Tag: just goofing around

Mixed Signals

As part of a celebratory do my wife recently organized, we ended up with 100 plastic plates. Small, white, with gold trim, we’d purchased them so guests could enjoy some finger foods.

She had them stacked in the sink and mentioned that she had to wash them. I asked, “Want me to wash them?”

My wife replied, “I didn’t want them to go into the landfill, and I think they can be used again. I already washed them, but I think they feel greasy, so I want to wash them again.” Then she walked away.

I washed the plates.

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Marker

The cracks show –

Spreading

He missed them

At first

Clocking them

Only after

Others

Commented.

He finds

Life emptying out

Contemplating

His time chasing

Time

Until time ran

Out of

Sight

Leaving him

With

All the time

Needed.

Giving him a

Smile –

Clues were

Forever

There

An unfelt

Hand

Pushing.

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A Coffee House Moment

Coffee house hissing, loud laughter, and boisterous conversations swam around me. Waiting in line, a barista prepared quiches and burritos and told me about her cat until I reached the register.

Jessie, the cashier, has grave eyes with a welcoming but cautious smile. As she rang up my order, I tilted my gaze to a cheap-looking white ring on her third finger.

Wondering if it had symbolic meaning, I suggested, “That’s an interesting ring.”

Holding her hand up, Jessie regarded the ring and chuckled. “My sister-in-law lost her wedding ring in the ocean one year. I started worrying that I’d lose mine, so now I only wear my wedding ring on special occasions.”

Turning the ring on her finger, she looked off and smiled to herself. “I wear rings like this instead. I have a bunch of them and let my daughter pick them out for me. She’s say, ‘Today, you’ll wear pink.’ Or, ‘I think you’ll wear orange.'”

We laughed together. Walking off, I imagined her daughter giving her a pink ring to put on her finger.

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The Price of the Prize

In an old news story — two weeks ago, ‘old news’ in the smash and grab Trump news cycle — María Corina Machado, 2025 Nobel Peace Prize recipient, gave her prize to Trump.

I suspect she was secretly paid to give her prize away.

An effective front man for the executive branch’s growing lawlessness, keeping him placated is paramount. Otherwise, he began obsessing on losing the 2020 elections again.

Frustration was high. Nothing seemed to lift Trump’s mood. He wanted Greenland but Denmark wasn’t selling, even though he’d threatened more tariffs. His ballroom’s construction was mired down. ICE’s growing violence was driving his popularity and approval ratings to new lows, and the issue about affordability just was not disappearing. Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos were calling almost every day, ranting, “This is not what we paid for!”

“We need to meet,” Vought hissed to Trump’s cabinet. “Something needs to be done before senators and representatives start growing some balls because they’re going to lose an election.”

“Well, I’m out,” War Secretary Hegseth said. “We already abducted President Maduro from Venezuela. I thought that would make him happier.”

“I know,” Noem said. “We’re doing everything we can over in Homeland Security but now judges are growing a spine. Who do they think they are?”

“I agree,” Miller said. “I thought adding Trump’s name to the Kennedy Center would make him happier.”

“I have an idea,” Bondi suggested. “Let’s approach Machado and see what her price is for giving Trump her Nobel Peace Prize.”

Vice President Vance nodded. “A Noble Prize, yes! That sounds like the perfect pacifier for him.”

Feelers were put out to Machado. Their pitch was basic. “We’re in charge of Venezuela now. We can put you into office. Support you with the strength of the U.S. military. Fund your campaign. All you need to do is give Donald Trump your peace prize as a gift. Come on, what will it hurt? You said that you thought he deserved it. And the record will always show that you won. It’s a win-win.”

Officially, they said Machado came up with it on her own, perhaps in an effort to gain Trump’s support.

As far as they could tell, it worked. Other than another diatribe at Davos about losing the 2020 election again, Trump stayed on track.

“It’s still early days,” Miller reminded the rest at the next meeting. “I think we need to do something bigger, something to really put a smile on his face.”

Everyone’s shoulder’s slumped. “Think,” Bondi encouraged. “What can we do? Doesn’t anyone have any idea what will make him happier for a little while, at least until the midterms?

“Arrest Biden?” Miller said with wide-eyed eagerness.

“Too much,” Hegseth answered.

“What about this?” Bessent said. “Let’s have a Trump coin minted.”

Trump’s cabinet and advisors held their breath in thought.

“That’s more tangible,” Miller said.

Eyes bright and large over a grin, Hegseth exclaimed, “No living president has their name on a coin.”

Vought reached for the phone. “I’ll call our legislative lackeys and get them working on it.”

“Make sure it’s gold,” Bessent said.

Vought sneered. “Of course. We know that Trump is a fool for gold.”

“Okay, I think we’re done for today,” Bondi said. “Americans are getting angry. New polls will probably show that.”

Miller scowled. “That’s because he’s so great, misunderstood, and underappreciated.”

“Anyway,” Bondi continued. “We need to get ahead of the curve.”

Vought smiled. “Of course. Let’s get to work on those memorial gates he keeps going on about. We need some kind of TrumpCares program, too. Doesn’t matter what it does.”

“I’ll take that on,” Kennedy replied. “I know how he thinks.”

Relieved, the group filed out, feeling happier about the future for the first time in days. “It’s good to know to have a direction,” Vought said to Kennedy.

Kennedy nodded. “I just hope it makes Elon happy.”

Vance piped up. “By the way, has anyone seen Trump today?”

