Floofline(floofinition) – An imposed date or time by which things must be done for animals. Origins: Unknown, first cited in writing in 1885,“A Feline’s Guide to A Well-Managed Household”.
In Use: “Abig-gal joined the house on February first, and established her flooflines for fresh water, breakfast, lunch, supper, dinner, tea, snacks, treats, and desserts by February second.”
In Use: ‘In Chapter 1 of “A Feline’s Guide to A Well-Managed Household”, Queen Florence decreed, “Humans must be made to understand that flooflines, such regular feeding times, must be established and consistently met if there is to be order and happiness among the household pets.”‘
Frida finds our Ashland home peaceful. Alexa says it’s 55 F outside, but my systems put it at 38. Other locations report it’s 48. The invisible fog has lifted, leaving sunbeams a clear path to spread warmth and light through the blue sky.
Today is January 16, 2026. 60 is our projected high, kicking off a week of days in the low to mid 60s. We’ll see if that holds, given weather’s changing ways.
Whatever the temperature, Papi is in good spirits. Patio sunshine glows off his white and orange as he grooms after breakfast.
After a night of a long series of dreams, I’m in a very good mood. One had me with Jerry Seinfeld and George Constanza going to a small, intimate open-air comedy festival. I was with Jerry, who was driving, while George followed in his own car. Although an interesting time, I lost my sunglasses. I kept thinking I’d lost them in the water but consoled myself, it’s only a dream.
I also feel very good with where my health is — today. I’ve kept my lost weight off and still run and exercise. My feet, legs, and ankles stay almost pain-free, with twinges sometimes remarking on what I’m doing. Aided by supplements, my abdominal discomfort and bloating have diminished. I remain careful about what I eat and always give myself time to digest before thinking about eating something else.
While I continue to percolate with dream details, feeling healthy and peaceful, I’ve avoided looking at the news. Trump has a habit of making a good day bad, and a bad day — worse. I’ll eventually scan headlines, hoping that ICE violence isn’t climbing, the U.S. hasn’t attacked another nation, or measles aren’t spreading.
Looking at Trump statements over the last several years, remarks made by him counter history or demonstrate a weak grasp the government. I calculated that Trump has been alive for about 32% of the United States’ age as a nation. You’d think he would’ve picked up that information by now. He is college educated.
Now, for no particular reason at all, The Neurons are playing “The Passenger” in the morning mental music stream. Iggy Pop wrote, performed, and released it in 1977. As it plays, I think, here we go, off on another daily journey.
Hope your journey today is happy and carefree, graced with peace and hope. Cheers
A cat dream came up last night. Featuring a recurring dream theme, I was living in a house. This house was first identified as being in Germany and it’s a real-life abode. Like the other dreams, it’s a house but connected to other houses via tunnels that I slowly find, open, and use, always doing so alone.
Though not much dream time is spent there, my house is comfortable with luxury accoutrements. The tunnels go down and are in good condition and clean. Along the way, I find glassed in rooms. A German neighbor is encountered and tells me that my neighbors have all been wondering when I would come down and use these rooms.
While exploring, I find stray young cats — black and white, ginger, tabbies, seal point, short and long-haired. Huddling together, they’re struggling to survive a storm of growing intensity. Night is falling and it’s getting cold. I open one of my glass rooms and herd them into it with little effort, then go off, returning with food to feed them.
A German woman goes by. At this point, I step out of the tunnel. Looking back and up the hill, I see my house on the crest and know that it’s in California. I register that without thinking it contradicting my earlier idea that it was in Germany. It’s perfectly okay that the house is located in both locations.
Returning into the tunnels and the glass room where the cats are, I run into the German neighbor again, getting rid of watermelons. I tell her that animals like the rinds, which surprise her. I put broken watermelons into the glass room with the cats. They begin eating and licking them and I leave to get them more food.
In the kitchen, I speak to my wife, in the other room, and tell her about the watermelon rinds and the neighbor. She’s amazed as me that she didn’t know that animals like the rinds. Taking cat food down to the cats, I watch the cats through the glass. A handful and a half of cats has grown to about fifteen. Among them, new kittens wrestle with watermelon pieces.
I go in. The cats run to meet me with happy meows.
Twozda arrived on January 6, 2026 looking for all the world like it was December of 2025. It’s the same greyness which tamped down spirits and kept us chilly, forcing us to turn on the lights during the day and keep the heat running. Temperatures dance the spectrum from 38 F at my house to 41 according to Alexa with Microsoft announcing 47 F. Southern Oregon University comes in with 40.5 F.
My wife joins me at the window. “Are we in it yet?”
“I don’t know.”
