Tag: stress

Fridaz Theme Music

The temperature is sulking between 28 (my house) and 37 F (the net). The net amends its claim, “Feels like 27 degrees”. Well, alright then.

It’s Frida, January 9, 2026. The grass is a ghostly shade of green under an unstoppable blue sky. Sunshine feeds light into the valley. All of it looks promising, optimistic. Today’s high will drag the mercury to 46 F.

I’m processing news and information, reflecting on 2026’s launch and its relative successes and failures. Mom and sis have been quiet. Sis has only commented on another sister’s behavior. The other sister is urging everyone to sell Mom’s house quickly but is not doing anything to make that happen.

Sis and Mom are quiet. I hope it’s because stress has dropped for the two, letting them breathe and communicate. I have my fingers crossed that we’ll see a peaceful January. If they can go an entire month without blowing up my phone with texts accusing the other of hate and malfeasance, it’ll be a new record.

Likewise, watching growing reactions in the political world, I slowly became hopeful that improvements are rising. My hopes are not unlimited.

After an ICE agent shot and killed an American citizen in Minneapolis, there was a shooting involving border patrol agents and civilians in Portland. Fortunately, only two civilians were shot and they received prompt medical treatment. I don’t know how the two victims are faring; I hope both are recovering.

Mixed concerns rose after listening to Portland’s Mayor and Oregon Governor Tina Kotes speaking after the shooting. They called out Trump, Homeland Security, and ICE to de-escalate the situation. They then talked about re-building an atmosphere of trust.

Sadly, I don’t think Trump cares about a trust between citizens or political parties. Trump has ramped up his belligerence in 2026’s early days by insinuating that more military action against other nations and territories is possible. Even as National Guard units are being removed from Portland (OR) due to a judge’s order, Trump threatens to send them back in.

My worries about his increasing threats are grounded in the claim he’s recently made that only he can stop himself. Trump’s history is not one of self-restraint and his second term is replete with threats. He’s attacked judges who ruled against him, politicians who speak against him, and reporters who don’t portray him as the greatest.

Between Mom, sis, Trump, and the weather, I’m ready for January to be emotionally up and down. As it sometimes is with me, that mood summons songs from the grunge side.

This morning, the delivery came as I watched a small bird fly down to the yard. After three quick hops, he flitted to the wire. His little head popped left and right. To my mind, he was doing a recon, and his conclusion was, no, this is not the place, because he jumped up and flew off.

I smiled throughout this and thought about having wings and flying. The Neurons jumped into the thought party at that point to play me some “Down in A Hole” by Alice in Chains in the morning mental music stream.

The Neurons didn’t start at the beginning. They selected the lines, “I’d like to fly, but my wings have been so denied.” Laughter to that seemed like an appropriate response.

Coffee has been added to my morning tilt. Energy is rising. I hope you all reach and stay in a good place for this day and the many to follow. Cheers

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A Road Trip Dream

I was setting out on a trip with three friends. Only one — Ron, an older man — translates to a current real-life person. Ron was just as he is in real life. The others, also males, were known.

One interesting note that emerged and wove throughout were two others, both female. They sometimes joined the journey, and Ron and I discussed whether they would be with us. The two women, both brunettes, one in a red top with black pants and the other wearing a bright blue top, would only appear and not speak directly to me.

We were riding in Ron’s truck. This was beige and big, with a four-door cab and a luxurious tan leather interior. Though Ron was driving, he was in the backseat. I was alongside him. He’d put the car on autopilot, so it was essentially driving itself with him just monitoring what was going on.

I kicked back beside him on the back seat. Stretching my legs out, my foot ended up hitting the steering wheel. That put us off course. Because of the way I was reclined, it took several seconds of jostling to get my foot out of the way. During that time, we went off the road and onto the shoulder but didn’t slow. Ron finally steered us back on course and returned the truck to autopilot, but now he was worried and concerned the police would pull us over.

We arrived at our destination — a huge furniture store. I’d never been to it. The floor was hard dirt. All furniture was antique white. Despite the floor and the limited offering, the store was very busy. The women showed up briefly. The others spoke with them while I went out to another section of store.

The next store section was filled with tables and chrome appliances. The appliances turned out to be food and drink dispensers. Needing to use a restaurant, I did some bowel business but discovered the toilet didn’t have any way to flush. Removing my fecal material with a wad of paper towels, I looked for a way to dispose of it. I found one but they wanted me to pay money to flush it away. I refused, angry and disgusted that they’d monetized flushing away our body functions. I instead found a small white bag, put the materials in there, and set it on a table, telling myself, it would be someone else’s problem.

I then reconnected with my friends. I told Ron that when we went back, I wanted to sit in the front and stretch out and sleep. He looked at me with confusion but didn’t reply. The two women came by. One said she had to go off and find her children.

My friends and I went to another section. People there were seated, waiting to pay for their selections. I stopped before one man and did a giddy tap dance. The man, overweight and big with swarthy skin and a white cowboy hat, ordered, “Stop that.” Laughing, I kept dancing but moved to another section. Another man who I didn’t see said, “Stop that,” but I laughed and danced away.

My friends met up with me again. All were surprised that I was tap dancing and thought it strange. They wondered how I learned it. I replied, “I’ve always known how to tap dance. Nobody ever needed to teach me. I just knew. I just don’t do it much.”

Dream end.

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Saturday’s Wandering Thoughts

Had a good night sleep and woke up refreshed. Ate well, had some coffee, but I feel tired.

