Tag: slice of life

Little Things

My surgery has been over for hours. After catching up on sleep, I’m ravenous because I haven’t had food since ten last night. With a diet limited to cold soft foods, I’m eating sorbet and thinking about what I can eat.

My wife begins reading an article aloud. “Women are having problems creating intimate relationships with men because of men’s addiction to porn.” One part is about a woman asking men if they watch porn. They deny it until she shares what kind of porn she likes.

The story swerves into men spending hours in the bathroom. The writer mocks the idea that they’re having long bowel movements and mentions they probably wouldn’t be in there that long without their phones.

“They’re watching porn on their phones?” I ask.

My wife nods.

“I don’t get that. What in the world would you be able to see on that little screen?”

“I know.” My wife points at our television. “We have that big screen. I watch carefully and feel like I still miss a lot.”

“Yes, and people watch sports on their phones, too. I don’t get that. During football games, they’re always blowing up scenes to show, is the knee down? Was his toe out of bounds?”

“How do people see these things on phone screen?” my wife responds.

“Exactly.”

My wife puts her feet up and closes her eyes. It’s been a long day for her. She had to go in with me and stay for the entire surgery, then drive me home.

I finish my sorbet and wonder what to eat next that’s cold and soft and fantasize about a hot bowl of chile.

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Hi Yourself

Stepping into the coffee shop, I immediately scan for a table and chair to sit and write.

It’s late morning and busy. Aha, though — two tables are there for —

“Hey, Michael.”

I’m being accosted from across the room. The speaker is a barista. Having shouted out my name, they’ve busy multi-tasking.

Spotting Kat first, I begin, “Hey, Ka — “

I see Natalie.

I don’t know which called out.

So I finish, “Talie.”

Chuckling to myself about this, I dumped my gear at a table and head to the counter. Kat is manning the register and Natalie is busy preparing my coffee. I hear Natalie say, “Curling,” before she turns away.

Kat asks, “Let me ask you, Michael. Are you watching the Olympics?”

“Only the curling,” I reply.

Natalie roars with laughter as Kat’s mouth drops open.

“No way,” Kat finally says.

“Yes, way,” I answer. “By the way. When I came in, I heard one of you say hello to me. I didn’t know who it was, so I called you Katalie.”

The two bend over with laughter. “We ARE Katalie,” Kat shouts. Whipping toward each other, she and Natalie exchange high fives.

I pay and take my coffee. The writing day has an auspicious beginning.

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

Wednesday, February 11, 2026, and it feels like spring is launching in Ashland. Let’s call it a false spring. 51 F with unchallenged blue skies and sunshine, 60 F is the expected high. Papi would be so happy, except a balmy breeze, which chases him back inside to nap his misery away.

I have dental surgery tomorrow, disrupting the normal flow, and spent time this morning responding to texts about Mom’s mental issues. Connecting dots, my thoughts turned toward an overheard conversation from yesterday.

Sitting in the coffee shop, typing and thinking, two women of about my age shared a table to my right. Music and conversations were cooking but now the room was empty. The two women’s conversation floated to me through the sudden quiet.

One chatted for a while about health concerns regarding her mother, daughter, and herself. The tone changed a little as the other one talked about her concerns over Trump’s policies, ICE, and the general news tone, which she referenced as ‘disturbing’.

The first woman agreed with her and they both addressed concerns about being tired and depressed. Then they touched hands and smiled, telling each other how much it meant to meet and have moments like this.

I studiously tried to stay out of their circle. But one glanced at me and smiled as they rose to leave. Smiling back, I said, “I hope you have a beautiful day.” Thanking me, she wished the same for me.

Their conversation resonated because it feels like an echo of my life, and other people I know. We’re all sailors trying to navigate change. Some of it is about aging, maturing, dying, not necessarily depressing but certainly generally somber matters. Norms for me and them are shifting, and so are expectations. Our emotions become compressed under the loads we carry.

With all that rolling through me, along with dreams, The Neurons’ morning mental music stream offering is Harry Styles singing, “As It Was”.

Chorus

In this world, it’s just us
You know it’s not the same as it was
In this world, it’s just us
You know it’s not the same as it was
As it was, as it was
You know it’s not the same

That about sums up my reflections this morning: it’s not the same.

Hope peace and grace find and carry you forward into a better future.

Cheers

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Monday’s Wandering Thoughts

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.

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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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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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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.

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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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The Writing Moment

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.

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Munda’s Wandering Thoughts

I was in the coffee shop on a writing mission, nursing a stiff neck. Falling asleep in a chair the other night, my head slipped out of position. I’ve been doing micro movements almost absent-mindedly to loosen it.

So, there I was, eyes closed, flexing my neck and head back and forth. A Steve Miller song, “Keep On Rockin’ Me, Baby”, floated out of the speakers. Without thinking about it, I was moving my head side to side in time with the music.

When I opened my eyes, a small pair of blue eyes were watching me—blonde hair, rosy cheeks, pink plastic boots. She began copying me. Eyebrows lifting, head tilting, she mirrored every little motion.

I grinned, and she laughed, and so did I. For a moment, it felt like we were performing a tiny, accidental duet—two strangers connected by rhythm, movement, and the music of another time.

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