My mother was a cardiologist and a drunk. Not the nasty kind of drunk, but the sad and pathetic kind. Before she died of acute liver failure she taught me two things.
The first thing she taught me was that if you want to quit smoking, you have to swear an oath to God. Then consider the temporal and spiritual consequences of breaking that oath. Then buy a pack of mints. Every time you want to smoke – “and I mean really, life-or-death need a cigarette” – you suck on a mint instead. By substituting Marlboros for Polos you can get through the first few weeks. After that, you’re home free.
The second thing she taught me had to do with love.
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My father is a ghost. He was
