Category: Cannabis

Doodling in the time of pandemic

On the right is my newest attempt at art or something like it … woodburning on a pallet scrap. Left is an older experiment on wood with acrylic paint.
A close-up of my woodburned doodles.

I saw a headline whereupon Dr. Fauci said normalcy is unlikely until next year – and I thought, “Wow! Only a year? That’s nothing.” In the Army, we used to say we could stand on our heads for that long.  And doodling. I’ve got that going for me.

My county has some of the lowest infection rates in California. Still, Dale and I are more vigilant than most. The fitness center re-opened with lots of restrictions … all meeting with my complete approval. They don’t call me the sanitation marshal for nothing.

Lap swimming resumed by appointment only. I went Saturday and am going again today. I wear a mask as I enter and leave the facility, do not use the locker room and change out of my suit from underneath my swim poncho.

I’ve started limiting the amount of time I spend using my computer and cell phone … partly because I don’t think it’s healthy to stare at a screen all day. Seems like I would have learned that from work! Here I am retired, doing the same damned thing. I’m also paying less attention to the news.

It turns out I can stay informed without subjecting myself to electric shocks every 20 minutes.

More time outdoors

While avoiding the blue screens, I’m spending more outdoors. Golf has always kept me outside for long periods of time, and that’s a good thing. In addition to my regular schedule of walking, Dale and I resumed our weekly hikes, which were abandoned earlier in the pandemic.

The weather has been great, and I thought, why not read a book outside under the beach umbrella? A little staycation. I’m starting to go through our treasure trove of cookbooks and discover recipes we overlooked the first time around.

Growing cannabis

I’m working to up my game as a gentlewoman cannabis farmer. My last batch was disappointing. Didn’t look right, didn’t smoke right. No potency. Perhaps I had beginner’s luck with my first grow, but I think something was wrong with this seed. Hence the name – bad seed.

I have two plants growing. One was outdoors, but I got worried about pests and brought it in. They are propped together by the window sharing the LED light, and I can only assume that’s not good. But I guess I’ll ride this out to the end.

Part of the problem is I’m growing ruderalis, which is an autoflowering plant that is easier to grow but not particularly robust. I’d like to try growing a sativa/indica hybrid. One plant can yield a year’s worth of pot. But to grow a plant like that indoors, you have to trigger the flowering stage, which means at some point I have to create a place where the plant can have 12 hours of total darkness.

I’m not much of a gardener, so I’d like to keep this simple. And inexpensive. Of course, what did I spy with my little eye but a fancy and beautiful contraption that would be perfect, especially if you live in a place where you have to hide it. Only $2,000! Dale said that buys a lot of weed at the cannabis dispensary.

I’m thinking a cheap grow tent that doesn’t do anything but block out light when I need that. I don’t want to invest in hydroponics, fans, dehumidifiers, etc. I’m still reading up on my options. What is it they say, cannabis is not addicting but growing it is?

Art that says, “I was here.”

Finally, you might recall I scavenged a wood pallet from a neighbor’s pile of debris. Dale broke it up for me. I got this idea that maybe it would be fun to get started in woodburning. I researched it online and then got an inexpensive ( $25) woodburning tool for beginners.

When I first started this project, I thought I should try to work through any emotions I had associated with the pandemic. It turns out I don’t have any! At least not now. It is what it is. Science. Reality.

I don’t know how to draw real things, but I used to doodle spirals all the time during online meetings at work. I sanded the wood scrap and then started in on the spirals, later filling it in with tiny dots. Two coats of spray-on varnish. Nailed it to the fence as an embellishment and plan to make more, some with paint and color to add variety.  

Dale said it reminded him of primitive cave drawings. Not particularly artistic, but enough to say, “I was here.”

Growing pot at home

My cannabis harvest drying in the closet.
A “pollen sifter box” used to make kief, a concentrated form of cannabis.

In the continuing adventures of a gentlewoman cannabis farmer, I just harvested my second indoor plant and hung the stalks upside down to dry. Last time, I hung them in the garage, but they’re supposed to dry in a dark place, so this time I hung them inside a closet.

My first plant was smaller, growing in a 2-gallon pot and yielding about 10 grams of weed. This one grew in a 5-gallon pot. Same kind of seed, same location and same light, but the two plants looked very different. The first plant had thicker buds, while the buds on this one look scrawnier. However, there are more of them, so I’m hopeful the yield will be bigger.

