Short Salad Saga

So many choices at a salad bar. Not as many, it seems, as local drive up cracky speaker, self-serve (any more) fast food joints, though. I have to mindfully decide to up-size my heaping spring salad mix instead of that decision being forced upon me by well-intentioned, high margin cholesterol pushers. No fizzy sodas. No grease smells wafting around my clothes that gleefully linger throughout the day. Just me, the lettuce options, and …. so much more.

I’ve done this salad bar thing before – inside a local grocery store, where fifty-year old guys contemplate their internal organ conditions and consider a healthy lunch option every so often. Shouldn’t speak for other guys, however, ’cause I never nudge elbows or share baby corn tongs. I’m always alone. Me and #4471, the code for weighing the multi-colored , sometimes dry concrete heavy monstrosity I end up with at the end. Some say, “Eat salads! They’re light ..” … Yeah, right.

If I don’t somehow manage to drop 16 other containers on the floor trying to unglue one off the top, the process usually begins post haste. Four lettuce types – only one of which I really like: CHUNKS !!. Love the chunks. Iceberg chunks. If spinach and spring mix came in heaping chunks and cores of deliciousness, I believe the earth could stop spinning right now. Could’t find too many of these within the icy bins holding all the necessary base-salad leafy greens, so an assortment of boringly flat, wimpy, “please take me” scratch had to do.

Sliding down the bar of no-fat/no joy, I encountered the next option: smaller vegetables. Carrots shaved down to one size larger than the human hair, onion circles attached to one another somewhere rendering one without six others almost impossible, and cherry tomatoes sized to not match the end of the very tongs assigned to them … all standard utility every time I visit. Accompanying these were the peas soaking in water (no thanks), small dry broccoli and cauliflower florets, olives, and bell pepper slivers. Necessary pile-ons. To pass over these would’ve been sacro-salad-sanc. How embarrassing it would have been to the scratch spinach .. naked to the world, uncovered, bare, exposed – if only for a minute as I focused my attention on the next, most sexy-named group: Les Legumes.

“Ah, my sweet Legumes”, rolls off the tongue as easily as, “I love you, my lovely sweet plume.”. As an aside, say it with a deep French accent – not aloud in the grocery store, but very much alone as you read this …. Anyhow…chickpeas, black beans, white beans, or pinto beans – the third choice group down the slide. My pleasure in this group is watching the little tan chicks roll around, finding their way through the cracks and hopefully disappearing into the darkness. THIS is why chunks are so important! They give topography to the salad. Depth. Meaning. Never would I ever pass by my little chick-a-dee-peas.

Around the corner to the tough neighborhood. Feeling the weight upon my shoulders and #4471 friend, we enter the dark alley of the macaroni boys. Their gatekeeper, at the end, was a group who shake down all who dare to turn: bacon bit and crouton tumblers who will mix it up with you if you dare. I chose not to, walking wide around the alley of despair, hoping to face the macaroni boys head on – feeling quite confident as I previously avoided these two without incident.

The macaroni boys are bold and arrogant. They hold special favor in the salad bar neighborhood due to their heft. They throw around their multi-syllabic mac-a-ro-ni weight knowing a few ladle-fulls in a plastic bin of unawareness can tip the scales in the favor of profitability. Next to the hard boiled egg clan living next door, who could provide an admiral food fight, the M.B’s hold a tight reign of terror over salad bar city. I plucked a few spiral cousins, gently, from the clan before the bosses recognized me, and quickly shuffled out of there before trench coat Willie spotted me and put out a pasta hit on my ^ss.

Last up the line were the incidentals. The unintendeds. Colory little hickeymadoos the grocery store so graciously allows us to see. A few drop down meats of fish pieces, turkey chunks, ham, chicken, and protein options strewn about usually find their way into my one-or-two chunk pile salads. Cheeses shredded down, and nuts of all naturally nuttiness, nutrious goodness get a spoonful or two of my attention. … Puddings, salsas, and creams (I think) don’t, but are there for another fifty-year old(ish) guy wanting some. Possibly crackers in packages and dressings in bottles to use are there and packs of same to buy separately at a ridiculously high per ounce price.

