Tag: Cat

Monday’s Theme Music

Mood: Coffee’dup.

It’s Monday morning on Ma 27, 2024.

Like many on the east coast of the U.S., it’s a wet one here in the Churchill Valley. Blue sky has retreated as gray clouds carpet out most of the sun. 66 degrees F at this point, 79 F might be the temperatures’ upside.

I’m staying in one of the suburban areas east of Pittsburgh. Many parts of the city lost power due to storms this past weekend. We’ve been fortunate, knock wood.

Awoke today feeling little rested after a night of scarcely remembered fractious dreams. One dream piece recalled featured police officers. One turned into a human sized cat. The other cop became a frog and hopped away. I awoke wondering what their names were. I usually remember dreams pretty vividly so not remembering them causes me to ask, “Damn, what’s wrong with me that I’m not remembering my dreams?”

Had a satisfying and comfortable Memorial Day visit with my sister’s family. This is again one of the young sisters. I have three of them, all smart, who always throw open their doors and welcome me to their home and their table. None of them will let me pay for anything, which, while I appreciate, also vexes me. I love them and their families.

Satisfying and delicious food was on the table yesterday, of course. Pasta salad. Calico beans without the bacon. Corn souffle. Rice and cheese with broccoli, meatballs, and hamburgers with or without cheese. Hard to resist my stomach’s urgers to “Eat more, eat more,” even though I was quite full. Desserts included cakes, fruit with angel food cat, and key lime and apple pies. Yeah, we’re a fortunate family in regards of having food and shelter security, and a family that gets along reasonably well.

Mom is doing okay. She was down a bit yesterday, with a cranky overlay. I suspect this came around from getting up early to dress and leave for the cookout. It was starting at 1, so the timing forced her out of her returns and comfort zones.

When I wrote a previous phrase, ‘It’s a wet one,’ Der Neurons pushed “Smooth” into the morning mental music stream (Trademark flooded). “Smooth” is a ’99 collaboration between Carlos Santana and Rob Thomas, and was written by Itaal Shur and Thomas. It’s a smooth rock offering, with strong lyrics, wonderful percussion, and some soaring Santana licks.

Stay positive, be strong, and Vote Blue in 2024. Coffee is already fueling me and sunshine has overcome some of the clouds. Hey, ho, here we go, slinking toward the May’s finish. Here’s the music.

Cheers

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Sunday’s Theme Music

Mood: reflective

Sun and clouds compete today. Their efforts culminate in a pleasant spring day, almost perfect for Sunday, April 28, 2024.

It’s 55 F at this point, just two degrees below our expected high. No rain or other precipitation is expected, despite the clouds. And guess what? No thwumper today. Don’t know if the job is done or they’ve taken the day off.

Three conversations dominate the household today. Nothing about Trump or his trials, the SCOTUS, or the election is being discussed.

No, today’s main topic began yesterday on Reddit. It was asked of women, “Which you rather meet a bear or a man in the woods?” It generates first, what kind of bear? Men are generally preferred over polar bears. People are ambivalent about the grizzly, but most said they’ll take a brown or black bear over meeting a man in the woods any day.

Salient points made were like, if a bear attacks you, people believe you, whereas, if it’s a man, it’s iffy. As one commenter summed it up for us, ‘”Har har, this woman would rather run into a bear than a man,” isn’t the comedic piece you may think it is. Instead, it’s a sad testament to the lives of many women and girls.’

And that is the point.

The question reverberated strongly in Australia. Attacks on women, especially domestic violence, is up in that nation in 2024. Women of that nation are protesting and discussing whether they’re prefer a bear over a man in an encounter in the woods.

One woman said in a tangent, “If I see a bear in my backyard, I’m not worried. But a man in my backyard is trouble.” She then explained her reasoning.

It’s a sad situation. So many women have been abused or killed by men that distrust among women has surged. And men are frequently responding with anger, resentment, and diatribes against women. That doesn’t move the needle in a positive way for men.

