure habit to her -- here's a child's back, rub it.

When she did finally notice that I was totally, selfishly getting great backrubs without ever giving anything in return, she would laugh and say, "You're like an ol' pig! My mama used to say that about me!"

I finally asked her what that meant -- "like an ol' pig" -- and Mama told me that apparently, pigs like to be scratched. And her mother had noticed as a child that if she went near the pig pen, all the older pigs would crowd up to the rails of the fence, begging to be scratched or rubbed. As long as Mama's mother would stand there, I guess in her little dress and pinafore, because that simply must have been around 1910 or so, rubbing and scratching those pigs, they would grunt and lean against the fence and be very still to enjoy the luxury as long as they could.

Tonight Emily was scratching my neck and lightly fluffing my hair, and when she started to leave, I kind of leaned over until she was back within reach of my head. And of course she went back to scratching my neck, and I laughed and said, "I'm like an ol' pig!"

Emily laughed and laughed. I can't imagine why she hasn't heard that expression before, or why she hasn't thought about it if she has heard it. So I explained that Mama used to say that to me, and that her Mama said it to her before me.

And it can't be an insult as long as the scratcher actually likes the scratchee.

I hope if Emily ever has any daughters, they're like ol' pigs, too.