Mar-A-Floofgo(floofinition) – Literally, ‘sea of floofs’, a mythical place among housefloofs where everything can be scratched, destroyed, or knocked over, and be magically repaired overnight; where treats fall from the skies like rain and animals can eat as much as they want; where cans are always being opened, bacon, steak, cheese, and chicken, are always being served, where food and water bowls are never empty, and your favorite person is always there to play or cuddle. Origins: “The Live Floof Scrolls”, a set of hundreds of scrolls of ancient floof prophecies and histories, recovered between 1946 and 1956 from Floofrum Cave, and since partially translated.
In Use: “Many people see their pet floofs moving in their sleep, limbs twitching, eyes flickering, and think that they’re ‘chasing a rabbit’ but other floofs know that the animals are often visting Mar-A-Floofgo through the floof portal.” — excerpt from “Through the Floof Portal”, 1871.
Like many things I post, it’s both me celebrating myself and my minor victories, but it’s also just sharing my experiences because they might help others. In this case, I’m writing about my gallbladder adventures.
Back on July 6, I had extreme abdominal pain. Went to ER. After tests and talking and examinations, turns out my bile was sludge and my gallbladder spasmed. Further testing was done, ruling other things out. I’m set up to see a vascular surgeon a couple months from now.
I researched what to eat and not to eat. Two weeks later, I mindlessly ate two butter mini-croissants and launched another gallbladder adventure. Didn’t hit the ER because the pains and feelings all dupicated what I’d had before. Just downed the anti-nausea stuff they’d given me and half a pain killer, twice.
Learning from that, I went from being ‘watch-your-sodium-and-fat’ casual to being ruthlessly anti-fat and anti-sodium. With further research, I readjusted my anti-fat stance and adjusted it to consume fats in olive oil and avocados, along with a few others. These were good fats, which might help unsludge my bile.
Meanwhile, others in netland had shared their gallbladder experiences and I took away some lessons. Now I swear by Manuka honey and peppermint tea. Both of them subdue my bile and gallbladder when they get cantankerous. That’s happening less and less frequently.
In parallel, I’ve sought additional ways to unsludge my bile. To that end, I’ve been using milk thistle, Arctic Cod Oil, NAD, and Ashwagandha every day. While medical trials and studies haven’t embraced these as helpful, I feel like they have as my symptoms diminish. Of course, I’ve been super diligent about what I eat and drink, too. And, of course, I might have a panacea effect from them.
While doing those things, I increased my hydrating, and found and ate more fibrous foods, like adding flax seed to my morning oatmeal or buckwheat. I’ve eaten some skinless grilled chicken but no other meat. I have increased my salmon intake. I eat less, always abstaining from ‘eating until feeling full’ and eschewing second courses, treats, and desserts. Dairy-based butter is an absolute no-no but plant-based butter products are okay. Full fat cheese is off the menu, and I suppressed eating any cheese, just on principle. I walk away from my plate, ignoring my inner Mom telling me to clean my plate. And, I exercise more. So now, I’ve lost ten pounds.
To deal with itching from the bile salts (they’re not 100% that this is what causes it), I turned to icing myselfly, repeatedly and abundantly. That worked to kill the need to scratch and the itching urges are ratching down in a strong trend.
Is it all working? Seems to be. Could be. Or maybe I’m fooling myself. As with so many things along life’s spectrum, time will tell.
Ready or not, here it is. Sunda, August 10, 2025 has arrived in Ashlandia without much fanfare. It’s brining the heat, though. While it’s 83 F here now and feels like 91 — or wait. My system says it’s 71 F. Clark’s system stakes it as 76 F. So, while it’s somewhere between 71 F and 83 F now, it’ll reach between 100 and 103 F, depending on who you believe. A few miles up the road by SUV in Medford, they’re looking at 108 to 110 F.
Last night was starry, moonlit gorgeous. Papi and I were out there observing the night. Then along came a skunk. I never saw nor heard the skunk. It didn’t directly bomb us, but its carpet bombing wove over us and chased me back into the house. All the doors and windows were closed to save us from the smell but that meant we couldn’t receive cool air to store for the day. Wasn’t until after five AM until that smell was gone enough for cooling services to be resumed. Despite all that, I slept fantastic, enjoying many uplifting, optimistic dreams.
