Let’s just look at this first post, a quote from Trump.
“We have already destroyed 100% of Iran’s Military capability, but it’s easy for them to send a drone or two, drop a mine, or deliver a close range missile somewhere along, or in, this Waterway, no matter how badly defeated they are.”
Trump claimed they obliterated Iran’s nuclear capability last October. Then he claimed he needed to attack them in February because of their nuclear threat.
Now he’s saying that Iran’s military has been destroyed 100%. But he’s calling on other nations to send ships to protect the strait.
Notice, too, that he claims that Iran is ‘totally decapitated’ — but that didn’t end the threat?
Then Trump claims, “One way or the other, we will soon get the Hormuz Strait OPEN, SAFE, and FREE!”
Just as the strait was before Trump’s attacks in February. In other words, he wants the world to fix his mistakes.
Just as President Biden had to fix Trump’s economy.
Cloudy and 39F outside, dry with a high of 52 F projected.
This post is mostly about me and Mom. Pings erupted in the middle of the night. Mom had launched a text blitz, and the sisters were sharing and discussing them. I read many and saw it basically as the same old, same old on every front. One sister had helped Mom by picking things up at her house; another had responded, telling Mom that she’d created this living situation mess.
Meanwhile, searching for info and thinking late last night, I hunted for more about Heritage Grove, the assisted living facility where Mom now lives. I found this photo on their Facebook page. That’s Mom, the 90 year-old in the front left in pink in the ‘drive’ wheelchair. She’d won a Snickers bar at bingo.
Returning to sleep after the text barrage was a challenge. I finally slept but awoke when I thought I heard a man saying, “There’s a fire.” There was no man there and the house was silent. I rose, though, and walked through the house, trying to see if I smelled smoke or saw sparks or flames. Then back to bed, back to sleep, but ended up getting up late. Just eating breakfast now, 10:30, two hours late. Bah, humbug.
While I was awake in the night, I thought about yesterday’s news.
Trump urges Australia to give Iran’s Asian Cup players asylum
The story quoted Trump saying on Truth social, “Australia is making a terrible humanitarian mistake by allowing the Iran National Woman’s Soccer team to be forced back to Iran, where they will most likely be killed.”
Damn it, the only people he’s fooling are his unthinking supporters and the uninformed. This is the same person who has Homeland Security and ICE rounding people up and sending them anywhere he could get away with sending them, without one damn thought about whether they’d be killed. In the process of rounding up people and shipping them out, people were actually and being killed. And Trump always, always blamed the victims, labeling them as domestic terrorists, criminals, or thugs.
The NYTimes headline was from last October. Since then, the Iranian government killed thousands of people. And, were any of those people Trump flew back to Iran in 2025 killed when Trump bombed them in 2026?
It all has me shaking my head.
Which carries me into theme song territory. The Neurons came up with “Helen Wheels.” To which I responded, what?
The Paul McCartney & Wings song is about Paul’s Land Rover and driving around. How did it fit into my mind?
Well, it hinged on two salient aspects: “Ain’t nobody else gonna know the way she feels.” And yep, that’s Mom and life with Mom at this point. It’s a mystery. And the other part is the long-sigh “bye buh” I feel toward what’s happening with Mom, especially with my sisters.
The upbeat song feels like it’s driving me forward, pulling me off the night’s inertia.
I hope your day is going well, wherever you are, whatever you doing. May peace and grace nestle up against your efforts and help you move forward.
Floofstalgia(floofinition) – 1. Emotional distress caused by worry about an animal. Origins: 2005 article, “Floofstalgia: a new concept in human and animal anxiety”.
In Use: “Brenda didn’t see Murder M, automatically triggering floofstallgia because this was not like Murder M at all.”
2. Fond reflections about a previously known animal.
In Use: “While searching for a pen, Wade discovered the purple collar Bella used to wear, soaking him with floofstalgia.”
3. Yearning for a time before living with animals, especially housepets.
In Use: “Sweeping up pet fur after cleaning up food bowls, floofstalgia raged in Carey — cleaning wasn’t as time consuming when she didn’t have pets!”
Dreamed I was at a fancy business dinner. Large, round white tables set across a ballroom, bar in the corner. I’d just arrived and set up was underway. Two of my previous bosses were there. The fete was due to begin in an hour or so.
Participants, including me, had been asked to create some entertainment. I’d created a word jumble. Then my former boss said, “And please provide an answer sheet.”
Uh oh. I hadn’t created that. I went to get the notebook where I’d made it, knowing that I used one of those black and white lab notebooks that I always favored. I’d thrown it away because the notebook was full. I went to a gray, wheeled, large garbage cans sitting there and began going through the trash. People asked me to explain. I reluctantly did, with a grin, and was met with sympathy.
One unfamiliar elderly woman came by and said, “I know what you’re going through. I’ve done that.”
Shrugging, I replied, “If I can’t find it, I’ll just have to solve the jumble.”