Certainly other salad bars – and this one as well – have other, different, items available for the more discerning shopper. I am a focused – know what I want at the end of a salad bar tong – guy. That said, the check-out always surprises me. Always. I blame BABY CORN ON THE COBS!. The damn things must weigh 3 pounds each. Ordinarily, #4471 should be reasonably priced, right?

I’m not going to rant on and on … know why? Because I’m not going to change. I’m not going to ever make a salad at a salad bar without them in order to find out the difference in price. They’re just that good.

Feeling proud of my decision to eat healthy, I finished my salad while in the process of writing this short salad saga. My friend, #4471, and I can close out the the entry proud we did it together.

I snapped shut an empty plastic container about an hour ago and will be placing it into the recycle bin shortly. Thankful, as always, to share this time with you … and, in a way, to have my clothes not smell like grease.

I mark my life safe from the macaroni boys as well for another day.

Urge to Purge

Up for consideration is the great American urge to purge. The greatest past-time activity of adults with a few extra minutes and specific, idealistic thoughts about how things should be. Is this a new thing? Or, can we just define “new” as the latest iteration of already existing behaviors and notions? Maybe “Nothing new under the sun” is the answer, idiomatically accredited to the book of Ecclesiastes.

As assumed, it isn’t every one. Some sit in their boats with thankful hands free in the air. “Whatever is, is, and there’s no reason to fret about it”, according to reasoning in their boats not-a-rockin’. Others, anticipating purge-atory word-wobbling, white knuckle the sides of the very boats in which they sit … spouting thesis and assumptions. Two very different ways. Should be easier to live the former, in my opinion, but I’m seeing the latter more and more.

The urge to purge. Spouting about things by creating mountainous geysers of presuppositions upon molehills of misinformation. This is what is being done. Over and over ….. and over. I see it in Facebook strings, other social media sites, national media, print, local chatter, and online articles. Some responsible journalism sprinkled in, to be sure, but much ado about nothing otherwise.

Today’s purge wasn’t going to be such, however. Stepping aside and allowing the words of should be to pass me by, I planned a different kind for myself – one requiring physical effort and mental memory cleansing:

A STORAGE UNIT / GARAGE / HOUSE / SHED Clean-Out !!

Two ladies came quickly at the precise time scheduled, 15-foot cargo trailer in tow. First stop? A two car storage garage where years of not-so-stackable, leaning cardboard boxes of all shapes bend into corners and crevasses. The near final resting place of my grandparents’ china patterns, old records, tools, rusty advertising signs, and Tupperware bins full of cards, comics, and collectibles. Three adults in a garage, moving stuff – not seen in years – into a trailer … along with little memories, one at a time. Necessary purging. Absolutely awesome.

Contractually, the two nice ladies helping me aren’t finished. We are about 50% done with the project (the house stuff remains and storage has some items yet to be removed). They are organizers who sell clean-out inventory and split proceeds 50/50 with their clients. I love the plan, mainly because the idea of yard-saleing all the porcelain, pipes, perfume, pottery, pillows, pens, and packrattery defies everything I believe about what to do with my spare time.

One emotional hang-up still to be resolved is my mom’s jewelry box. It sits silently on a table and will remain there until I decide something … a something as of yet undefined. This is one of the stuffs unpurgable…and they are the should be’s in life: memories so deep and meaningful never to be purged. We have them collecting tiny, tucked-away particles in our brains, attics, closets, and storage garages.

This simple box was not to be my unpurgable today, but it ended up being so. I knew it was there among the leaning. I understood the risks inherent among the inherited boxes saved and stored. It opened my memories when I gently peeked the padded cream colored top and saw her faux beads, rings, earrings, necklaces, key ring full of keys, and all the shiny, glittery glam inside that really wasn’t her … but knowing her hands graced the very top of that box was enough memory for me. She was there with me. All the memories of my life with her before she died, in that moment. This moment I never need to have purged from my life as I stood in the midst of obsolete objects.

Old grills, tables, and vases melted moments into hours as we pushed forward. Their tow along creaked as bigger, heavier picture frames and boxes were pushed into place toward the back end, behind buckets and bins filled with trinkets, toys, and tawdry towels. In the top spaces where only skinny folks dare go, we swifted thin paper goods – posters, pretty pictures, pastelled prints – to lessen the burden of tomorrow’s haul.