“The Original” is what Dale calls my first grow. I planted the seed in November and harvested the cannabis in February after 102 days. The second plant, yet to be named, was 84 days from seed to harvest. I attribute the shorter cycle to warmer weather.

I noticed the smaller leaves are packed with trichomes, the sugary-like powder that contains cannabinoids such as THC and CBD. The leaves are generally assumed to be too rough for smoking, but you can extract the trichomes and make kief, a concentrated form of cannabis.

Basically, you can make kief by shaking the leaves through a filter. I bought what is euphemistically called a “pollen sifter box” for this purpose. I’ve never tried kief, and I haven’t actually used the box yet, so you’ll have to wait for a full report!  

I’ve already got two seeds germinating. While I purchased new dirt for my second plant, this time I’m going to re-use the dirt and add fertilizer. We’ll see how it goes. I plan to use the 2-gallon pot to grow one by the window and use the 5-gallon pot outside. You’re probably thinking, geez, how much weed does a girl need?

Truth is, I actually don’t consume much cannabis, but I’d like to get a nice big harvest for my next batch of homemade cannabis balm. Maybe it’s the placebo effect, but I use it daily, sometimes twice daily, on my knees, mastectomy scars and other creaky body parts.

All I can say is for me, it works. I am forever grateful for the healing properties of the cannabis plant.

For those who haven’t read my previous posts about growing cannabis, I purchased my kit from A Pot for Pot. As a first-time grower, I loved that everything I needed came in a box with step-by-step instructions. I purchased the seeds separately (with a discount from A Pot for Pot).

The plant itself is what they call autoflowering, meaning you don’t need a grow tent with alternating cycles of light and dark. The plant has its own internal clock and can be ready to harvest is as little as 80 days.

A little bit of weed & whiskey

Well, isn’t this a fine kettle of fish?

Dale and I feel pretty good about riding out the storm at home. We can sit here and look out the window if we have to. Our finances are conservatively invested, and the hit to our portfolio has not been as bad as you might think.

The bank is always bugging us about keeping too much cash in our savings account, but here we are, and I don’t hate that money sitting there minding its own business and earning nothing. We’re debt-free and won’t need to dip into the portfolio for a couple more years.

As for day-to-day inconveniences, my health club closed, so no swimming for me. The golf course is still open, but I’ve canceled my participation in all group golf events. I’m getting refunds, and I can use the money to supplement my escalating digital entertainment budget.

I’m continuing to play golf during non-peak hours, walking with my personal pushcart and keeping my distance from fellow players. No clubhouse antics afterward. I prefer a solitary round of golf anyway, and I like to get out of there when I’m done, so it’s not exactly a sacrifice.

Oh, and I wish the elbow bump had been invented years ago. I can’t tell you how many men have crushed my wrists with their manly handshakes.

It’s funny – I rather enjoyed deleting all the events on my calendar. There’s nothing on there until a dentist appointment in June, and even that may go away. I love looking at month after month of emptiness.

The food situation is crazy, but we’re OK. Dale is methodical about keeping the pantry and freezer stocked. I’ve always joked we could live for six months on what we have in-house, but I did not want to test my theory in this manner.

Dale doesn’t like to plan meals days in advance and enjoys going to the grocery store practically every day for the one or two things he might need. That has become an issue. It’s like asking him to give up his hobby. We’ve had some serious disagreements about going to the store.

I finally said, look, you’re a smart guy. I’m not going to tell you what to do, as long as you practice safe behaviors. And … I said if you get it and give it to me, you won’t have to worry about dying, because I will kill you.

This morning I got up and headed out early to see if maybe the grocery store shelves have hand sanitizer if you get there first. Apparently not. However, the Jameson shelf was full, so I snagged a bottle of that while I was there. And by the way, none of that Jameson will be converted to hand sanitizer.

We decided to visit the cannabis dispensary before that all goes to shit. There was a line at the door. Dale read somewhere that once the toilet paper was gone, everyone started wondering if they had enough weed. It was mostly old folks like me, and I kept my distance. They only let a couple of people in at a time anyway, so it works out great.

This is not fun or easy, but there is still joy in Mudville. I had this song Weed & Whiskey on my brain and sang it on the way home.

All these pills can’t cure my ills or fix me. All I need is a little bit of weed and whiskey.

