News

I woke up this morning with Whiskey Kitty sleeping on my cheek so close I couldn’t tell if I was breathing in oxygen or kitten carbon dioxide. Either way, I survived the night. If I pass out one day, they’ll say it wasn’t cigarettes that did me in, it was feline fumes. Mom and I went out to get the phone fixed, but no luck. The kind of errand that feels productive until it isn’t. I asked her if we could swing by Guitar Center, and she gently reminded me she’s not buying me a guitar. Fair enough. I could...

Today I went to the clinic to get my meds refilled and check in with my therapist. I decided to be honest and told him I had slipped by smoking a little pot. His response caught me off guard. He said, “That’s okay, I do it too.” Not exactly the wisdom I was expecting. Helpful? I’m not so sure. For me, marijuana is complicated. I don’t avoid it because I buy into scare tactics or old slogans. I avoid it because I know how it affects my mental health. I feel the shift when I use it. So when my...

So, a follow-up on yesterday’s backslide. I did buy a little marijuana and have been smoking it here and there. I talked it over with a few followers of the blog, and we all landed in the same place: this doesn’t count as a slip. Cigarettes are still the villain in this story. Compared to tobacco, cannabis isn’t the dragon I’m trying to slay, so I’m not resetting the quit date. The mission remains the same. Smoke-free from cigarettes. Period. One of the big reasons people turn to weed these days is sleep. And sleep has been my lifelong frenemy....

Whiskey has officially entered her interior design phase. At some point today, without a permit or a Pinterest board, she constructed herself a chair out of boxes in the room. Not a bed. Not a fort. A chair. She sat there like a tiny project manager overseeing the household, ears up, eyes alert, satisfied with her work. Minimalist. Recyclable. Very on-brand. Mom was settled into her recliner, reading one of her mystery novels and playing solitaire. She’s been number one several times now, which I still don’t fully understand but deeply respect. There’s something comforting about the quiet competition between...

My mother’s cat, Herbie, has perfected the gentle art of affection. He climbs onto her lap while she’s in the recliner, bows his head like a tiny monk, and lets mom kiss it. A peaceful ritual. Very Norman Rockwell. Very “this is how love is supposed to look.” Naturally, I wanted the same thing from Whiskey. What I got instead was teeth. Whiskey doesn’t bow her head. She lunges. She nibbles. She play-bites. She treats affection like a contact sport. For a while, I thought, well, that’s that. She’s not Herbie. She’s her own strange little creature, operating by a...