So the question springs up, what makes that happen? Well, I guess it’s the stress of planning trips, making reservations, and taking care of multiple things — even writing — which amounts to being simultaneously pulled in several directions; picture my wrists and ankles being chained to horses going in four directions.

I’ll breathe deep, stay calm, and carry on. Just another insight into how this vessel of mine works these days.

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Thursday’s Wandering Thought

His diet amounted to the foods he chose for his health, things his body craved, and then the comfort foods for when his body says, “Hey, it was bad day. How ‘bout some carbs?”

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The Screwing Up Dream

Dreams of screwing up have beset my nights. For example, last night had me helping to build houses in the first dream, just simple wooden structures. I wasn’t in charge, but had joined the project after it was long underway. We were building on a high steppe rich with emerald green grass. The steppe ended on a cliff. Below in a a hazy blue distance were landmarks from a city. Beyond, an ocean breathed with rolling swells. Peaceful and comforting, I was happy to be in those surroundings, proud to be part of that project.

But, I suggested a change to where we put the houses. Then I acted on it. Only framing had been done (bizarrely, we seemed to be building without foundations, which is probably a clue for me), and after I moved the houses, they all began collapsing, like slow motion dominos falling over onto one another. I realized the last would fall over the cliff, so I rushed over to keep it up before that happened. So there I was, holding up part of a house frame as I teetered on a precipice. End dream.

The anxieties continued in the next dream. This had something to do about testing and storing blood. I was involved in helping assess how doctors did this. Yes, it’s all a little surreal. Each little package of blood had the doctor’s name, a date, and a patient’s number. Details of my role were vague but again, I decided I could change it into something better and proceeded to screw up. My wife then informed me as I was screwing up. I laughed her off, then realized as I walked off that she was right. By trying to improve it, I’d cut open the bag, not in a way that was acceptable, but some other way. All the blood was then gone. Alarmed by what I’d done, I kept trying to figure out a way to fix it, then started complaining about the system. It was the system that was at fault.

Trying to hide my error, I walked away from everyone and everything. No answer was coming to me, though. I then thought, this is a dream, just go back in time and stop myself from doing that. I laughed at that in the dream, and then reconsidered the bag. It had been blood; now it was full, but it was water. A doctor came by. Tall, lean, and dark, he gave me a contemptuous look. I thought he was going to say something and readied myself to reply, but he kept walking. Saved, I thought, walking quickly away.

At this point, I was alone in large, white room. Bright with light, rows of small desks that were as white as the wall, ceiling and floors precisely filled the room. Stopping at one, I worked on the bag. I was surprised to discover, yes, it was water, and the bag wasn’t cut. All the information was intact; there wasn’t a problem. “What have been worrying about,” I asked myself, looking around. Nothing was wrong. It had not been blood in the bag, but water. But, I thought, how did I mistake such completely different substances? One was clear, the other red. And why were doctors collecting bags of water from patients? I then realized that I was completely mistaken about the nature of the bags, that these were prepared to be given to the patients.

Dream end.

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

Several times a month, a song or fragment hits my auditory stream and lingers. Some call this an earworm. I call it an annoyance.

Once in a while, I post those as my theme music to get them out of my head. It seems to work. Sometimes, though, the stuck song isn’t deserving of being the day’s theme music.

That’s the case today. This song isn’t the theme song, but I’m sharing it with you. It’s from a famous movie, so you might now it.

Yes, it’s “The Thermos Song” by Steve Martin from The Jerk (1979).

I don’t want it for today’s theme music.

As The Jerk came out in 1979, I started thinking about that year. While placing myself in that moment, my mind had a perverse idea, introducing The Smashing Pumpkins’ song, “1979”, from 1996, in my head. Oh, that brain, what a rascal.

It’s been over a year since I used “1979” for a theme song. (Yeah, I looked it up.) Why not, I thought. 1979 was a simpler time for me. Not for others, of course. As we slide over the time spectrum, time and life, and their impact on us, shift. Sometimes things skip off his like a stone skimming across a still pond. Other days, news whacks us like an asteroid taking the Yucatan Peninsula.

For me, though, best memories are not the ugly ones, but the sweet ones where I remember laughing with friends, getting ready to go out, and generally worrying about things other than drought, war, pandemics, politics, and climate change. It was like a day of freedom from stress.

Not all people have such stress-free days, but I’ve had some. Some of them were back in 1979. Mind you, that wasn’t a stress-free era. We still lived under the threat of nuclear war. Mr. Jimmy Carter was POTUS, and the Iran Hostage crises was the story of the day. But besides all that, I went to the movie theater with my cousins and wife in San Antonio to watch a movie called The Jerk.

Yeah, it was a good time.

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The Dreams

No dreams last night that I remember. Wonder what that’s all about?

Slept normally and feel wonderful today. Strong and exciting day of writing yesterday. Holiday parties successfully navigated, and now in the rear view mirror.

I guess, no stress. The dreams were standing down for the night. Odd feeling, not to have dreams to think about as I pursue the morning.

Onward.

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Cannafloofbidiol (CFD)

Cannafloofbidiol (CFD) (floofinition) – A chemical reaction induced by talking, petting, or being with animals, useful for reducing people’s anxiety and stress, with end results often said to be similar to ingesting or inhaling CBD.

In use: “She wanted a glass of wine, or even some marijuana to relax, but first Louise had to sit and let her brain empty. As soon as she did, her lab curled up with her. Within minutes of talking to the lab and stroking her fur, the cannafloofbidiol had mellowed Louise to the point that anything else seemed redundant.”

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