Abandoning lame old guy humor

Re-purposing corporate swag as a cannabis journal. Because who can stop me now?

My, my, my corona

I worry about all things big and small. When I first retired, I feared the showdown with North Korea would ruin my retirement. Damn it, I thought, I just want to sleep late for a few years.

Now the coronavirus is keeping me up at night. My neighbor told me it was going to get bad out there, disease-wise, and my retirement funds were at risk in the stock market. I didn’t comment on the virus but said our finances are conservatively invested. We don’t make as much as other people, but we don’t lose as much, either. That quieted things down.

While I’m trying not to overreact, it’s scary just the same. I’m careful – washing my hands and trying not to touch my face – but Dale isn’t as obsessive as I am, and I fear he’ll catch it and gift it to me.

He said I was probably glad older men are at higher risk, and I did not disagree. I guess I didn’t handle that well. Then I stepped it in again when Dale bought new hearing aids outright rather than pay a monthly fee because they wanted an automatic bank draft.

I pay several bills with automatic drafts and have never had a problem. I said not doing the draft officially makes him an old guy, and he did not take kindly to the feedback.

Cannabis journaling

My new seedling has emerged, and it looks great! It came up in four days. This time around I’m using the LED light for the entire growth cycle, I’m using a bigger pot – 5 gallons – and I should benefit from warmer weather overall.

I have this bound booklet that was a giveaway from some corporate event I attended before I retired. I was supposed to use it for taking notes.

Oops. I forgot.

Now it gives me great pleasure to re-purpose this fine motivational swag as my growing journal. The theme is “Elevating our Impact.”

Books & TV

I ran out of Outlander episodes on Netflix. Season 5 was just released, but it’s only available through STARZ. I signed up for a three-month trial so I could start watching Season 5. Then I discovered STARZ doesn’t drop them all at once like most streaming services. Subscribers get one episode a week.

Although I was annoyed at first, I’ve changed my mind. Binge-watching has its merits, but there’s something to be said for the feeling of anticipation as a new episode approaches. The slower pace seems to fit my retirement lifestyle. It turns out we don’t need everything instantly.  

Vera is a show on BritBox, and since I don’t subscribe to BritBox, I thought I’d read the first book in the series about Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope. “The Crow Trap” by Ann Cleeves. I like it so far, but I’m about one-third of the way through, and Vera has not appeared. I’m eager to meet her, and God knows, these characters need her help. Two dead already and no clues to be found.

I enjoyed “Burn the Place” by Iliana Regan. She is a Michelin-starred chef, and part of the story is about food and foraging, part of it is about substance abuse and the rest is a lesbian coming-out story. The memoir was long-listed for the National Book Award. I don’t think it came anything close to that level, but I enjoyed it very much.

Old guy humor

After my gaffe about Dale being old, I’m abandoning lame old guy humor, which might be good for all of us to think about, considering the slate of U.S. presidential candidates. Old is OK!

I’m also going to try standard compliments. While I thought calling Dale “The Human Dictionary” was a sexy and unique nod to his brilliance, perhaps simpler is better. Something that appeals to the vanity within all of us.

You look great! Have you been working out?

He’ll be suspicious, so I’ll have to tread carefully.   

Don’t mess with Aunt Bee

Fans are upset with plans to film “The Andy Griffith Show” movie in Indiana.

I said no to the woman who offered me a volunteer role in my golf league. My back seized up mid-round, I could barely finish and now I’m popping blue buddies (Advil) while I rest at home for a few days. And they say there are no coincidences. Anyway, here’s my response:

“Thanks so much for thinking of me. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to say no this time around. I do understand the needs of our group and will consider volunteering in the future.”

She said OK, thanks for thinking about it. And many thanks to Retirement Confidential readers for the thoughtful feedback! Your advice, coupled with new evidence of annoying behavior helped me decide.

In golf, every hole has a mowed area where you hit your first shot. The tee box. Markers define the edges, and you stand behind an imaginary line between the two markers facing the target.

Yesterday I played with one of the big wheels in the first group, and she religiously spread the markers on each hole as wide as possible. I asked why, and she said lefties complain the hole doesn’t line up for them properly unless the markers are spread wide. I said presumably there are left-handed men, and no one shuffles their markers around, and she said, “Women are picky.”  

I rest my case.