Tomorrow will arrive with expectations just as today did. I hope to have this project done by the day’s end when my friends pull away – towing a trailer full of purged non-words away. Stuff taken for the enjoyment of others. I may see a financial return from the sales, well… I most likely will due to the area where I live. It’ll be nice to have some money in return, however, walking out of a garage today … and by extension tomorrow… knowing I had the urge to purge, is the better feel good feeling.

I’ll take tonight to think about mom’s jewelry box. Maybe jump over to Facebook and check out some opinions about this-and-thats. So many have purging to do these days. Taking into consideration all they have to say, I still contend my purge today is the better way to go.

Good Deeds, Indeed

Not about me at all. Three circles in a very familiar logo.

Again, today isn’t about me. Let’s consider three different meanings for the circles:

ACCEPTANCE: Being open to do any kind act at any time.
MORALITY: Doing the right thing when called upon by a moment.
GRATEFULNESS: Accepting an outcome, but expecting none.

The other day I found a packet of insurance papers / registration cards resting comfortably on the sidewalk outside a local restaurant. It was immediately obvious this fell out of a car previously parked in the space I just – not so graciously – nudged a fresh set of tire marks on the curb. No harm done. I must humbly say if there existed annual awards for parallel parking, I’d have many dinners in my honor. That day, however, was a beautiful, sunny, seasonably-off, distractable-weatherish confundery, so I can be excused for not paying as much attention as necessary. Skid marks and a few mph’s extra aside, the cutting in and angle was only a degree or two off, anyway, and the back tire of my inexhaustable Honda spend only mere seconds atop an already cracked curb. So, again, no harm done … except to maybe my ego.

The packet I saw almost immediately, face up, slightly soiled, as if to say, “I’ve been through something, but not here”. Names, address, policy number, … all the pertinent information I’m quite sure the owner didn’t want to be in the hands of a stranger – who I was at the time. Fortunately, the sticker – with three circles in a very familiar logo – had above them a name. An agency owner. A friend. A wonderful coincidence.

A chance for the owners to take a deep breath they didn’t know they could take at the time – IF they even knew this packet was missing. I knew it was, but couldn’t really do anything about it at the time being a weekend with my friend’s agency closed at the time. My purpose for being in town, anyway, wasn’t to claim a lost insurance packet runaway. I wanted a three-egg veggie omelet and iced-tea from the black-and-white awning cafe on the corner 1/2 block down … where folks were already gathered around heavy black iron tables enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Umbrellas up, kids laughing, brunch plates full, piled high with fruit, toasts-a-plenty, veggies and bacon club sandwiches as I made my way down the sidewalk.

Passing through those enjoying the company of their soon to be full friends, I settled into one of the back smaller tables for two, by myself, under a flat screen t.v. infrequently watched. This cafe, one seldom visited for common everyday, mundane news, finds itself a home for those less interested in national chatter. Personal stories and local heart warming trends trump all the international intrigue caught in the net of vanilla noise. It was the perfect place to sit, order a healthy omelet with only two out of three yokes, and slightly pat the packet I slipped in my left breast checkered sport coat pocket. “What to do until Monday?” I whispered under my breath as the couple very near at the table to my right quizzing looked over. “Oh,”, I leaned over, “I have a small decision to make … I have plenty to DO. I wasn’t trying to figure out my time until Monday.”. They had no response. Thinking back, that may have been twenty-three more words than necessary. My answer back to myself, eventually was … nothing. Do nothing.

And that’s what I did.

Today I stopped in to my friend’s agency and turned over the packet. This was after taking a few minutes yesterday searching through Facebook for the folks. Thinking maybe I could find them – address being only a few towns over – and then send the packet in the mail? Or, call them. Pretty much all the options were on the table, except the obvious one I already agreed upon with myself previously, alone, in a wonderful cafe. Relaxed and in control.

That’s the story. Nothing different from yours, perhaps. Except, maybe the tire marks. Well, c’mon now. Different time and place, but I KNOW you have done it, so fess up.