Dad was there, putting silverware on tables. He said, “Maybe you used one of these notebooks, Michael.”
I knew I hadn’t because the ones he showed me weren’t the right kind. But I said, “Good idea, I’ll check.” And made a show of checking a few.
That dream segment ended. Another began.
I went to a counter crowded with product and was a little confused. My wife was there, along with several others, including a man behind a counter. I learned they were talking about my hair! Some products had been ordered and had arrived.
I had my own things to do/try for my hair, here and back home, so I was a little puzzled and annoyed. My wife said, “Everyone wants you to look pretty for the wedding.” I think I dimly knew a sister was getting married but didn’t know who.
The man wanted me to try the products. I wanted him to back off but didn’t say anything. I suggested, “Let me brush my hair so we can see what it looks like first.”
I didn’t have a brush, mirror, or comb, so I used my hands, and then asked my wife, “How does this look?”
She hemmed and hawed, not able to decide, which vexed me.
My wife heaved a sigh.She’d just come into the home office with her tea and settled down on her computer to check her email.
“My NYTimes is again in my junk folder, along with Ashland News,” she announced. “Two pieces of junk mail are in my inbox.”
“It’s probably the AI that’s supposed to be so helpful,” I answer. She laughs.
Complaints about her emails have been going all week. She uses Hotmail, which is now Outlook. Or maybe it’s the other way. Whatever you call it, she’s displeased with its performance. Every day, she has to check to see where her trusted emails have gone and delete the spam that now hits her inbox. As a product, the Hotmail/Outlook app seems to be going backwards.
It’s not consistent, either. It first started with her saying last Monday, “I didn’t get my NYTimes newsletter.” Then she said, “I found it in my junk mail.” That continued for several days before it went back to her inbox. That’s when Ashland News went to junk mail.
“I don’t understand,” my wife said. “Why is it doing this?”
A search of the net suggests many ways to try to fix this problem. None of them mentioned why the problem began. I decided to use AI to see what it said. ChatGPT blamed new adaptive AI which Microsoft introduced last year.
I passed that on to my wife, who laughed. “Great. AI is screwing up my email. What a perfect metaphor.”
I laughed, too. “I don’t know how much I trust of what one AI says about the other. It’s like wondering, what does your wife think of your girlfriend?”
Judge Biery ordered the release of 5-year-old Liam Conejo Ramos and his father Adrian were ordered released from the Dilley, Texas, immigration last month. In his opinion, he cites Thomas Jefferson’s words from the Declaration of Independence.
Those grievances are worth remembering as Trump continues to deploy National Guard units and ICE into U.S. cities in 2026 — 250 years after Thomas Jefferson penned his list of grievances against mad King George.
We attended a musical show in Talent last Sunday. The woman beside me started chatting during intermission. Eventually, she asked, “Where do you live?”
“Ashland. And you?”
“Ashland. I moved here in 1976. When did you move to Ashland?”
“Over twenty years ago.”
“Really? A town this size, I meet many people but I don’t recall seeing you before.”
I smiled. “Well, we’re southies. We live on the southern end.”
“Southies.” She laughed. “I like that. Yes, I’m on the northwestern end of town.”
The show resumed. I wondered where she did her grocery shopping. Ashland is unofficially divided into the center, north, and south. North Ashland doesn’t have a grocery store. The south is the town’s newest area and offers five stores. A small Safeway is the only store in the center.
Townies who have lived here a while seem to go to Medford for their shopping needs, especially WinCo. From conversations, it seems like the southern stores — Market of Choice, Shop N Kart, Albertson’s, BiMart, and Grocery Outlet — haven’t been there ‘that long’. In fact, old timers often regale us with what ‘used to be there’ and how they loved those previous places.
I didn’t get a chance to ask my new friend where she shopped, but I’ll be sure to take it up with her, next time I run into her.
February 7, 2026. Ashland greets me and Saturday with overcast skies and 47 F. Yes, will it rain, snow? Not cold enough for the latter, it’s been a month since significant rain fell.
Today’s high will be in the mid-fifties and precipitation isn’t forecast for today. A Facebook graphic (posted at the bottom) gives visuals to our worries. We keep reminding ourselves, it’s still only February.
Playing with dreams, interacting with Papi, reading the news, and waiting for updates from sis occupies my morning. Papi remains a positive, casual spirit, slipping by my legs in an orange-fur kiss. Dreams are erotic and intriguing.
The news, ah. I enjoy reviews of how insipid the “Melania” documentary seems. Emerging as a vehicle to support Trump’s spin that Melania is so smart and interesting, the quotes and stills reminds me of how flat and empty she always appears.
The documentary set a record for opening day box office receipts for that category. Anecdotally, the theaters have been almost empty. Online, Rotten Tomatoes is a perfect metaphor for this era, critics there granting the movie an 8% approval while ‘audiences’ give it 99%.
That’s so perfectly aligned with this era.