The Taste Test

For the finale to my first season as a gentlewoman cannabis farmer, I taste-tested my haul, and it’s very nice weed, indeed! This particular strain is called Jack Herer, known for relieving stress and producing a pleasant buzz. I’m always careful not to overdo it … just enough to feel the beginnings of a smile.

I put a seed in water today to germinate … this one is going in a 5-gallon pot with the aim of increasing my yield. Since I am still so new at this, I decided not to re-use the soil from my first grow. It’s probably just a matter of fertilizer, but I went with the expansion kit from A Pot for Pot.

Don’t mess with aunt bee

This morning’s newspaper had an article about a movie featuring Andy Taylor of Mayberry … being filmed in Indiana. Fans are furious they would film it anywhere but North Carolina.

Having lived in South Carolina, I am familiar with Andy Taylor, who was played by Andy Griffith in “The Andy Griffith Show.” The show was based in Mayberry, a fictional representation of Mount Airy, N.C., where the real Andy grew up.

The show is iconic in the South. The Carolinas, anyway. I remember watching re-runs in the chemo room at the hospital in South Carolina, where I was treated for ovarian cancer 21 years ago. Andy was always on, and it didn’t matter if you were black or white or had cancer or not, if you changed the channel you were dead.

Later, I complained about it to a co-worker. I said the worst of it was that sanctimonious Aunt Bee.

I can’t adequately describe the reaction. Shock quickly accelerating to outrage? Like how is that possible? What’s not to love about Aunt Bee?

It would not be completely accurate to say no one spoke to me again after that, but there was always an edge. Like, oh, yeah, you! What a great presentation smarty pants, but aren’t you the one who said you didn’t like Aunt Bee? It’s the kind of thing that follows you around.

My advice to the moviemakers. Suck it up.  Go to North Carolina. Say nice things about Aunt Bee.

New Crime fiction

In the category of crime fiction, I recommend the first two books in what I hope will be a long series by Louisa Luna. “Two Girls Down” is the first, and the second is “The Janes.” The character is Alice Vega, a tough and brilliant young freelance detective who finds missing children. She partners with a disgraced former cop named Cap.

Alice is different than your run-of-the-mill female detective. Stoic is the word that comes to mind. Totally focused on getting the job done and not much interested in normal pleasures like food and sleep, she uses bolt cutters to take bad guys down. Bolt cutters aside, the violence is relatively minimal.

Redefining busy

The weather in northern California was beautiful this week. We get a great view of the sunrise from our backyard. In the forefront is Gladys, my yard art project from last year.
The final trim and weigh-in of my first homegrown cannabis plant.

This week felt busy to me, like my dance card was full, but then my definition of busy is evolving as I enter my third year of retirement.

Monday

Golf. Walked 18 holes. In the evenings, I watched a lot of Outlander, which is not unlike golf. One bad thing after another. You think you’re done, but you go back to see what happens next. Dale sautéed sole filets for dinner, and I made a big salad topped with candied walnuts and crumbled goat cheese.

Tuesday

House elf. Vacuumed, mopped, etc. while a contractor was refinishing the tub in our guest bath. Dale made a commissary run (like Costco for military retirees). I defrosted homemade soup for lunch. Red lentil, chickpea and spinach curry with a dollop of sumac-seasoned yogurt. When Dale returned, I went to the fitness club to swim laps and do weights. That soup talked back! Dale made barbecued beef ribs and marinated cucumbers for dinner.

Wednesday

Golf. Walked 18 holes. I took a different route to the golf course without using my smart phone map because Dale insists variety and getting there without help is good for my brain.

Finished trimming my home-grown cannabis, weighed it and put it in a jar to cure for two weeks. My yield was about 1/3 ounce or 10 grams. The cheapest weed I can buy at the dispensary is $320 per ounce. Mine was about $265 per ounce. I’m confident I can do better next time with a bigger pot and warmer weather.

For dinner, we split a small Marie Callender’s frozen pot pie. We each get a handful of fried crinkle cuts from the freezer to go with. What can I say? It’s our shameful processed food indulgence.

Thursday

Dentist. I go three times a year for cleaning because I lost the genetic lottery. The hygienist said “alignment issues” mean I have to work harder than most people to keep my teeth and gums in good shape. That should be on my tombstone, “She Tried Hard.” I use a water flosser and regular floss and an electric toothbrush – and that just barely gets me in the door.