Next up in topics is whether I’ll go visit my aging mother. My wife is very supportive of me going to visit. (I actually think she’d experience it as a mini-vacation from the being who is me.) My goals would be to give Mom an emotional lift and help her with her daily needs, providing a break for the rest. They rightfully sound emotionally exhausted. I think I’ve decided that I will go. I just need to make the plans.

Finally, in what is seen as good news, our third subject is how great Tucker is doing. Energy levels and interaction are up, he’s gained more weight, and he’s eating with enthusiasm. I was telling him every day that he needs to eat and gain weight and strength, and he’s earnestly doing so.

Today’s song comes from looking for the thwumper yesterday. My wife was trying to see it but the sun was in her eyes. Hearing this, The Neurons responded with “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”.

The 1967 song is a Beatles composition. Written mostly by John Lennon, it was inspired by his son’s artwork about a classmate. Young Julian Lennon specifically told his father the drawing was “Lucy – in the sky with diamonds.” (h/t to Wikipedia.org).

I know of the original song and covers by three other bands or individuals. I always enjoyed Elton John’s 1974 cover best, so I went with it.

Be positive, lean forward, remain strong, and Vote Blue in 2024. Coffee has found its way into me. Time to rock and write, at least one more time.

Here’s the music video. Have a good one. Cheers

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Floofdant

Floofdant (floofinition) – 1. Person who is always telling stories or sharing facts about animals.

In Use: “A foster mother for kittens, puppies, birds — just ’bout any critter except humans — Jen could easily be drawn into being a floofdant via a question like, ‘How are you animals doing?'”

2. An animal who insists on doing things the same way every time, not moving until the matter is corrected.

In Use: “Queen Precious was a floofdant who demanded her food bowl be positioned just so, along with her bed, insisting that everyone go to the bed at the same time every night, becoming annoyed and vocal if this wasn’t observed.”

1

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Mood: refreshed

My jeans came off again.

The shorts went on. Officially, they’re ‘short pants’.

This is Wednesday, April 10, 2024. 66 F now, the warm end of our day will rise to 71 F. Everything is in bloom under blue, sunny skies. It’s bold with yellows, pinks, and white blossoms and blooms, people, against a fully backdrop of green grasses and trees — along with

Things are going well for me, thanks. A woman at the coffee shop told me, “You have nice legs. If I had legs like that, I’d be in shorts, too.”

She appeared a few years younger than me and had a perfect stage voice. I’m not one who enjoys attention. Baby, I was cringing inside. But I smiled and thanked her. She responded, “Wow, you have a great smile, too.” I felt like everyone was looking by now. I thanked her again, and she waved and went on.

Back ‘home’, Mom was discharged from Forbes Hospital after treatment for appendicitis. A day and night of diarrhea was endured. Now, after being up all night in pain, she’s back at the hospital for a CT scan to see why she has pain and a fever.

My sister, G, is on the scene, waiting for news. It’s a business day at the hospital. Parking is full. The parking situation and emergency responsiveness are hampered by a sinkhole in the parking lot.

A social worker came out and spoke with sis. No beds are available for Mom and they’re proposing to scan her at another location. Now they’re suggesting, take her home and bring her back tomorrow.

WTF questions arise. Sis is dealing with it. She’s intelligent, competent, and hard-edged at times like this, unafraid to question authority, and willing to stand her ground. In other words, she’s a good person to have on site.

I was thinking about my aunt J. She’s the one I previously wrote about with colon cancer.

I always admired her and enjoy her company. She always spoke to me like I was an adult when I was a child. I think she was instrumental in teaching me to think about matters from different perspectives. That’s a quality that I’ve often depended on, and which is responsible for whatever successes and achievements I’ve had. Good to have people like her in one’s life.

I didn’t learn about all her issues. She married and was divorced when young. One child. Then, another child from an affair. That child, my cousin, was put into an orphanage until my aunt could get her life in order. She finally met and married the love of her life, as she described him, and had three more children. She and I were together until brain cancer took him about a decade ago.