It is all the little stories like this, throughout our lives, that make a difference. Thankful, in a way, Mr and Mrs Anonymous parked in that space and left just in time for me to find it. I’m forever indebted to the invisible hands that lifted a slightly soiled packet out of their car and placed it comfortably on the sidewalk. Pleased I found, kept, and returned it.

Maybe still a stranger to my new friends a few towns away, but never to Acceptance, Morality, and Gratefulness. The three circles in a vary familiar logo that is our life. I saw them last week and had time to hold them in my hand for a few days.

Reminded that we should be open for moments to do the right thing, expecting nothing in return. Except it is never nothing. We always do get something back. I walked out of my friend’s agency feeling good. There was never a second thought of mis-using the information I had in my hands. That’s not how I roll. When her secretary told me they’d take care of it, a sense of completeness and “You did a good thing, my man” took over my day and will remain in the bucket of hours until the midnight of the clock spills into another day.

Again, today isn’t about me. It’s about three circles. Yes, small things. Feel goods. Good deeds, indeed, for all of us when we can.

Fair Game

Life lesson #1 If STAYING AHEAD OF THE GAME is the object, you need to first ask yourself: “What game will I be playing?”. When headed to the park expecting to play checkers, it’s really cool being prepared with two different colored circle pieces and an 8×8 board. It isn’t cool finding out you actually needed hip streamers, an oblong inflated ball, an old college Greek t-shirt, and smelly sneakers to play flag football in the park. When you show up with a little bag of checker chips, SPF-100, an inflatable bench seat, and picnic basket, you’ll soon be bored. Sitting beside a checkered board on the sidelines, your mildly irritated friends consider the formerly innocent moves of “king me” and “double jump” as a possible forms of punishment. You begin to see the memo you missed – clearly written in the dust left behind from the wind storm of your regret.

Life lesson #2 If KEEPING YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME is the object, you need to first ask yourself: “Am I paying attention to the players around me?” Let’s assume you are forgiven and invited to participate. Big assumption, but we’ll go with it. The very friends you had fruity cocktails and vodka shots with the night before, now take every opportunity to surround your hesitant soul with with one goal in mind: Embarass the over-lathered lotioned checker chip bagger. Some friends call this forgiveness at all costs and you wear a multi-colored target on your back as the chosen one. Chosen to participate in a game not of your choosing.

Life lesson #3 If IT’S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL SOMEONE GETS HURT, you need to first ask yourself, “Is this worth it?” Is the grass crunching under everyone’s feet and stale air whistling past your ears worth the jeers, fears, tears, and time with your peers? Certainly must be because you are still in the game, right?. Play’ahs smile and wink ever so slightly when they whisk by you … still consumed by your checkered past. The same counter belly-rubbers who bent over a smokey bar table the prior evening and said, “Let’s meet tomorrow and play a game!”. They who should have wiped the glasses of conversation a bit clearer when describing the game. A game they, themselves, are certain to be flagged – more than you – for their pregame ambiguity and in-game dust ups. On the field of play, hurts happens – it is an until, not an if. So you’re really in a defensive position at the mercy of well-mean(ing) compatriots who knew better, but chose to play by a different cruel book. Sometimes it’s not the game, it’s the players.

Life lesson #4 If AT THIS STAGE OF THE GAME, you need to first ask yourself, “Is this where I want to be right now?”, either the game or the players need a second look – possibly a third. Running through the options in your head is the best option coming out of the huddle-puddle these mud ruckers put you in. What looks like an innocent game of flag pulling has become the biggest contest of run-around with you at the center of it all. As the non- ball bearing appeaser – an uncompensated, unrecruited position to boot – you will spend valuable time defending the indefensible friends living on their narrow field who will never see your extraordinary field of vision.

Life lesson #5 If AT THE END OF THE GAME, you need to first ask yourself, “Was it worth it?”, and the answer is “no”, return to the sidelines. Pick up your wonderful bag of checker-chips, head back to the bar from where it all began, and sit beside players of life who recognize your vision of an inflatable bench seat for two or more … where real friends sit together…

…. on the sidelines watching the game of life play out while engaging each other in a fair, respectable game of checkers. One expecting and knowing the game of the other. All conscious of one another. No one getting hurt.