Golf lesson. The guy I used to take lessons from had unrealistic expectations about what my body could do. My new teacher is a petite woman who understands a sharp short game makes up for what we lack in strength. She taught me a different way to use my wedge around the greens. Stopped at the fitness club to swim laps and do weights. Dale made whole roasted chicken and smashed potatoes for dinner. I steamed broccoli to go with.

Friday

Monthly 90-minute massage. When I got home, Dale was waiting to see if I wanted supermarket sushi for lunch. What a guy! Off we went to the market for pizza ingredients and sushi, which we enjoyed out on the patio. It was a beautiful day.

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing yard work. I have a collapsible golf net in the back, so after I mowed our little patch of lawn, I set up the net and practiced my new wedge shot. Dale made pizza for dinner. Kitchen sink, as we call this version, with mushrooms, fresh garlic, green peppers, Kalamata olives, pepperoni and Italian sausage.

Wrap-Up

Dale did most of the cooking. When I was working, he was always the main chef. In retirement, I started cooking more and voicing more opinions about what we eat. It has been kind of a struggle to renegotiate our new roles.  

Normally, I like to get it all out in the open, but I’m learning not everything needs to be said. Without introduction or fanfare, I’ve started to focus more on special things I like to cook and leaving most dinners to Dale. He probably wouldn’t acknowledge this, which is why we’re not telling him, OK? But with me having been the principal money earner, I think he liked being the provider, at least the provider of dinner.

My dastardly plan seems to be working. I’m still cooking, but I’m finding my niche. Dale enjoys feeding me, and I enjoy being fed. We’re both mellower, and I have more time to goof off! 

Indoor cannabis plant at harvest

Indoor cannabis plant at harvest.
Fully mature plant measuring just under 20 inches or 50 centimeters.
Cannabis plant in the garage hanging to dry.

In the continuing adventures of a gentlewoman farmer, you’ll recall I planted a cannabis seed in early November. This was my first attempt at growing anything other than cancer. So far, so good.

I harvested my cannabis plant this week at 102 days. That’s over the average of 80-90 days, and I believe that’s because I didn’t have the LED light from day one, and it has been chilly in our house this winter. Some of the trichomes (the good stuff) were amber and the rest were sort of milky. I wasn’t sure how far to take it … too early or too late reduces potency … but the leaves were browning out, so I decided it was time.

The plant measured at just under 20 inches or 50 centimeters. According to my reference materials, that’s about average for an indoor plant in a 2-gallon or 7.5-liter container.

To harvest, I cut the big leaves off with the scissors that came with my kit. I also used the scissors to cut the stalk, but I probably should have used something else. That stalk was thick!

According to my instructions, it should hang upside down in a dark, cool place. The garage isn’t super dark. Let’s call it dusk, and right now the humidity is low. It was the best I could come up with. We make sure to leave the lights off.

Don’t ask why I hang wind chimes in a windless garage. Who can understand the whims of a pretend Bohemian heiress who dabbles in what amuses her? They were there, so I just tied the plant to one of the wind chimes. I could see some sort of fancy herb drying rack in my future.

The instructions say when the flowers are dry, the branches will easily snap instead of bending. This should take 3-6 days, depending on humidity. Today is day 4, and it’s not ready yet. When the plant is dry, I’m to finish trimming the buds and weigh them to determine my yield. I don’t think it’s going to be all that spectacular, but I’m ever hopeful.

The final step is to put the trimmed buds in a jar, burping and re-sealing the jar every couple of days for the first two weeks. And then comes the best part … the taste test! By the way, I saved the dirt, but I’m not sure it’s advisable to use again. I’m still exploring that option.

So, more to come on the evolution of my cannabis plant. While yield and cost-per-ounce is yet to be determined, I think I did OK, and I’m confident warmer weather will be an asset to my next adventure as a gentlewoman farmer. I have 9 more seeds, so there’s plenty of action left.

How Luddites bank

My cannabis plant has been growing for about 90 days. It has been in the flowering stage for a couple of weeks and probably has a couple more to go.

I get my cannabis body parts mixed up, but I think the calyx is the base of the flower, and as you can see, there are a bunch, and they are continuing to stack and swell. While my plant is smallish, it’s rather amazing and quite beautiful. Dale goes in there to worship it from time to time.

