Dentist Day Drift:a story

 The playlist was bothering her. Not in a dramatic way, but in the way that small things bother people who spend their days paying attention to details. I had recently read that some dentists prefer having their playlists organized in a specific order before they begin work, as a way of settling into the day.

One song from the 1980s would play, followed by something current, then another song from an entirely different era. She laughed and called it a wonky playlist.

I was sitting in the dental chair when the conversation drifted toward music. I mentioned that the Michael Jackson movie was coming out and that, for some reason, Michael Jackson had been on my mind lately even though I had no plans to see the film.

What fascinated me wasn't the movie. It was the discipline.

"I liked hearing about his dance rehearsals because I'm involved in dance myself, and I know that it is very beneficial to your health to have such an intense routine."

The dentist nodded.

"I used to be on the dance line in high school," she said.

As we continued talking about dance, she mentioned that her mother had also been involved with a dance line, though not the one she belonged to. Her mother helped coach another group that focused on hip-hop. Watching them perform left a lasting impression on her.

She laughed at the memory.

"There was no way I could do hip-hop. I don't know how their bodies can move like that."

I understood exactly what she meant.

"Yeah," I said. "We were supposed to be a dance team and do kicks, but somehow we only ended up doing hip-hop."

What struck me about the conversation was how quickly it moved from music to dance and then to family. I found myself curious about her mother and the path that had led her daughter to become a dentist.

I asked what her mother had done for a living.

She told me her mother had been a stay-at-home mom raising five children. Later, when the dentist was in undergraduate school, her mother returned to work as a paraprofessional in California and eventually taught virtual classes.

That detail stayed with me.

There seemed to be a connection between those two roles. A woman who spent years helping children learn and grow had raised a daughter who chose a profession centered on helping people in a different way. One worked in education. The other worked in healthcare. Both required patience, communication, and a desire to guide people through situations they could not always navigate alone.

By then, the playlist had long since moved on to another song from another decade.

What began as a passing comment about music had become a conversation about discipline, dance, family, and the subtle influence parents have on the lives of their children.

Sometimes you go to the dentist expecting a routine appointment.

Sometimes you leave thinking about Michael Jackson, hip-hop dancers, and the mothers whose quiet examples continue to shape the people their children become.

Sunday blog post

This week was busy with school activities, swimming, improv, and summer planning.

Last Wednesday, my sons school, Randolph Elementary held its school picnic 🌳. They had several food trucks on site 🚚🍔🌮 along with activities for students and families.it’s interesting to see think about the contrast between the school that I went to as a kid and his because we never had quite so many kids bike to school, even though that was the thing to do back then —like these kids do at my son’s school.

And back in the day our school never had nearly enough money to bring in food trucks !

With the school year coming to a close, we've also been getting ready for some of the end-of-year events. We gathered supplies for Fort Day ⛺ and packed some games for Board Game Day 🎲. One of my favorite board games is Guess Who?

Randolph Elementary (St Paul) offers a lot of opportunities for students. My son has participated in after-school programs, school events, and activities with friends throughout the year.

On Thursday, I took my son swimming at the YMCA 🏊‍♂️.

On Friday, we attended a birthday party at the rec center 🎂🎉. One of the activities involved throwing ping-pong balls into cups 🏓🥤, and there were lots of kids running around and having fun. Watching them interact made me wonder what they'll be like when they're all in college someday 😏.

I also met with some of the performers from Waxy Comedy 🎭🎹 at a friend's house for rehearsal. Waxy Comedy is the troupe that I lead, and we're getting ready for our upcoming performance at Improvocation on June 10 at Phoenix Theatre. We spent time rehearsing musical improv and discussing upcoming summer events for the group.

, it was a full week with school activities, swimming, a birthday party, improv rehearsal, and preparations for summer. ☀️

The Art of Listening in Motion:a rideshare story

 

The Art of Listening in Motion

Recently I found myself thinking about improv theatre while driving.

Not because I was on stage. But because every ride feels like a scene that has already started before I step into it.

Two passengers got into my car recently and said, almost casually, that they were musicians.

One of them said he was a composer. The other said he was a producer.

That alone could be a premise in an improv class: two musicians with different creative languages meet in a confined space and talk about identity, travel, and meaning.

One was from Sweden, the other from Philadelphia. They connected through Sweden immediately. Not just the place itself, but the idea of it—how small countries have tightly woven cultural ecosystems where music, TV, and comedy circulate quickly. One person knows someone who knows someone.

It reminded me of Minnesota in a strange way. The same quiet rule: you don’t just walk into people’s homes. You have to be known first.

That’s already a kind of social script. Not written, but deeply understood.

We drifted into music, comedy, favorite comedians, and people they’d met. One of them told a story about being in Central Park and meeting a comedian carrying soccer gear.

And I realized: this is improv too. Not on a stage, but in real time. People entering and exiting each other’s stories without rehearsal.

They were in town looking for a Best Buy, trying to find a specific cable for a keyboard. Something they couldn’t get shipped. A practical need pulling them through the city.

At one point I almost went with them, because I was also thinking about cables, connectors, small technical problems that feel oddly urgent in the moment.

That’s another thing about improv: you say yes to the reality in front of you, even if you don’t fully understand it yet.

But the deeper layer wasn’t the cable. It was the way the conversation kept forming invisible connections. I found myself trying to link people together—Sweden, a friend I know there, this passenger’s story, cultural overlap, coincidence. Like my mind was constantly building a web of possible intersections.