Update from sis about Mom. Fever is gone. Mom is in a bed in a hallway. Awaiting further developments.

Tucker goes back to the vet this afternoon. It’s a checkup on his thyroid, high blood pressure, and his gums after having his teeth removed. Fingers crossed that my old friend is found to be healing well and his issues under control. He’s gained weight, energy, and enthusiasm over the last few days.

Two thirds of the way through reading Kings of the Wyld. High fantasy variation, and worth reading if fantasy speaks to you. An interesting spin is that adventurers are ‘bands’, much like rock bands, and treated like rock stars. We readers are in on the idea but it’s not heavy handed. Our protagonist band broke up years before and have aged into normal lives. Now, yes, they got the band back together to save one of their daughters. I highly recommend this Nicholas Eames novel, even though I’ve not finished it. Still have about one hundred fifty pages left. My wife read it first, and then urged me to read it.

Today’s music comes straight out of 1966. After reading a Heather Richardson post, I thought, tell it like it is. One of our nation’s political problems IMO is that politicians on the right lie to their supporters, and the media goes along with it for the most part. Some journalists are beginning to seriously hipcheck some of the liars but too many get a free ride. I can provide substantial examples, if you need it.

Anyway, overhearing my thinking about Ms. Richardson’s post, The Neurons began playing Aaron Neville and “Tell It Like It Is” in the morning mental music stream (Trademark burning). A beautiful torch song, it’s a good song when you’re at a fork in the road, looking back on what’s happened while gazing ahead, trying to divine a path forward.

Stay positive, be strong, and Vote Blue this November. I’ll be doing the same. Now, riding on wings of coffee, I’m off to continue writing and editing.

Here’s the music. Cheers

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Jigsaw Puzzle Finished

We finished our Ravensburger Beach House puzzle last night.

Tucker got up there as soon as he could. After a short inspection, he gave it his approval and napped.

Here it is sans Tucker.

Isn’t it funny how Tucker chose to sleep on the dog and table?

Cheers

4

First Thing

The first thing he learned after his mother’s death was that he’d been born a cat.

Patrick had no one to complain about this to. It was just him and her cooling body. None of the others had come. Children, grands, exes like spouses, employees, girlfriends, boyfriends, other friends; all ignored her warning. Wasn’t even a cat. He knew the old boy, a big, luxuriously long-haired ginger with cougar eyes, had passed in December. Chester. Twenty-two years old. Not bad for a cat. Mom called Patrick and told him that Chester had been her best lover.

Patrick — he accepted Pat, but he preferred Patrick, but he wasn’t going to be an asshole about it — couldn’t tell you why he’d come. Just a feeling, he professed. A feeling like he needed to. That he should. So he told his beer group. He, like the no-shows at his mothers, knew how adeptly his mother could toss the bullshit, as her father often said to his grandson. “Watch your mother. Marcia loves drama and doesn’t mind expending lots of bull to get it. She loves being the center of the spotlight and pulls it to her by any means needed to gain it again.”

While the old boy spoke, spittle flicking off his lips and tongue, smoke crowding the sky from his pipe, Patrick was wondering, who is Marcia? Never asked the old man, though. Not before the old man died. Asked him often later, after he was dead, Patrick decrying to himself, why didn’t you ask him then and there? Was something that kept him awake at night whenever he pondered his victories and failures. But in his defense, young Patrick was enjoying the contact high being achieved from the staunch quantity of personally-grown marijuana the old man tamped into his pipe.*

And then there the flicks of spittle, flying past him like Patrick was in a spaceship navigating through an asteroid belt in a movie. A crunch seemed eminent. Patrick feared the crunch. He always waited for crunchtime.

But returning to Mom’s death. Vivid memory of that day. March. Blue skies after a mean winter, one with cloud-crushing sunlight and record snow levels.* Was going to be seventy degrees that day. Patrick had wondered, do I dare wear shorts? A study of his naked legs in the mirror didn’t lean him either way. On the one hand, his legs were so pale. Whiter than ghosts. Whiter than a snowman. Pale as a cloud-obscured moon.