The white hairs are called stigmas, which turn orange-brown as the plant progresses through the flowering stage. Trichomes are the resin glands where the cannabinoids are formed. Cannabinoids, among them CBD and THC, are the psychoactive and medicinal components of the cannabis plant.

I had a hard time identifying the trichomes until I took a picture using the snap-on macro smartphone lens that came with my grow kit and realized (maybe) trichomes are the clear white bubbles on the buds and leaves. They will eventually turn from clear to cloudy to amber, and that’s when it’s time to harvest.

Dale wants to know if we’re having a harvest festival. That Dale. When you’re about to throw a party, and you’ve worked your ass off getting the place ready, he’s the guy who shows up in a clean Hawaiian shirt when the work is done and taps the keg.

There may very well be a harvest festival, but I still have to read up on how to actually cut down the plant and hang it to dry. This has been quite the learning experience!

How Luddites bank

At the end of the day, my husband likes to drop all his change into an old plastic Atomic Fire Ball bin. A big one – something you would get from Costco or Sam’s Club. The bin was full, but we weren’t sure how to convert it to real money.

I looked into Coinstar but didn’t want to pay the fee. One can avoid the fee by getting an eGift Card, but Dale is a bit of a Luddite and suspicious of all things that start with a small e.

We’re doing it the old-fashioned way.

First, I went to the bank and asked if they accepted rolls of coins. They do. And they provided me with the flat paper rolls. When I got home, I separated the quarters, nickels and dimes. Dale asked what I was doing, and I said I was being nickled and dimed. Which is kind of true, because as it turns out, this is not how he would have done it.

Dale has yet to reveal his secrets to coin-rolling, but since I started, I think he’s extricated himself from any role in this fun family activity. That’s OK, because at this point, it’s like I’m on a mission from God.

So far, I have more than $300 in quarters. I’m out of quarter rolls and asked Dale what he thought about our next move. Should I take what I have to the bank and get more rolls? Or should we wait until we’ve finished and do it all at once?

It’s funny. We are so different, yet in some ways it’s like we’re the same person. Maybe that happens after 41 years. Anyway, we both blurted out, “Let’s do it all at once!” And we started laughing. Somehow, it’s exciting to see the grand total. Maybe that’s just how Luddites roll.

Of course, the real problem is figuring out how to actually carry in this pile of rolls without looking like criminals. Dale said criminals don’t bring stuff into the bank. They steal things from the bank. True, but there’s an armed guard at the entrance, and I can just see us holding some sort of parcel stuffed with coin rolls and the guard thinking it’s a gun or biological agent.

These things never go well for me. I can see it already. I’ll be on the ground bleeding out, and they’ll be apologizing to Dale for the mess and asking him if he wants it in $20s.

A nose for cat pee

Dale and our former cat, Bruno, on the 40-year-old couch everyone enjoys.
Our current cat, Riley. “Couch, I can’t quit you.”

Somehow it seems wrong to follow a lively colonoscopy discussion with a post about cat pee, but these things can happen from time to time. The filters have left the building, and it’s kind of like Johnny Lee Hooker and Boogie Chillen, when papa told mama, “Let that boy boogie-woogie. It’s in him, and it got to come out.”

One of the worst smelling things in the world is cat pee. From such sweet kitty babies comes such vile waste. There is a new development in the world of cat pee, but first a little history.

We adopted a huge cat in South Carolina and named him Bruno. He was a great cat, but he was not a good cat. A thug, really, but a lovable thug. He never liked being an indoor cat. Bruno enjoyed a screened porch in South Carolina, because who doesn’t? After we moved to Texas, we spent a fortune fencing in our backyard with special cat fence so he could enjoy the great outdoors.

For both moves, we chauffeured him to his new residence, partly because he was too big for airplane carry-on. I had all kinds of absorbent layers under his carrier in the backseat of the car in case of an accident, because, well, you never know. At some point in life, I think we all begin to understand bladder control is a tenuous thing.

We were driving from Texas to California, and we were in the Panhandle when I smelled it. I was certain he sprayed. We pulled over and began to investigate. Nothing. We finally got out of the car to get fresh air, and it turned out wherever we were smelled exactly like cat pee. It was in the air. I forget the name of the town, but we called it Cat Pee, Texas.