My wife and I were laughing at a Trump Regime press statement. The headline and first paragraph tells the story: FDA regulator reinstalled less than two weeks after White House ouster.
A top Food and Drug Administration official is getting his job back, a spokesman for health agencies said Saturday, less than two weeks after he was ousted at the direction of the White House.
Vinay Prasad will return as the top regulator overseeing vaccines and complex treatments for difficult diseases, a position he lost following a right-wing pressure campaign.
Then comes a summary of the HHS press statement.
“At the FDA’s request, Dr. Vinay Prasad is resuming leadership of the Center for Biologics Evaluation and Research,” said Department of Health and Human Services spokesperson Andrew Nixon in a statement. “Neither the White House nor HHS will allow the fake news media to distract from the critical work the FDA is carrying out under the Trump administration.”
Don’t they sound like a school child? Like they’re blaming the media for something wholly of their own creation. Like it’s the ‘fake news media’, a favorite fictional monster under the bed for them, that had this guy fired and reinstated.
Today’s music was Papi-inspired. As I went through the morning feeding rituals, thinking about what I do to make and keep the ginger floof happy, Der Neurons fired up The Smithereens with “A Girl Like You” from 1989. As it played, I changed ‘girl’ to ‘cat’. “I’ll say anything you want to hear, I’ll see everything through, I’ll do anything I have to do, just to win the love of a cat like you.” Papi was moved. I could tell.
BTW, The Smithereens are named after the expression, “I’ll blow you to smithereens,” a phrase familiar to anyone who watched Yosemite Sam on weekend cartoons in the U.S. You don’t hear many use that word but I can imagine Donald J warning another country, “You do what I want or I’ll blow you to smithereens.” He is that cartoonish.
In another BTW, the only other time that this song was my theme song, it was also Papi inspired. Here’s what I wrote back in 2020.
Yeah, do that a lot, sing to the cats. I was singing “A Cat Like You,” which is based on the Smithereens’ 1989 song, “A Girl Like You”.
I’d been talking to the ginger blade, which prompted the singing. I was telling him at the time, “You’re a unique cat.” Which he is, standoffish and sweet, wanting to be closer, unsure how to do it, galloping everywhere with a fanfare of trumpets (or some it seems from his posture).
Then, though, I thought, they’ve all been unique. Some were unique in ways that made you laugh, others had unique properties that made them lovable and sweet, and there were a few with exasperating uniqueness, tetchy and frustrating. A few packaged it all.
So, to the cats, and cats like them, always unique.
Coffee is in me. Ready to rock another day. I hope peace and grace finds it way to you today and everyday. Cheers
Naturally, I thought this was a political piece. I thought surely that they were referring to the Greedy Old Trump Party, commonly shortened to GOTP, or the Trump Regime as the biggest-black hole ever.
The GOTP used to be known as the GOP, or the ‘Grand Old Party’. But under Trump’s squeamish, heavy-handed leadership, the spineless GOP has become a seething unprincipled black hole of greed and avarice. A place where they decry pedophiles while protecting pedophiles, where they scream that they’re pro-life as they turn their heads from children dying. Truth and facts go in and get bent out of shape into lies and falsehoods. History morphs into a lopsided retelling of all the great things which white men did. The black hole’s idealogical forces twists intelligent discourse into childish mouthings.
The GOTP black hole is a time portal, trying to push the world back to a pretend time, which they fantasize was better for all because white men were in charge, and all knew and understood. They liked that time because industry and commerce were not hamstrung by regulations to keep employees, or air, water, and the earth safe. Only two sexes were recognized, and only one was respected. The weaker, fairer sex, aka ‘the female’, known to be emotionally charged and weak of mind, was conditioned to accept their place in the bedroom and in the kitchen, staying home to raise more slave labor. Other sexual choices were kept in the closet, done in darkness, never to be spoken of in daylight. Abuse of others was allowed as long as the perpetrator was wealthy, white, and male, or dutifully mouthed the appropriate platitudes and respected the power structure. Religion was settled as a Christian thing with malleable morality and loudly stated and often ignored values. Do your sentence at church every Sunday and feed your local house of worship some gold and trinkets and your soul was saved, freeing you for Saturday night debauchery and business day cruelty. “Nothing personal,” are the words they like to use. “It’s just business.” Greed was blessed by God.