The once muscular limbs were also now terribly skinny. Once upon a life, his shapely, muscular legs garnered compliments. But those powerful calves and thighs had shriveled. Reminded him of old sticks found in the yard after a windstorm. ‘Cept they were white.

Also. Were shorts appropriate to wear if his mother was dying? He had to remind himself, that’s what he was dressing for. Each day always had its own main event, even if the main event was as small and routine as going to the coffee shop for a frap to drink while completing word games.

On the other hand, why the fuck should he care what people thought about his legs? Screw them.

Then came the drive, forty minutes into the country south of Medford. Almost to California.

Then, the arrival. He’d put that off by stopping off in Jacksonville for coffee. Maybe a pastry. Doughnut. Or pie. Instead, he had a cheeseburger, fries, and a beer — IPA, actually, if you need specifics. Patrick felt addicted to specifics. The IPA was 451. Named for the area code. Locally brewed. Delicious. Went well with a burger and fries, illicit food which he should not be eating, if he listened to his doctor.

The 451 IPA tasted so good, he had two, watching people as they came and went, checking his phone, waiting for someone he knew to come in.

When he finally arrived at the immaculate old home set back from the road, he knew no one else was present. No cars were in the driveway under the huge pines. Patrick thought about turning around and leaving. That’s what a sane person would do. Well, no one had ever accused him of being sane. Besides, he had to pee. And he was already here. He didn’t need to stay long. Just go in, verify Mom wasn’t dying, and take his leave.

The porch creaked under Patrick’s steps. The broad oak door with its chiseled stain-glass windows was wide open.

He went in. Stopped in the tiled entry. Looked. Listened. He felt like an owl. A watching owl.

Everything gave signs of being freshly dusted, vacuumed, swept, polished. Nothing was out of place. That was Mom. No matter what house it was, this one or the — well, that didn’t matter. Mom’s houses were always immaculate. Cleaning was her hobby. Only thing ever out of place in Mom’s house were people. Especially her children and family. And reality.

Edging forward, Patrick muttered, “I have a bad feeling about this.” His voice felt out of place.

A shudder shook his shoulders. He stopped after two steps. “Mom?”

He said it soft and listened for responses, peering into the living room, down the halls toward the kitchen and sunroom. No sounds of life.

That struck him as fucking ominous. In hesitant explanation to his beer group later, he explained, “I felt like the house was resisting me. I really wanted to run, except that I was a grown adult, a seventy-year-old man. Psychologically, I shouldn’t be running out of a house like a frightened child.”

“Also, your knees probaby couldn’t take running,” a smart ass in the beer group put in with a grin.

Patrick nodded. “That, too.”

“Shit,” he muttered, softly, so Mom wouldn’t hear. God forbid he upset her by swearing. That might kill her. He chuckled but stopped. Chuckling didn’t feel right.

He looked up the dark carpeted stairs. If she was dying, she was probably in bed. That made sense. Then again, he was talking about his Mom. Marcia, Carrie, Joyce, Brenda, Priscilla, Judy, Catherine, Deborah. The woman loved changing her name. Changed it like others might by a new car.* Never explained why. She’d been Carrie was Patrick was born and Brenda when he graduated high school and started college. No telling what name she’d die with.

The wind soughed through the trees like they were impatient with his dithering. He’d need to go up the steps.

“Patrick?” he heard. “Come up. I’m in my bedroom.”

Permission given by her, the house relented and let him in. Still, the going up the steps felt like a walk to an electric chair.

She was in her huge four poster bed. The thing was big as a cruise ship. Her room was perfect. Spotless China blue carpet. Looked new.

Mom was propped up on fresh white pillow cases. Flower-covered duvet and white sheets were arranged around her.