2

At the Moment

Middle age

Young age

Old age

A childhood time

Post modernism

Pre-industrial

Eras we define

Space age

Information age

Net age

Here we come

Knowledge at our fingertips

Truth is on the run

Thinking

Wishing

Wondering what will be

How will history

Change this age

Of truth

Of change

Of greed?

Sitting on the cusp

Of something

Trying to make sense

How long can this go on

With so many

On the fence?

If you ask me what it means

Uncertainty arises

I think I know what I see

I’m not sure

I like it

1

Remembering Dad Again

I was in the coffee house, deep into writing, when a casual coffee shop acquaintance stopped and said hello. Now a choir direction, he’d spent most of his life as a master mechanic. Cars somehow became the topic.

I mentioned that I was a sporting car kind of person. Car ownership was about BMWs, a Porsche, Mazda RX-7, along with a Camaro and a Firebird.

His response pivoted me to remembering Dad’s cars. Dad mostly drove Corvettes, Mustangs, and Thunderbirds. Aging, he also began driving a pickup, and then a Cadillac. Both were so unlike him.

That’s just like me. Those car choices were ‘needs must’ decisions, exactly why I now drive a compact SUV.

After finishing the conversation, though, I realized that this was the first time since Dad died on the last day of 2025 that I remembered him without grief. Instead, there was fondness and a reflective smile.

Dad was an interesting guy.

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A Car & Its Driver

I paced the room, waiting for word about my wife’s 2003 Ford Focus. The car was recently stopping on its own, unsafe and inconvenient.

I resisted thinking it was a battery at first. The car cranked up and fired without any issues but then died.

My wife didn’t think it was a battery. “It starts up. Nothing dims, and it doesn’t have that weak, sluggish sound when it starts.”

I agreed in principle. I checked the battery, confirming, no loose wires or cables, intact and clean. A date on the battery’s side, 05 20, surprised me.

Telling my spouse about it, I added, “I didn’t think the battery was that old.”

We reminisced about buying it. Delivering Food & Friends alone because the COVID pandemic was underway, her car died enroute. She called me to rescue her, which I gleefully did to escape the house.

I reminded her, recent ‘high-discharge’ batteries don’t show the same dying battery symptoms we grew up seeing. Then I recalled, it was cold when the car died on her a couple times this week. Cold affects how much energy batteries can deliver.

I decided, checking the battery was where to begin. An appointment at Les Schwab, a mile away, was made for 10 AM this morning.

I started the Focus without any issue; it died five seconds later. I started it again. Death came five seconds later.

Three times was a charm, but I worried about the car dying as I drove to the appointment.

The Les Schwab tech confirmed, bad battery. “One cell is completely dead,” he said.

That fit, to me. A couple hundred dollars later, we believe we have the problem solved.

Whether the problem is truly solved won’t be clear until the car has been driven normally a few times. I have high confidence it’s fixed, though.

But — knock on wood.

Just in case.

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Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

I was in the coffee shop — typing, revising, thinking, scrambling through the novel, noticing faults and fixing them. Progress was steady but heavy with challenge.

.Another customer approached my table. Regulars, she and I briefly spoke together a few times. Today she said, “Excuse me, but I love watching you at your table.”

Blinking, I gave her my attention.

She continued, “You become so deeply focused and oblivious to the rest of us, it just amazes me. I’m sorry to interrupt you but I really felt an itch to say something.”

I thanked her with a laugh. “Don’t worry. Interruptions can be helpful. Sometimes a little break is needed to help me think more clearly.”

We exchanged names, then she left the coffee shop, leaving me smiling.

Sometimes it feels good to be noticed as orders are called out, conversations rise and fall, and people come and go.

It feels…human.

1

Another Wandering Thought

Drinking and writing in the coffee shop, I briefly emerged from my fog of words. Conversational strands pulled me in.

“We’re losing ’em all,” a customer said to the barista, Preston.

“Yes,” Preston agreed.

“There’s only one Beatle left, isn’t there?”

I flipped the Beatles’ names through my mind: Paul, John, George, Ringo.

“Yep. No, two,” Preston said.

“Yeah, that’s right, Ringo and George.”

Preston answered, “No, George and John.”

“That’s right,” the customer agreed, walking off.

Eyebrows rising, I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to call out a correction.

“No, wait,” Preston shouted. “John and Paul. No, Ringo and John. I mean. Paul! Ringo and Pau!”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Thank dog they came through with the right names.

I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t.

2

Fridaz Wandering Thoughts

It was the weirdest damn thing. I backed out of my garage and drive this lovely Saturday morning. As I straightened the car and drove down the street, a gray Tesla 3 pulled from the curb, preceding me. We were close enough and angled right that I noticed the driver — an older-looking, white woman, short gray hair.

She went down and stopped at the hill’s bottom. As I pulled in behind her, another gray Tesla 3 cruised by. Hand to Dog, that Tesla’s driver looked just like the first two.

The Tesla ahead turned left, falling in line with the first gray Tesla. Gasping with delighted surprise at such serendipity, I pulled up to the stop sign. Another gray Tesla 3 went by with another white, female, gray-haired driver.

No way, I thought. It was almost like a surreal dream.

Settling behind the three gray Teslas with their gray-hair white drivers, I wondered. Is this a trick of my mind, or triplets driving identical cars? I also imagined that an elaborate ruse was being pulled, but who was the intended victim?

Temptation arose to follow them and see if the three cars ended at the place and if the drivers really looked alike. But coffee, writing, and routine called, and I peeled away, leaving the mystery to be solved by another.

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