Blacks knew not to get too uppity. Browns kept quiet and stayed to their side of town, as did ‘the Asians’. If necessary, a little police violence could be used to keep them in their place and protect the white man’s place. Sure, it might lead to a little tension and soul searching in the aftermath, but it could all be swept away by the whites, because they were writing history. Then all would be good again.
As for the rest, the poor and sick, put them to work in the fields and factories. Slave labor keeps prices down and profit margins up. Children are the best little workers because they’re too young and ignorant to protest or complain. They eat less so they can be paid less. Let them ‘pull themselves up with their own bootstraps’. Hard work is good for the soul.
Make a profit off every piece of human suffering and indignity. That’s what comes out of the Trump Regime black hole. Plate it with gold to make it shiny and increase its value. Only gold has value, you know.
That’s the Trump Regime. I don’t care what science declares. Trump and the GOTP don’t, so why should I? So I reiterate my position: the Trump Regime is the biggest black hole ever known. It’s the biggest black hole in the Universe. Hitler and his NAZIs, and several other dictators, have been close, but Trump is just getting started with his attacks on logic, humanity, science, education, history, and decency. He’ll prove that he’s the greatest, most beautiful black hole ever.
What’s most sickening is that Trump and the MAGAts think that’s the most wonderful title that can be won because their world has become so perverse and irrational. Sure, a few are learning otherwise that it’s not as great as they expected in episodes christianed FAFO, or ‘The Leopard Ate My Face’. But most MAGAts are so far into the black hole that truth, empathy, education, facts, and science can no longer reach them.
Maybe that’ll change someday, after the black hole turns on itself and is finally gone.
I enjoyed this piece’s optimistic, reflective view. Right now, there seems to be few Adults in the room in the Trump era. Hopefully, as posited in this post by earlthepearl137, the young generations will rise up, see what needs to be done, and get it done. Fingers crossed, ya know?
We were taught to respect him. He wore a tie to breakfast. He had opinions on everything from foreign policy to potato salad. He shook his head at protests, praised moderation, and told stories where he was always the hero.
He was The Adult in the Room.
He built systems that favored the seasoned and the serious. He spoke in spreadsheets and nostalgia, mistaking legacy for wisdom. He said youth should “wait their turn,” even as the clock ticked toward irreversible climate change, social fracture, and another news cycle full of grief.
When the world caught fire, The Adult offered a lecture. When the oceans rose, he proposed a committee. When children cried out in fear or fury, he complimented their passion… and resumed business as usual.
Medflooftation(floofinition) – A relaxed, introspective state induced when relaxing with animals. Origins: 1970, California, USA.
In Use: “When Michael sits down to read, a floof often joins him, and he soon finds himself doing medflooftation while stroking fur.
In Use: “One of Brenda’s favorite moments after work was when she arrived home, kicked off her shoes and enjoyed medflooftation with her cats and dog on the sofa with a glass of wine, and light comedy on the tube.”
Last night was beautifully clear and cool.The temperature dropped into the 50s. We were rewarded with a coolly comfortable house in the morning, third day in a row. I credit the skunks for some of that. We usually open our windows at night, and our doors for a few evening hours, to naturally cool the house. Skunks, though, were getting busy at eleven at night, releasing their odor and forcing us to shut the windows. The skunks have taken an August recess. Hope they’re not ending it soon.
Today is Satyrda, August 9, 2025. It’s 75 F now, feels 85 F, and is going to reach 91. Tomorrow, we stalk the century zone again. I think about how pleased I am that I used the cool stretch to get outside work accomplished. The flip of that is, while I was doing that work, I discovered — or sometimes, re-discovered — other work to be done at there. I’m bristling about it a little now because today and tomorrow are swamped with calls for other activities, like a memorial service for a friend. There’s too many of those things going on.