Flag football people, life lessons #1-4 … the unfortunate expectations we place on friends who aren’t genuine friends; Co-workers who aren’t real co-workers. Family members who aren’t honest family members. They are, but aren’t in the truest sense. In their minds, it is Fair Game to play with us … our minds and emotions. We allow the game assuming our best interests are in play, but they aren’t. This is why we show up on the sidelines unprepared, … and play anyway. Trust.

There is hope as mentioned. Belly up to a latte, deal yourself in a card game, spin a stick in almost dry dirt …. whatever. Someone will nudge up beside you with an open arm and become a teammate for life. Find them. You need them to help carry your extra large bag of checker chips when a crowd of extra-special friends meet at the park to celebrate your extraordinary field of vision.

Sofa, So Good

What is it about this almost complete silence? The 3 a.m. hush, save the once in a while furnace hum or swoosh of the blanket covering my feet, interrupted only by the light of a very early moon sleeping through slotted shades. It is a quitely mood. “Quitely” the best I have in my inventory of wonderful words to soften, even more, the mood of the moment. It is peaceful being here during this cold morning in February.

I didn’t find myself here, on this sofa, by chance. It’s by design … an unfortunate design of mis-alignment in spinal bone-age. Nothing too serious, just a small irritating annoyance. This sofa hugs my body better than a bed during times of hurty. And, of course, it is closer to a refrigerator full with humus, celery, and salad dressing (singular). Oh, wait. I believe there’s an apple in there as well.

We need these places. To think. Perhaps to meditate if so inclined. I need this space. Not necessarily to write about it, but to experience the quitely-ness within it. All of us do. For me, however, most times I do necessarily have to fill the time tapping words into the bright light breaking the darkness.

So many ideas and inspirations have blossomed from this early morning / late night recline. Time well spent healing a bad set of spine parts and exercising a brain wanting to show itself, and others, a pathway to the whys in life. Many unanswered, dusty writings sit in the queue awaiting the call. I revisit the casting couch to re-audition the wannabes every month and find them embracing the same attitudes … bitter, joyous, thankful, sarcastic, funny, etc… Not surprising since I’m the one responsible for their mood in the first place. Most will stay undiscovered, I’m glad to say. The editing process too involved and their agents too demanding.

This sofa. This couch of possibilities. Early morning writings in the queue and ones making the bright lights of fame among the stars. Parumph! (Oh, just for effect … that was the trash man disturbing the hush as he picked up the trash for the week).

There are the moments, undisturbed, when quitely opens up a door and in walks an undiscovered star in the making. A raw set of words jumbled on the floor in front of the casting couch. She weeps because life hasn’t been kind to her. A chance to be seen, to be heard, to once again be whole is all she wants. Her hand punches through the almost complete silence beside my sofa when I am here and open for auditions. As with all directors I assume, the mood has to be right and the lighting just so.

It is so peaceful here. I know … it’s worth repeating. Fortunately, today is looking like a good day. Sofa, so good, right?

Find your sofa place. A place to audition the ideas and dreams you have for your life. A weary bone resting couch to ease the worries life rests upon your shoulders. Where can you blanket yourself to get warm? Where can you enjoy only a 3 a.m. hum and nothing else? Where is the moon for you and you alone?

Answers are not easy. Especially from a guy who doesn’t take his own advice 99% of the time. These sofa times are easy to write, harder to live. That’s why they’re special. If every day, not so much … I wouldn’t even be writing about them. So ….

… Time to enjoy the moments away from the bright light of stardom, or a cell phone…. and take in the welcoming peek of a moonlit morning through the shade … during a quitely nice early morning in February.

2020 Vision-ary

Finding today fascinating, I sit with a cold iced tea to my left and the never too far away cell phone resting near the computer mouse to my right. Down in the wee corner of the screen ahead, tucked away in almost obscurity, are little organized numbers and dashes. Directly above these I see 1:07 PM, indicating I have exactly one hour, twenty-two minutes to organize my thoughts before time expires. At that time, out into the cold I will go … attempting to sew the minds of the youth with the wisdom of the ages.