Over in life with Mom, Mom is going through another breakdown. Sis recorded one of the conversations she and Mom had, when sis delivered Mom dinner.
Mom refused to eat and kept telling sis, “You’re not the boss of me.” The split arose because a nurse is coming to see Mom. Mom wanted more time to get ready but Sis works and had to be there to meet the nurse and let her in. Mom needed more time because she wants to hide her medication collection and clean herself up. Mom also accused sis of poisoning her.
Sis couldn’t change plans. Mom spent the night crying and moaning, “I don’t want to be here,” curling up at 6:30 this morning to go to sleep. The nurse was due at 10. The appointment should have taken place; I’m awaiting reports.
In reporting, though, I’ve noticed subtle shifts in sis’s attitude towards Mom. She’s become more reflective, tolerant, and patience.
UPDATE: Sis explained all to the nurse and suggested it sounds like — drum roll — dementia. It was an anti-climatic moment. She suggested Mom needs to see a neurologist. Also — Mom may have a UTI. That wouldn’t be a surprise.
I end up with “Heaven” by the Talking Heads in my morning mental music stream, a quiet little song about a place everyone wants to reach, where they do — nothing but chill. Relax. And like that, The Neurons summon Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Hah!
Hope your day is joyous, and satisfying to you in meaningful ways. I’ll take what I can get, here and now, and try to move on to something better.
Saturday came to Ashland dressed in the same weather that Friday wore. Coldish but clear, with sources reporting 36 to 46 degrees F in Ashland, with blue skies. We no longer have a stagnant air advisory and the high will be in the 50s.
As I watch the storm developing in the eastern U.S., I realize that I’ve taken on a new life as a tracker. My tracking life is an old life, but just freshly understood — tracking weather, prices, people’s health along with their moods and situations, and politics.
Sis reports what’s up with Mom, which is mostly moods and mental issues. The truth is, Mom’s issues made co-existing with her a struggle, no matter who it is. A sad trend, sure, but we’ve seen this happening for years. When her boyfriend, Frank, was alive, she complained about him, accusing the 95-year-old of being mean, cheating on her, and secretly plotting and planning unnamed things.
Mom’s prescriptions and credit cards are now the issue. Mom insists she doesn’t have a co-pay; she does until she maxes her deductible. Her credit card was blocked because Frank’s name was on it, too, and his family tried closing it. Sis reports daily rounds about the co-pay and credit cards. Mom is furious with sis because sis argues back and has the receipts, which shows what’s going on. Mom ends with telling sis that sis is being mean — just as Mom used to say about Frank.
As for politics…
Trump requires heavy tracking energy, as that meme shows. His logic defies logic, his history defies history, and his facts defy the truth. That shifts heavy lifting to those aware of these things — tracking them. We know the real story when he says that prescription drugs will be 1,000% (or more) lower or that he’s stopped hundreds of wars and saved millions of lives. We live the truth that the economy and the deficit are not rosy, as he declares.
The Davos show was interesting. According to some reports, he was expected to make an announcement about using 401(k)s to buy houses. But he never mentioned that, instead focusing on himself and disparaging the rest of the world, particularly our allies. Speaking in Switzerland, he said that we’d all be speaking German, if not for the United States, another testament to his vast wasteland of broken understanding.
So much of this places me in a waiting stage, waiting to see what happens with Mom, the economy, politics, the weather, and our life. I’d selected “Wind of Change” by the Scorpions as today’s theme music. It plays in my morning mental music stream, an homage to Francis Buchholz, the group’s bassist who recently died. Written in the USSR during perestroika, the song reflects the sense of change in the nation as realization arrived, the cold war is ending.
Look at the song’s lyrics:
The world is closing in, and did you ever think That we could be so close like brothers? The future’s in the air, I can feel it everywhere I’m blowing with the wind of change
Take me to the magic of the moment On a glory night Where the children of tomorrow dream away (dream away) In the wind of change
It’s about moods, expectations, and how they impact us. That’s why I think it perfect for today.
Stay warm, be safe, and keep tracking what matters to you. May the day bring you grace and peace. Cheers
Standing and stretching from my coffee-shop table, I said, “Hi, Kim.”
Hair red as a cardinal catching attention, Kim grinned. My coffee-house writing friend. Three novels out there and counting.
“Hey, Michael. You leaving?”
“Yes, the table is yours if you want. It served me well.”
We laughed. I was giving up the corner table, the best for writing, offering comfort, privacy, and stability. Certain tables rock when typing. Precious as we are, the rocking disrupts needed writing rhythm.
Kim went on, pointing over her shoulder, “I was over there but that table is just too low. It makes my back and neck hurt.”
A grin overtook my face. She was as particular as me. “I know! It really makes it hard when you’re hunkering down for a two to three hours.”
Packing up my gear, I vacated the space. She swept in. “Happy writing,” I offered, then went on with a smile.
It was a good writing day for me. Hope it’s a good one for her, too — though, with that table and her talents, it’s bound to be.
Michael Seidel, writer 