Bruno was always a good roadie and adjusted to life in California quite well. We struggled with the indoor-outdoor dilemma, but we were done spending my retirement money on cat fences. Aside from an escape to the neighbor’s yard that involved me climbing the fence at midnight to retrieve him, he was an indoor cat.

Then he started peeing everywhere. We tried all kinds of things to stop it and took him to the vet to see if anything was wrong. The vet said he was fine. I purchased a blue light and would explore the house at night like a madwoman to see where he was spraying. Pee lights up yellow. He trashed a Flokati rug downstairs, but the pad underneath caught most of it, and the pee didn’t seep into the hardwoods.

Upstairs was carpet, and that was a different story. It was a four-bedroom house, and all the damage was in two bedrooms, one used for our office and one used as an exercise room. He never touched our bedroom or the guest bedroom.

It got worse, and he started to decline in other ways. Our boy was sick. We took him back to the vet, who did an ultrasound and discovered Bruno had extensive cancer. I assume all the spraying was related to pain and illness. Poor little guy. I mean poor big guy. We ended up taking him back to the vet for the big sleep and cried like babies for weeks months afterward.

But then we had to figure out what to do about the two bedrooms. We pulled up corners of the carpet and learned it had seeped into the subfloor. We thought we could replace the subfloor, but a carpet guy came and said that wouldn’t work, because the boards were structural and spanned across rooms.

The carpet guy said to scrub the floor with a mix of bleach and water and then seal it with oil-based primer/sealer. Then they would put new padding and new carpet down. The floor scrub was the easy part. We did it once, let it dry and then did it again.

Then we discovered California does not sell the stuff we needed due to environmental restrictions. Dale drove to Reno and back in one day to buy it. Because, you know, Reno … it’s right there waiting for illicit interstate cat pee traffic.

We painted on two coats of the sealer, and later the carpet guys came back to finish the job. There was absolutely no odor left, and we sold the house when I retired.

Our new cat, Riley, is a Maine Coon mix, with a sweeter disposition (although, as I said, Bruno was a great cat who had his charms). We had to lock Riley up in the second bedroom last week when contractors were here replacing our old heating and cooling system. When I went back into the room to retrieve him, I could swear I smelled cat pee.

It was like déjà vu all over again. I found the blue light and commenced to examine. Nothing! One of his litter boxes is in that room, but it’s clean and odorless. I went back in the next day to see if I had missed anything. I was over by the wall where the cannabis plant is growing beautifully, and then I could smell it.

My cannabis plant smells like cat pee! This particular strain is Jack Herer. After Googling it, I discovered others have compared it to cat pee. When the door is open you don’t notice it, but the smell was noticeable after Riley was locked up in there all day.

I’m thinking it might not be all that bad. Dale couldn’t smell it, but then he can’t hear either, so I’m not sure he’s the best judge. It’s like my nose was born to smell cat pee.

On the bright side, Riley has been redeemed, and at a little more than 10 weeks, my cannabis plant is thriving. I don’t really smell it until I get up close, so I’m hopeful the odor subsides a bit after it is harvested and dried. One can only hope. If not, I will make it my resolution to embrace the smell of cat pee.

I have nine more seeds. 

Cat pee cannabis at 10 weeks.

A cannabis plant turns 60

It has been 60 days give or take a few since I started this little experiment growing cannabis from a seed. My gardening skills are nil, so I’m simply following the instructions that came with the growing kit.

The plant is growing indoors by a south-facing window. When the rainy season started, I began to think it wasn’t getting enough light, so I added an overhead LED light about a month into the project.

While I’m pretty sure I over-watered it a bit, I didn’t seem to do any lasting harm. I think it was supposed to get only about a shot glass full of water a week. I just kind of eye-balled it and poured some in when the soil looked dry.

The plant continues to grow, although I do believe I’m a little behind schedule because we keep our house on the cool side in the winter.

All that to say there’s great news! Can you see the little white hairs in the macro image? According to the instructions, that means the plant has entered the flowering stage. This phase will continue another six to eight weeks, maybe longer. Now it gets a liter of water every two to four days.

They say this plant can yield up to eight ounces of cannabis, but I think that applies to the warmer months. I’m a total amateur, and it’s winter, so anything at all this first time around would be great. Four ounces, maybe?

By the way, a big high-five to the state of Illinois, where recreational cannabis is now legal. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that’s 33 states and the District of Columbia with medical cannabis, and 11 states plus the District of Columbia for recreational.