To what do I refer? 2/20/2020. Certainly not the press 02/02/2020 received as the palindrome princess eighteen days ago! I find today, in comparison, to be cleaner. It has a simple message forward: One number (2), followed by two numbers (20), followed by four (2020). Moreover, that one number doubled equals two, then two doubled equals four. Two (2), of course, being the multiplier and the only number, other than zero, to appear in the date AND there are only (2) dashes within the whole display. Totaling up all the numbers including the zeros? 7. Days in the week? 7. Coincidence? Ok, well maybe the last example one isn’t the exclamation point I was hoping for, but ….

..but what? I like this date today. I also may be the only one who does. A true visionary in the field of date recognitionary sciences, perhaps? Ah, I doubt it. Numbers, dashes, and any other visible nouns – are caught by these eyes …

… and held hostage longer than they should – at my insistence. Daily. It’s a problem: this internal requirement demanding everything I see go through a mental grinding mill. In goes information boulders some may find passively entertaining. Out comes blather opinion dust blowing everywhere, with no specific direction, subject to the freaks of natural selection. Processing the sentiment inside? A machine with cogs and pistons of reasons, spirits, feelings, to-do lists, wants, needs, huhs, don’t-get-its, whys, and hurts.

I don’t believe I am alone. All of us have this complex, weird brain process. We must grind through the day accumulating a mountain-load of rocks in order to keep the waters of life’s dam at bay. Information everywhere asking our cerebral matter to takes matters into its own hands … then friendly forced to state our views, meekly or assertively, written or aloud. Too much I say, for an over-punchy, look-at-that now kind of person. Way too much.

My mom was a look-at-that inspirational figure. Her enthusiasm for life urged her to do it. I do believe this was an escape from what was real – not living a life she really wanted for herself. Everything outside was magically keeping the perilous waters at bay. Her eyes caught everything including the beauty inside everyone and everything; although, she missed the beauty in herself represented in the you are special dust that blew from her into the hearts of all who knew her. Thus, the complex grinding mill of one wonderful mother, no longer alive, who is very much responsible for the genetic fuel in my mind motor.

Still, today is, has been, and will continue to be fascinating. Maybe only to me? 2/20/2020 really looks sexy. All those 2’s… Oh, and it is almost 7:00 pm. I was busy soaking in a ton of information since 1:07 as my mind processed a ton of rocks labeled music, chinese food, traffic, poker, emails, and texts. Deadline of 2:30? Didn’t happen. Obviously. I’m sure as I attempt to rest tonight, I’ll be Wile E Coyote’d again. Always happens. Too much information to process.

Tomorrow is 2/21/2020. Good thing. I don’t see that as being nearly as sexy.

Cafe Conversations

Three of us sat idle in our familiar booth this morning. The conversation, however, was anything but lethargic. It moved about, weaving among pillars of ideas embossed with individual views of politics, relationships, entertainment personalities, friends, and food choices. The variety of topics inside this imaginary, echoed vestibule – where my chummy pack of commoners meet almost every morning – are always subject to debate and, as well, never fully caught in grasps of resolution. Therefore, tomorrow meetings are always an understood must in order to continue weaving among the pillars.

We are three of a larger group that would require a bigger booth if all arrived on any given morning. My best guess is around fifteen, counting spouses who would be brave enough to actually show up and admit owning the deed to the one claiming such. Any concoction of us would blend in among a crowd of bald, short, tall, well-dressed, old, rich, poor, colorful, mouthy, meek, humorous, smart, and/or non compos mentis plebeians in any cafe, Anywhere, USA. Fortunately for them, I am a blogger. I glean interesting insights into the differences between us, as a group, and other batches of bloviating booth mates. Unfortunately for my great goons, I HAVE to write about them once in a while because they are weird … each one of them individually, and wholly as a tribe. I define this small mass of humanity as my loving and caring goofball chat mates who sit idle almost every morning with me, but can’t shut up long enough to understand the wisdom churning in my ever spinning brain.

Today, two of them sat with me and I with them.