“I knew you would come, Patrick.” Mom looked beautiful. Blond beehive, soft make-up, red lips. Not a wrinkle, crease, or sag anywhere. One hundred one years old, she didn’t seem like a day over fifty. She looked like a 1960s movie star. Didn’t appear to be courting death. She looked a lot better than him. He looked closer to death than her.

“You look good, Mom,” he said. She puckered up and raised her arms. He dutifully delivered a mosquito kiss and speculative hug.

“There, Patrick,” she said, pointing as he stepped away.

“What?”

She pointed more insistently. “The book. On the dresser.”

“The brown one?”

“Tan. Yes. That’s my document.”

“Okay. Want me to bring it to you?”

“I do not. It’s your’s.”

“Okay. And what is your document?” Patrick picked it up.

The fucker was thick. He’d brought it to the beer group. It sat in the table’s middle, surrouded by pitchers of IPA and amber beer. They all stared at it. Four inches thick. Tan. Didn’t even look touched. “Pick it up. Feel for yourself.”

Back at Mom’s, she answered, “This is my life. This is the truth.”

Patrick opened it. “The truth of what?”

She didn’t answer. He looked up. She was still. Open green eyes regarded the ceiling. “Mom?”

“No,” she answered, and sighed.

He knew the death sound. Had heard it from a brother and sister, grandmother, grandfather, ex-wife and son, and a couple dogs.

“She was dead,” he told the beer group. “I didn’t know what to do. Well, I knew, but I wasn’t ready to do it. I was surprised, shocked, really. She’d really done it, she’d really died. I really felt like she’d live forever. I needed some time to deal with that. So I went over and sat down in her recliner by the window. I looked at her a while, and then out the window, listening to the wind. After some time, it struck me that I heard nothing else. No birds, no other cars, nothing but the wind in the trees. It was a little eerie, a little disturbing.

“And then, the beer caught up with me. I had to pee. I went to her bathroom but I wasn’t going to use it. Mom never wanted us to use her bathroom.”

“Why?” someone asked.

“I don’t know.” Patrick shrugged. “Because she was a strange person, I guess. There was another on the same floor, so I went to it. I took her document with me. Getting into the bathroom, I realized that I needed to do more than pee. So I sat on the commode and opened Mom’s book.”

He paused, lips parted, looking in toward memory of the moment. “It was weird. Crazy. I didn’t open it to the first page. I opened it a few pages in. That’s where I read, ‘Mother gave birth to five today. I named one Patrick.’ And then, a few lines down, was a second entry. ‘Patrick turned today. Martha died.'”

Patrick swallowed. “It was dated the same date as my birthday.”

Everyone moved, releasing tension, picking up beers, drinking. Some hissed, “Wow,” and “Holy shit.” Patrick let the moment passed.

“That’s not the thing I really wanted to tell you.” Leaning his arms on the table, he looked around at his friends. “That was a week again. Last night, I had an itch. When I scratched it, it felt like a lump. Then it felt like something more. I checked it out in the mirror today and then used a camera to take a photo. It’s furry. About an inch long, right above my asshole.”

“A tail,” the group’s smart ass exclaimed.

Patrick solemnly nodded and set his phone down on the table. “I have photos.”

***

*An admirer of his mother’s father, Patrick tried emulating him by taking up the pipe like the old man smoked. He found that he disliked putting things in his mouth. Ended up not smoking anything. No pipe, cigarette, cigar, joint. Nothing. Also learned that not putting things in his mouth disappointed several lovers. Oh, well. That was their problem.

*Patrick later learned that the record snow that he remembered from the year his mother died actually happened two years before his death. Memory. What’re you gonna do?

*Although, funny, she still had the same car, a pink Cadillac Eldorado convertible that she had when he left for Vietnam.

3

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Mood: weathebunctious (rambunctious because of the weather)

Greeting, fellow prisoners of Earth.

It’s Wednesday, the last day of January, 2024. Another sprinter day. Light sprinkles mist the window’s view. Temperature is holding at 54 F. Aiming for a high of 56 F, expecting a low of 42 F. It’s the wind which will have you talking.

