News

So if this blog is about quitting smoking, why all the talk about my art and my cat? Why not just write, “Didn’t smoke today. End of story.” Because quitting isn’t just about not doing something. It’s about doing something else instead. There’s a psychological term for this called opposite action. It sounds like a superhero move, but really it’s a simple idea. When your brain wants one thing, especially something destructive, you give it something completely different. You redirect the current instead of trying to dam the river. Years ago, Subway had that famous spokesperson, Jared, who went from...

This morning started the way only a kitten can start it. Whiskey needed breakfast and decided my ear was the emergency alert system. Sucking, nibbling, then full-on chomping while I was trying to drift back into dreamland. Mom said that was her way of telling me she wanted me up and ready to play. Who would’ve guessed that something so small, cute, and fuzzy could come with the responsibility level of a part-time job. So much for sleeping in. After the kitten Olympics, Mom and I headed out to drop off my art and books for the upcoming show at...

I don’t know if this applies to all cats, but Whiskey won’t eat more than she needs to eat. She’s got better self-control than most humans at a buffet. I measure out her food by instinct. A sprinkle here, a handful there. Keep in mind, she’s still a kitten, which means she has two modes: Olympic gymnast and professional napper. If I fill her bowl too full in the morning, she doesn’t go wild on it. Instead, she leaves a perfect little ring of food around the edge, like a cereal crop circle, saving it for later. Same thing at...

So this morning Whiskey woke me up a little earlier than planned. I’m a grump sleeper. A professional-level grump. But this kitten has no respect for sleep unions or snooze buttons. If I’m not up and ready on her schedule, she turns into a tiny motivational coach armed with licking and gentle biting. Resistance is futile. You don’t wake up to an alarm anymore. You wake up to a creature with whiskers and a mission. After surviving the feline boot camp, Mom and I headed to storage to pick up some books for my exhibition this week. I’m participating in...

Whiskey moves like she’s auditioning for an invisible kung fu epic. One second she’s a puddle of fur. The next, she’s a blur. She circles. She swoons. She vanishes behind furniture and reappears mid-air with a tiny “hi-yah,” landing a soft nibble on my arm like a feathered punchline. If Bruce Lee ever needed a stunt double with whiskers, I know a girl. Some days I wonder how much more of this acrobatic affection I can take. My forearms look like they’ve been sparring with a cloud that learned self-defense. But then she pauses. Those big eyes flip the script....