The challenge lies in not naming them by name on the outside chance they read this. No specific descriptors are permissible by my own standards because of the risk inherent. I shall, therefore, call out Thor, the first of the two gods of the obvious. In using gods of Greek mythology, I avoid any conflict therein and also bring into question my own beguiling sense of irony. For in doing so, I am challenging myself to square-peg-round-hole my words through the side pains of high intensity laughter.

Thor asked, “What is a blog?”. A fair question asked fifteen minutes into the morning. Strange to never have been asked previously as we almost always talk about my writing while munching over unbuttered toast, eggs, scrapple, medium bacon, fried potatoes, or pancakes. This subject came up after discussing Vanna White’s net worth and my recent indiscretion involving a certain dog at a local salon. Well, it wasn’t really the dog’s fault as much as was mine, to be honest, …

Anyway, my response was the usual, “Oh, a blog is, ….” …” and, “the blogosphere is where..” .. ” Oh, and if you go to my site, like I’ve suggested you do, it’s a portal to possibilities where you can experience all my blogs by dropping down the menus ….” See where I’m going with this? … and where Thor didn’t go?

He sat there patiently caressing his hammer, most likely wanting to smack me across my thunder mouth. A simple question with a four letter word: B-L-O-G. I rearranged his world by resorting to a retort of glob – a mashup of words resembling what could best be described as mumblefarts. I not-so-quickly recognized my error, reset my tongue, and began again:

“As a blogger, I own a planet-blog where I live by myself … writing every day or so. My planet-blog, named Doughugs, floats around with many, many other planet-blogs occupied and owned by other writers. The space in which we float around together is a universe. This very large universe is the blogosphere. Readers get on spaceships and visit as many planets as they want and don’t have to live on any planets. Subscribers can get an alert on their spaceship when a planeteer writes a new story, so the pilot can head over there if they want to. There are 600 million planets with at least 31 million actively writing one post each month, so our space friends could be very, very busy traveling if they so desire.”

Thor understood from that point forward, although I knew the chances were slim-to-none he would ever get his generational-gap ship off the internet launch pad. That’s ok. I’m glad he asked. Usually I pepper him with the occasional tart-teaser from one of my recent blogs, wetting his appetite for a snarky, sarcastic volley in return from his bag of comments. Replies, for the record, he’s very adept at – usually sizzling them across the bacon awaiting its own tongue lashing on my plate.

Sitting to my right was Alectrona, goddess of the morning. She is just as much a regular as Thor … and I guarantee the word “regular” based on the amount of black poison she drinks before 9 a.m. . I’m entitled to the phrase, “black poison”, by shear logic. I am alive due to having never, ever allowed one drop of the stuff to approach, touch, or breach my labium superius oris. If then, so. Si igitur ita.

Alectrona contributes well, post-topically, to our morning word commute. Once an idea is proposed for discussion, she delightfully interjects a this-and-that with a nudge of interplay to keep the wheels of words turning. All the while strongly suggesting a refill from any waitress, customer, biologist, taxi driver, astronaut, Nascar driver, or Yeti who may or may not be passing by holding a carafe of caffeinated, highly toxic liquid. As I type and ponder, she may be the only female regular of the group. Two words I never realized and can type only in that order because “regular female” doesn’t apply.

No normal, sane girl-type would spend time with us guys. Why, then does she do it? My immediate answer is, “Why, because there are fourteen guys … of course!”… but, I’ve known Alectrona a long time and that’s just not the case. She had some bad luck in her life. More than most. I think, kinda know, she could use some good news every day. If that means hanging out with some crazy guys a few minutes in the morning talking about silly, inane letter turners who make millions, or dog problems in hair salons, well, that’s more than o.k. .. that’s fantastic.

We were anything but the Bermuda triangle of words this morning. Thor, Alectrona, and I. Three idyllic, idle sitters in a booth – weaving conversation around pillars of ideas. Many more schemes and proposals than outlined above, to be sure, as well as mugs of coffee poured (in front of others … still uck for me) found their way to innumerable joy-filled worlds. It was a scene sure to be repeated many times over in the future with other gods to be named because tomorrow meetings are always an understood must. For today, just two friends and I engaged in cafe conversations. It was nice. As always.