Strong wind advisories are out. I mocked them a little when I heard the warnings, but these winds are striving to make me believe. A muted growl started above us just after midnight, descending as night fled before dawn’s pursuit. Now it sounds like we’re standing by a crowded Interstate where the continuous roar of semis and cars eat pavement at sixty plus MPH. Sometimes a wolfish howl leaps over the deeper octaves, or ghostly shrieks rise up to call for attention.

Papi wanted back out in this. He’s my ginger-furred feline adventurer. He must suffer from a short memory, because he doesn’t seem to recall bolting in with legs frantically churning to escape the wind noise just a few hours ago. Tucker, for comparison, stayed five feet back from the doors when I went out to check things.

Haven’t completed my taxes. Have only received SSA’s forms and my 1099R. All other 1099 type documents are just being released. Ridiculous. I used to have all that stuff by mid-month, have the taxes filled and done before January’s end. Bureaucratic crept is pushing it out further and further, a funny development when technology to import, export, add and subtract and exchange information is available, isn’t it?

Today’s theme music came as I walked through the garage last night to deposit the kitty litter findings into the trash can. “Need to clean and organize this place again,” I muttered to myself. “Again. Get rid of some of this. Make some changes.”

Click. The Neurons began “Changes” by Yes from 1984 in my head and it’s still in the morning mental music stream (Trademark coming in two weeks) today. “Changes” was part of the 1984 Yes album, 90125. I was stationed on Okinawa at the time, and my friends and I loved this album from the start. “Owner of a Lonely Heart” was the album’s number one song, and we so admired that beginning section of fuzzy rock guitars, drums, and a heavy bass note.

Pause to reflect, 1984 was forty years ago. Lots of memories and changes built into that period.

Also, there are a lot of songs named changes or about changes, The Neurons began reminding me.

Papi just knocked at the door for re-entry. He’s wearing a fresh coat of soaked fur. Wind has dropped, rain stopped, sun is drenching us in sunshine, but sullen inky clouds are lurking.

Stay positive, remain strong, lean forward, and vote. There’s my coffee (well, more coffee, TBH), and here’s the music. Oh, look, it’s raining again. No, wait, sunshine is back. No, no, it’s raining. And the wind is back.

Cheers

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Saturday’s Theme Music

Mood: Dreamy

Hello, Terra dwellers, aka Terwellers.

Today is Saturday, January 27, 2024. This is January’s final Saturday; the month will soon be history and 2024 will be 1/12 done. Roughly.

Sprinter continues its reign in Ashlandia, where the dogs are happy and the cats are above average. We never dipped below 50 F last night. The weather dwarves, Windy, Sunny, Cloudy, and Rainy, continue their stay here. Foggy has departed but Warm and Blustery have joined us. 53 F now, today’s high will park in some zone just south of 60 F.

Ol’ Tucker. He’s my young elderly black and white floof. After feeding him and Papi, I headed for the office for coffee, news, and posting. Outside the room, Tucker sang his people’s song with a spirited voice. Going out, I asked, “What is it? What do you want? What do you need?”

“Mrff,” he answered, striding to the closed coat closet.

“What, you need a coat? You leave a mouse in there?”

Tucker stopped at the door and stared at me. “Mrff.”

I opened the closet. Muttering, “Mrff,” in a soft voice, he stepped in and went left. I leaned in and watched. He went about sniffing. I let him be. Ten minutes later, I checked on him and found him asleep in dining room sunshine.

Had a boatload of dreams last night. I awoke thinking, what did I eat or do to inspire so many dreams? None were about me. Instead, they were stories being told. I developed novel concepts out of three of them. The burst of nocturnal creativity was startling.

Speaking of startling, I read three different net tales about how well President Biden is doing. First came an updated list from Daily Kos, what has Biden done? This was a bulletpoint compilation of his administration’s accomplishment. Next from Robert Hubell was a piece about Biden going on the offensive. Finally, again from Daily Kos, was a story about Fox News gushing about the Biden economy. Sweet stuff for Democrats and Biden supporters.