We’re going on vacay, too. Detailed planning plagues the days leading up to our planned departure. Food is the subject. We’re sharing a house with two other couples. Those four are a decade plus older than us. We all live under food restrictions. No this and that. I now have my own list. They all want to cook in the rented home. That’s apparently part of their vacation ethos: “Let’s go away and cook.”
Each couple is to provide dinner one night. We’re on our own for breakfast and lunch. My wife and I have a surprise dessert planned, a vegan fondue smorgasbord.
As I sat reading news and sipping my coffee, my wife said from her part of the office, “We don’t need to worry about him. He’s golfing today.”
“Not true,” I answered. “Thanks to modern technology, he can text something or call someone and launch a new round of craziness.”
Although we never said his name, we’re talking about the human wrecking ball named Trump, who is also known as TACO. My wife and I share some laughs over FAFO stories, like the Trump Burger guy who ICE picked up and plans to deport, Roland Mehrez Beainy. Beainy responds to the claims against him, “Ninety percent of the shit they’re saying is not true.” Well, that’s probaby so. This is the TACO regime. They’re addicted to lying, just their leader, TACO himself.
Shifting tones, my wife and I are angry about reports of how big tech is helping the TACO Regime. Apple’s investments, and Tim Cook’s gold offering to Trump sicken us. Amazon Web Services gave Trump a billion dollar discount. Gag, groan. Google slashed cloud services for the TACO Regime. OpenAI is giving Trump’s agencies access for $1 per year. Ordinarily, I’d think, look how great this is, with these companies helping the United States. But they’re not helping the U.S. Nothing Trump does helps the U.S. It’s all about him. And these companies are bribing him to stay on his good side.
Today’s music is “Pride and Joy”. This is a 1983 rock blues offering by Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble. My wife and I are both fans of SRV & DT, and we enjoy this song. But I don’t understand any segue that leads from what I dreamed, thought, or observed that led The Neurons to pull this one out and slot it into the morning mental music stream. It’s just one of those brain things, I guess.
Coffee has been sucked up. Its off to the races. Hope grace and peace finds and keeps you. Cheers
My wife and several of her friends lunched together to catch up. They dined at a small local restaurant called Sauce. It’s normally a very popular lunch site.
“It was weird,” my wife related. “Besides us three, there were only two other people in the restaurant. None of us had ever seen it so empty at lunch time.”
It got better (worse?). After she ate, my wife went clothes shopping. Few places in Ashland offer new clothes; we instead have several ‘used-clothes’ boutiques, such as the Good Will. She says she’s outraged by the new clothes being sold, less by the prices and more by how cheaply they’re made. She’s bought stuff and had it fall apart after one or two outings. This infuriates her.
Her second point about buying used clothes is that it makes her feel better about being a consumer. “I’d rather buy used clothes and give them a second life, than have those clothes thrown away and filling landfills.”
I agree with that. She went on, “Besides that, we have an older population in Ashland. Most are retired professionals who have generous retirement incomes. A lot of times, I can find new clothes with the tags still on them.” And, because of those factors which she cited, the used clothes tend to be from better brands.
So she went shopping at her favorite used-clothing store today, Deja Vu in the Ashland Shopping Center on Ashland Street. When she returned home, she said, “Michael, you should have seen it. They had so many pieces of used clothing, the store was filled. They had it piled everywhere. But there were only two or three other people shopping. I heard an employee say to another customer, ‘Nobody is buying. Everyone is selling.'”
Don’t know how much these anecdotes reveal about the state of the union, but they say volumes about what’s happening in little Ashland, Oregon.
Dad and I spoke for almost an hour today. The conversation energized me, boosting my mood into a happier place. On the surface, a high percentage can be attributed to relief: Dad was home. No greater problems were found during his latest hospital visit, and it was a short one. He and his wife were both friendly, engaging, and happy on their end. Undoubtably this fed me and my spirits.
I also insist, though, that some of this came from just speaking with Dad. He and I are familiars. We mock and respect one another. He’s one of the few people I sense I can really spill myself to regarding what’s going on, whether it’s politics, writing, relationships with my wife, Mom, and sisters, or my DIY projects.
We’ve not always been like these. It’s been a long evolution. I’m glad we made it here, though. It’s taken time. We followed a torturous path. But here we are.
Michael Seidel, writer 