Bath bombs, cigarette patches, and true crime I quit smoking (again). Saturday, November 16, I looked at my half-full package of Gauloises and, at arms length, ran water on the whole pack to render them unsmokable. To get me through the weekend, I finished the three Panter cigarellos I had and on the Monday, I bought myself some nicotine patches. I partied as usual this weekend, with no lapses. Yay me! I had to special order the non-transparent patches, because the transparent ones don't stick to my skin unless I rub the area vigourously with alcohol. The patches come with a cute little booklet that provide helpful hints and list certain side-effects such as insomnia and vivid dreams. They recommend that you step down to a lower dose to eliminate the side-effects. I'm not experiencing insomnia (I rarely do), but I am having some rather vivid dreams. One rather memorable dream involved a gorilla. Apparently, we were in a relationship. As the dream progressed, he began losing his hair (at one point my gorilla guy was wearing a blue latex face mask) and became less gorilla-like, except for one feature: his...um...penis. I told him there was no way we were going to have relations until his organ shrunk down to something more managable--size does matter. I'm remembering most of my dreams, and have a great deal of control over them. If I wake up, I can slip right back into the story line. This isn't an unpleasant side-effect. Needless to say, I look forward to bedtime these days. Last night, bedtime was particularly cozy. I've been experimenting with making homemade bath bombs to give as Christmas gifts, and made my first batch Sunday night. Since I had to try one, I ran a bath at around 11:00 p.m. I dropped the bomb in the running water and it fizzed, just like it's supposed to. It even smelled good (citrusy rose). It was a lovely soak--the bomb consists of baking soda, olive oil, citric acid and rose oil--and I came out of the bath warm and a bit sleepy and feeling really soft, but not greasy. I slipped into my bed, which has a feather bottom topped with a flannel sheet from Simons, and squirmed in sheer delight. Then I picked up the book I've been reading. In addition to my love of 70s and 80s horror films, I love true crime. At the church bazaar (see previous post), I picked up a book called "The Torso Murder", which I thought was going to be a retelling of the Black Dahlia, a true story that inspired James Ellroy's brilliant book of the same name. It turned out to be a book about a woman, Evelyn Dick, accused of killing and dismembering her husband in Hamilton, Ontario in the 1940s. A facinating read, which, happily, had no impact on my dreams. I dreamt I was on holiday with two of my gal pals. We got split up as we were running through a corn field. I ended up in a cute little rooming house full of friendly Mexican people. They agreed to let me stay there until my friends found me. That I didn't have nightmares is a sign that I'm incredibly well-adjusted...or a psychopath.

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