She’s referring to the winter storm we’ve been warned about. Located in a protective valley, Ashland’s zone warns snow is expected above 2000 ft in Jackson County with total accumulations up to 6 inches. My house is at 2100 ft, so we in wait and watch mode.
As uncertain as the weather comes more political news. The Trump administration announced they’re withholding social services funds for five states, all of which happen to have Democratic Party leadership. Here I was, nursing the impression that we’re a nation who harbors an all for one and one for all mentality.
Actions like this from Trump undermines our unity. He does so without offering evidence other than a announcement that there’s fraud.
Not offering any evidence is the Trump way. No evidence was ever offered that the boats he ordered to be destroyed carried any drugs. They were destroyed on Trump’s insistence that they carried fentanyl and other narcotics.
As others noted, although Trump kept insisting that Venezuela and President Maduro were involved in transporting fentanyl to the United States, fentanyl wasn’t mentioned in the charges against Maduro and his wife.
After reading the news about Trump’s activities, my mood was cratering. Fortunately, Papi the ginger blade and The Neurons rescued me. Fresh in from the cold weather, I offered Papi, “Treat?” All signs pointed to “Yes!” as his tail went straight up, his back arched, and happiness glinted in his amber gold eyes.
Laughing, I provided the treats. As Papi gobbled them up, I joked about our home being his treat shack.
In a cosmic flash, The Neurons brought “Love Shack” by the B-52’s into the morning mental music stream. I didn’t mind at all. That jaunty 1989 rocker about a funky little place where people went to have fun and socialize is the perfect antidote to the blues attempting to take over. Singing and dancing and a general elevation of spirits can’t be denied when I hear it.
Once again, I put out hope that peace and grace arise to counter what’s happening to our nation and the world. Perhaps we coffee and time, we will prevail. Cheers
Papi the ginger wonder was beating on the front door. Technically, it wasn’t the front door but the narrow vertical window alongside the door. Seeing me approaching, he opened up and let out an indignant meow.
“Okay, okay,” I said, letting him in. Papi dashed past towards his refueling station like an Indy 500 pit stop. As I shut the door, I saw a flyer hanging from the knob.
I walked into the office reading the flyer. “This was on the front door. It’s about a church grand opening.”
My wife answered, “I don’t think we’re interested in that. We’re not church people.”
“I know but I want to know what church it is. Huh, it’s on Siskiyou. It’s a Baptist Church.”
A chortle spilled from my wife. “Oh, hell no. I’m a recovering southern Baptist. No way I’m setting foot in that place.”
The weather is better. Better is relative. 44 F here in Ashlandia, with expectations of a 56 degrees F high. Sunshine and blue sky are lording over Munda, December 29, 2025. Papi is happy that the rain has stopped, the sun is out, and the fog slunk away. We have instead picked up a stagnant air advisory. Yet, it’s windy. Papi dislikes wind more than anything. Fortunately, he’s older now and less interested in running out to challenge the day.
No updates on Dad. Mom updates are about her upset stomach. She and sis continue adjusting to living together. Each will flare in anger and accuse the other of being mean. These episodes seem shorter and less intense. My fingers are crossed that their relationship and situation will improve as we move into 2026.
I feel for Dad’s wife and her family. Dad’s been with them for over thirty years. He’s been generous, supportive, and loving with them. Watching him decline must be so painful and debilitating for them.
With Mom and Dad’s health problems, I find myself reviewing my health. My energy is up and I seem, from the outside, to be doing well as I slink toward 70. I’ve lost weight, exercise more these days, and have more energy.
Primary concern, though, is the one I spent the most time with: my wife. She and I have been a couple for over fifty years. She’s been struggling with her strength and movement. She doesn’t go to physicians. She just consults solutions on the Internet. I won’t try to reduce her complicated view of herself, health, and the healthcare system into more manageable chunks of understanding. She would insist that I have it wrong anyway!
She’s working on a fifty-year celebration for a friend. The friend, MB, has been a Y instructor for fifty years. Her low-level aerobics, strength and dance class is enormously popular. The Y recognized that MB is popular and that this is a milestone, and asked my wife to organize the celebration. They asked her because she’s the class’s social engine. My wife accepted. She enjoys doing these things.
My wife doesn’t handle stress or anxiety well, though. When either of those increase for her, her health takes a hit. Her eating and digestion goes; she grows stiffer, with less movement. Her stiffness and vulnerability to being physically cold increases.
Yes, she is always cold. She likes keeping our snug — the office — around 80 degrees. My hope is that she’ll get through this February celebration and get stronger and healthier. Meanwhile, my role is to be as supportive as I can.