I think that’s what I’m really doing in these moments. Not just listening, but mapping relationships between people who will never meet again.

Earlier that day I had done an interview I felt good about. Later, I told passengers about it, and they asked how it went. There was something grounding about that—these brief strangers holding fragments of my day like it mattered.

Another ride took me through downtown Minneapolis with a woman trying to find an address among buildings that all looked the same. GPS looping. Phones confirming nothing. We circled back to where we started.

It felt like another kind of scene: repetition, confusion, search for orientation.

In the middle of it she talked about advocating for herself. Then admitted that she struggles with it too. Her twin, she said, is the one who can navigate the city easily.

There was something honest in the way she said it, like she was describing not just navigation, but confidence.

She also talked about her dogs—Chihuahuas she has to carry in a stroller because they refuse to walk.

At some point I called it a “mothering instinct.” She corrected me, gently, but the word stayed in the air anyway, like a line that reveals more than it means to.

That’s the thing about these rides. People reveal themselves in small, unplanned ways. Not in speeches, but in fragments. A story about a dog stroller. A joke about being lost. A casual mention of a twin who is better at life in some invisible way.

And I realize now that improv isn’t just about speaking without a script.

It’s about noticing what people are already saying when they think they’re just talking.

The heart of every scene is already there. You don’t create it—you listen for it.

And sometimes, driving through a city full of strangers, I think that might be the only real skill I’m practicing.

Not performing.

But staying present long enough to hear what the moment is actually trying to say.

The Price of Being in a Room:A rideshare story

 

Vision is a strange thing.

You don’t always realize what you’re seeing clearly and what you’re not until someone points it out.

That’s how the conversation started.

My rideshare client shared that she had just had cataract surgery and that one of her eyes still seemed like it was changing. The doctor said she might still need glasses.

At first, when they told her she had cataracts, her reaction was, “Oh no, I’m too young for cataracts.” “My dad had them.”

Then she started describing the surgery.

“They make a slit in your eyeball.”

“Oh my God.”

She laughs lightly.

“Don’t think about it. The procedure is very fast.”

Like that fixes it.

Then she mentioned that cataracts can come from something as simple as steroid use over time.

That lands.

I tell her I recently had a steroid injection in my neck, and I’ve had several orthopedic injections in my knee. My mind is already going—like maybe I need to slow down with that.

She says, “Yeah, I’ve had my share of things too.”

Then she says after her procedure, she had a chauffeur.

Then she asks me what I do.

And for some reason, I say:

“Yeah, I just go downstairs and usually the nurse is following me, and then when they exit, they keep reminding me about my chauffeur… and then I just start running away.”

There’s a pause.

“So you don’t meet anyone in the parking lot?”

“No.”

“So you basically drive yourself home?”

“Yes.”

And that’s when it hits me.

I am currently driving her.

Her life is in my hands.

So I backtrack.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh no,” she says. “That’s fine.”

Which is what people say when they’re being polite.

I try to explain it.

“It’s just that I’m a single mom. I don’t really have that kind of support system.”

She understands.

Then the conversation shifts.

Not away—just sideways.

I tell her about a friend of mine who built schools in Africa. I met her through a writers group, one of those spaces where you don’t have to pay your way in, you just show up and write.

That connection led me into a completely different world.

The first time I visited her house, there was a pool in the basement. And she ordered DoorDash every day.

It’s one of those moments where you don’t immediately label it as wealth—you just realize you’re in a different version of normal.

She laughs when I say that. She gets it.

She tells me she’s had similar experiences—meeting people who live on completely different financial levels than she does.

Then she tells me about college.

“I had a roommate,” she says, “and she was cleaning the toilet with Windex. And she goes, ‘Am I doing this right? I’ve never cleaned a toilet before.’”

She laughs, but she’s impressed.

“She wasn’t used to it. But she was willing to learn.”

That sticks.

Not where someone comes from—but how they move when they’re somewhere new.

Before she gets out, she tells me she used to be a teacher.

“I can organize things,” she says. “Lesson plans, structure… but entrepreneurship? That feels like something other people do.”

I think about that for a second.

The “other people” line.

Then she asks me about writing. About comedy.

And when I tell her, she pauses.

“You remind me of Melissa Villaseñor,” she says. “You should follow her. The way you talk about it—it’s similar.”

I laugh a little because it catches me off guard.

Most of the time when I mention writing or comedy, it doesn’t land anywhere. It just passes through the conversation.

But this time it does.

Not as validation.

More like recognition.

She thanks me, gets out of the car, and closes the door.

And I sit there for a moment before driving off.

Thinking about how often people are moving through class without saying it out loud.

Not in big dramatic ways.

Just in small adjustments.

What you assume you can say yes to.

What you quietly calculate before you say no.

What you think you’re “supposed” to understand in a room.

And I realize the conversation in the car wasn’t really about cataracts or surgery or even health.

It was two women trying to figure out where they stand in the worlds they keep walking into.

One of us talking about school invitations and indoor parks and trying not to overthink the price of things.

The other talking about fundraisers where everything from fifty dollars to twenty thousand exists in the same room.

Both of us recognizing the same thing in different language.

That class isn’t something you declare.

It’s something you navigate.

Every day.

Sometimes while you’re driving.