With all these newsworthy tales in mind, The Neurons broke out “Second Hand News” by Fleetwood Mac in the morning mental music stream (Trademark coming in two weeks). The news wasn’t necessarily second hand news; more likely the word ‘news’ evoked the 1977 song for Les Neurons. I remember when the song came out, as I was in the Philippines, in the military, but without my wife, and the song spoke to me about being alone. I am pretty familiar with it.

Stay positive, be strong, and lean forward. Coffee and I are in sync, having sipped down most of a cup. Here’s the music. Enjoy your day. Cheers

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Sunday’s Theme Music

Mood: bitsy

Hello, fellow citizens of the Sol system. We have landed on Sunday January 21, 2024.

It’s a little bit day; little bit sunny, windy, rainy, warm, cold. Should be a little bit ‘o rainbow out there somewhere.

Once again, I come to you after reading some news, and end up a little bit disappointed, saddened, surprised, disturbed, and shocked. Pretty typical, really. Flipping through radio channels as I went downtown to coffee shop #2, I heard a woman on the radio saying how much Trump is needed now. Cuz, she said, crime is up and the economy is down, and our border is just a mess, stating all these things as a given without offering any stats or evidence. Don’t know if I’d trust her stats and evidence, anyway, as I was a little bit suspicious of her, especially when she ended by telling us that God sent Trump to us. Rebut: God sent Biden to us. That’s why he won, right? Debate.

Today’s theme music is “All Mixed Up” by 311 from 1996. My ginger floof, Papi, inspired The Neurons to choose this song. Rain was falling and the sun was shining and the wind was blowing when I opened the back door and let Papi bounce outside, tail up and energetic. Wind smooching his face caused him to turn away like he was gonna come back in, but then he remembered that he was a wild beast, king of the outdoors, so he redirected his course toward the sunshine, only to retreat as rain showered him. Again he began a return to inside the house only to recall his wild vows, and changed directions to head across the patio where he sat, washed, and debated his options.

Watching all that, The Neurons kicked “All Mixed Up” into the morning mental music stream (Trademark a little bit). But it’s a good song selection for other reasons, like the world’s state vice expectations and attitudes: the song declares, “You’ve got to trust your instinct, and let go of regret. You’ve got to bet on yourself now, star, ’cause that’s your best bet.” I like that aspect as it’s directing me to look forward and trust myself.

Be strong, stay pos, lean forward and trust yourself. I’m havin’ a little bit more coffee now. Then I’ll go on with a little bit of editing and home chores. Here’s the music. Cheers

0

Flooace

Flooace (floofinition) 1. A person who is not an animal expert or but is knowledgeable about animals from experience. Origins: Internet era circa 2003 in this meaning, a combination of floof and ace.

In Use: “Growing up with dogs and cats — her mother’s cat slept with her from the day she was brought home, engendering some mild, amused jealousy in Mom that Marla had stolen her cat — made Marla a flooace by the time she was fifteen. Everyone thought she would be a vet, but she instead went into politics because she’d decided that the world needed to change and she was the one who was going to do it.”

Recent Use: “People post lost or found animals on Nextdoor, and flooaces get online to offer opinions in the comments sections about what to do to resolve the problem.”

2. The locations where animals like to stay or rest. Origins: Text messages first noted in 2019, created from joining floof and place.

In Use: “Tucker’s go-to flooace is under the dining room table when Michael isn’t home, but on Michael’s desk, chair, or computer, when Michael is home and on his computer.”

In Use: “Being a large dog, the Maxinator enjoyed the kingsized bed in the master suite as his flooace, but the rules said he wasn’t allowed in there, so he had to go to his secondary location, on his huge bed by the family room patio door.”

Recent Use: “Some cats, such as Marley — yes, named after the dog in the book and movie — like to find the most unusual flooace to sleep, like it’s a competition to upstage other floofs.”

2

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