The Neurons have decided that today’s song is “The Waiting”. The 1981 song is written and performed by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. From Petty’s point of view, the waiting was about the time before going on to perform. Observing me thinking about Dad, Mom, and my wife, The Neurons decided it would be a grand song for the morning mental music stream.
Chorus
The waiting is the hardest part Every day you see one more card You take it on faith, you take it to the heart The waiting is the hardest part.
Yes, Tom, the waiting often seems like the hardest part.
I have my coffee to comfort me while I wait. Hope peace and grace comes by with a cuddle for all of us. Cheers
I was at some sort of crowded little outdoor coffee. The business was wedged into a place not made for business. Small tables crowded together on a patio lined with low cinder-block walls on two sides, flowery weeds growing out of cracks, all on the edge of a tiny parking lot. A street is close by. The actual business, a rustic hole-in-the-wall offering is on the parking lot’s other side along with two or three other tiny businesses.
Pretty day and I’m a young visitor. A ginger and white cat comes to check me out. A woman who comes and goes says, “She’s begging for food. She’s always begging for food.” I try to accommodate the friendly feline. Fortunately, I have cat food! It’s cheese and something. I open the plastic cat food container and let the cat sniff. It’s eager, so I put the container down under the table, under a flowery tablecloth, so the cat can eat it.
The cat quickly returns. “You didn’t eat all that, that fast, did you?” I look below. “No, you barely touched it.” I laughed and scratched the cat’s head. “You just like being fed, don’t you?”
The woman returns with a small dog. Terrier type with curly beige fur. The dog is polite, with bright eyes, sniffing around but making no sounds.
“He’s looking for food,” the woman says. “He likes to eat the cat food.”
The dog finds the cat food and goes to town. Then the woman orders him to follow her and they’re off again.
I feed the cat again, laughing at myself for doing so. I open several of the plastic tins just to humor the cat. It licks and eats from several of them, then comes back in a quest for more.
The woman and dog return. I tell the woman about opening several packages for the cat. I realize that I’ve been sitting there for a few hours and worry about the food going bad. I ask the woman if it’s okay for the dog to eat them. The dog watches me with silent hope during the exchange. When the woman says, “Yes,” the dog jumps down and I give it some old food.
Then, in a dream shift, a friend arrives. She’s another writer. I know that she’s quit writing but she’s here to talk to me about it. So we go walking. She’s young, Black, and shorter than me. I encourage her not to stop writing. She feels like it’s become a waste. I ask her, “But if you don’t write, how will you know what you think? Isn’t that important to you?”
She repeats what I say. We’ve been walking on a trail. Now we come to a bunch of teens. They’re crowding around a bush. Dozens of tiny black insects buzz through the air. “The hornets are back,” one teen says. “Look, they’re building a nest.”
He indicates a space inside a bush. I look. Yes, the little black things are building a thing that looks like a miniature beehive. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wonder if these are really wasps. I don’t really know.
Greeting fellow humans. Welcome to the last month of the tumultuous year of 2025.
It’s Munda, December 1, 2025. 33 F at my house, though out there in Ashlandia’s sunnier spots, it’s reported to be up to 40 F. Clear skies blue with promise and bright sunshine arch over us. They’re suggesting that we’ll see the mid to upper 50s today. Yesterday never felt warm and hissed with a chill that whispered, “Winter is standing right behind you.”
Today’s music comes from dressing again. Yesterday and the previous day, I wore jeans. I told my wife I was going old school. That came from the realization that I used to wear jeans regularly and I don’t often wear them these days. Anyway from that, I laughingly sang to Papi, “Forever in Blue Jeans.” The Neurons jumped right on that and fed the 1979 Neil Diamond song to the morning mental music stream.
Trump released another trant. A trant is a text-based social media scree filled with typos, capital letters, incorrect information, and exclamation points. It’s a neologism formed from combining Trump with rant. Trant.
Dizzy Donny’s latest trant was about his misconception of Senator Kelly’s suggestion to military members to disobey unlawful or illegal orders. After releasing and deleting an error-filled version, Donny T came up with one that satisfied his low standards.
Trant #1Trant #2
Dozy Donny finishes with a capitol letter scream, “DO WHAT HAS TO BE DONE!!!” Whatever happened to “Thank you for your attention to this matter!”?
I wish the nation would do what needs to be done and remove him from office and get him therapy. But MAGAts and the GOP like this sort of *cough* leadership.
But Senator Kelly is not suggesting that military members be insubordinate or disloyal. He and the other Democrats are reminding them, as others often do, that their duty is to the U.S. Constitution and to perform legal orders.
Coffee is making its way down the esophagus to the proper places. Hope peace and grace show today but not holding my breath. Here we go, into the years final month. Cheers
All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray outside my window, today, Twozda, November 18, 2025. It’s a bleak and dark look which does little to inspire the mind, body, or spirit to move. Our present temperature is 42 degrees F but it’s gonna surge to 45. Rain? Maybe, in the realm of a quarter inch or less.
Papi the orange floof dislikes this change of meteorological circumstance. He went out several times. Dissatisfied with his experiences, he’s sulking in the living room on his favorite chair, thinking of sleeping.
I ran two miles yesterday afternoon. Felt quite good after that, all lubed up and flexible, if you will. Supremely satisfying to having pieces working in rhythm with a thumping heart, heaving chest, and dribbles of sweat finding their chaotic paths down my skin. The warm shower afterward felt oh so good. With time’s passage, I’m now permitted to wash my incision sites, and gave them the first light cleaning they’ve had since the operation on Nov. 5.
The Neurons have provided me with “Stormy” by the Classics IV from 1968 as my morning mental music stream entertainment. I felt they offered this on Papi’s behalf, as The Neurons kept repeating, “Bring back that sunny days!” I’ve gone with the 1979 Santana cover.
Trump continues pursuing an altered reality which is only accessible by putting his head up his ass. He’s joined there by people who eagerly endorses his warped ideas on humanity, civilization, and society, such as the Heritage Foundation, purveyors of Project 2025. As Heather Cox Richardson explained, it’s all about having a world for the wealthy supported by the poor. Different rules apply for the wealthy. White men have major roles in keeping it organized and civilized. Ms Richardson tells us that we’ve gone through these before, with southern ‘gentlemen’ in the mid 1800s, and such business ‘leaders’ as Carnegie and Mellon, who seemed to have very low opinions of anyone who wasn’t wealthy and didn’t think those people worked hard enough. Sound familiar? You should read the whole thing.
I don’t know if peace and grace are going to show when it’s so gloomy looking outside. I don’t really blame them, as today’s weather is not an inviting presence. I’ll make do with coffee again. Here we go, once more into the breach. Cheers
It’s Thirstda! I’m glad about it because The Neurons kept telling me that yesterday was Thirstda. I accused them of being out of sync and reality deniers, much like Trump. Man, they fumed with indignation after that, sputtering about how wrong it was for me to compare them to TACO, who is deeply and grossly embedded in an alternate reality, in The Neurons’ opinions. “We’re not like that,” they kept telling me until I finally acquiesced and gave a half-warm fake apology about being sorry for comparing them to Trump. That mostly shut them up but they still sulked for a while.
Today’s numbers are 11/13/2025 and 60/64/56 for month/date/year and current/high/low temperatures in F. Wind is busy teasing the poor trees and leaves into mad waving and racing. It’s the kind of wind that has me checking to ensure nothing has blown away. Papi came in after I’d spotted him huddled hard against something, head down. Soon as I opened that door, he bolted in. Then he gave an angry look back, like he was swearing vengeance against the wind, and launched himself into a hard house gallop. Besides the wind, it’s sunny now, but it did rain and more rain is s’posed to be dropping, even if it doesn’t look it now.
I know I mentioned it before but I will reiterate, having my gallbladder removed has left me feeling amazingly better. I sleep better, have more mental and physical energy, with better focus. I feel less angry, anxious, and emotional, and less troubled and more confident about the future. I’m wary about what I eat as I slowly re-engage a wider range of offerings while keeping the fat down, and monitor my body’s response. I do miss being able to fully exercise. While I’m jogging, I’m restricted from lifting more than 20 pounds. Pushups and planks and wallsits are all out for now.
I had two terrific dreams last night that I recall. Both had me laughing as I recalled them. As I finished working over the dreams, I want into thinking and writing my novel in my head and ‘lo, the muses came and gave the writing neurons some sweet little details to insert. It’s great when things like that work out. I’m eager to get into it later today.
Today’s music is “Blind Spot” by Bruce Springsteen.
I’m not certain why The Neurons have “Blind Spot” in the morning mental music stream. The clue might be in that chorus. “Everybody’s got a blind spot that brings them down, everybody’s got a blind spot they can’t get around.” Was I thinking of blind spots? I don’t know. It appears that the reason behind The Neuron’s song choice is…ahem…hidden in a blind spot.
You saw that coming, didn’t you?
Well, the Trump Epstein Shutdown of 2025 set a record but ended. Now we’ll see what happens with the Epstein files. There have already been some interesting emails leaked up about Trump’s involvement. May the leaks become a flood.
Hope peace and grace find us soon. Meanwhile, coffee is giving a pep talk to The Neurons about the need to be alert, active, and optimistic. Here we go, once again. Rock on. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 