Precious Space

**We can’t see her eyes. though our eyes are drawn in to the magic of this moment. Two best friends. Protectors and inventors of each other’s imaginations. One becoming the other – in the shadow of a tree – overlooking the black and white of a barn in the distance. Inside that building, friends go about their day tending to their animals. Feeding, grooming, caring.

We can’t see their eyes, either. That’s ok. Maybe, off in the distance, they are getting a glimpse of this gentile girl and her dog sitting under the sun … pausing for the beauty of this moment as well.

I don’t think any of this matters to these angels. One big, soft and furry, the other yellow bow-tied, curly blond, and sweet. The precious space they share is theirs. And theirs alone. We are just observers of the magic. It is theirs to experience and ours to see and believe. They are asking us to believe in the moment.

Her little right hand is calming the earth, saying, “It’s going to be ok.” Smiles in return from her friend as reassurance. Knowing and believing in each other. Trust. Love. Comfort. Innocence.

What conversations they must have? What simple words they use, and understand?

If any of us tried to understand the magic, we’d be disappointed in the outcome. Our logic and reason would tamp down the enchantment. Our angels are not asking us, in this moment, to understand … just believe. Simply, come into their world without any adult explanations or “excuses for”….not for a lifetime … only for a short time. They know we need our time-outs from the adulting we find ourselves in all the time. That is what they see in our eyes.

A simple picture and a simple message: Don’t lose the precious spaces offered in your life when little angels offer them.

—————–

**I know the family from where this picture came. They were so gracious to give me permission for its use. Today wasn’t going to be a long post. I assumed this when I saw the picture because it is such a simple message. She is a wonderful little girl and is part of a special family. Thanks to K and B C !!

Calm Political Spirits

It’s President’s day. I don’t know where to begin about the fact that it is President’s day. What to say, right? Let me start with my recent Facebook post:

“Yesterday I was mocked. Kind of unbelievable, but not unexpected. A simple question of mine was, apparently, offensive enough to warrant such a response. Let me say, for the record, if your political posture is such that it requires you to knock me down (which didn’t happen) with mockery, I’m not impressed with you, your opinion, or the person you support.
Grow up, learn how to have a civil conversation, and then we can revisit the matter at hand.
I am a flawed human admitting my mistakes every day. This is not to say I am perfect – far from the fringes of perfection. We can have vast differences in matters regarding politics. But, I will tolerate only so much of this hatred and divisiveness … Where ARE we? Have we lost the ability to meet somewhere in a place called kind, pleasant, and meaningful where friends pull up chairs to talk with one another? As I posted below in a reply, “Dirty conversational air floating around these days making it so hard to breathe normally anymore” …”

Here are some of the wonderful comments that followed:

Though we agree to disagree everyone is entitled to their own opinions(even though mine is right). Just kidding. 😂😂😂 Hold on to your own beliefs and no one is able to take them from you my friend!😘 – CH

It will only get worse from here on. But to change it will take an enormous effort by us to keep positive no matter what. – MF

Dang, sorry it went that way. Hopefully there will be growing tiredness with dissension and we will more and more seek common ground. – KE

Remember that those who hate really only hate themselves. But they have to deflect that hatred on others because they lack the ability to effect a change or accept responsibility for their own actions. – BP

Our glorious earth spins about 1,000 miles per hour. We don’t feel this motion because the speed is constant. If we lived on a herky-jerky ball of rock instead of an enormous, smooth moving river stone floating through space, “feel it we would” in Yoda speak. So fortunate are we to colonize a still, calm world … well, the perception of such from space, anyway.. Did I mention today is President’s day?

Our collective heads are spinning faster than 1,000 miles per hour. We feel it because the motion isn’t constant. It’s one side pulling against the other in an adult playground game of who-can-be-the-less-adult tug of war. We expect to see a principal – an overseer of rules – monitoring activity over near the edge of the grass, but notice no one. Who we see are all the elected from an elementary school of privilege where we, the uninvited, must sit idly by and watch through a fence erected through years of our indifference.

This is where we choose to take our stand these days and I don’t see it improving. Shouting through the holes in the fence, but not at the ones who deserve the wrath. We go to social media .. and yell at each other, apparently. I say we, politely so, because I will never, ever call out someone personally. Above is as close as I will ever come to a personal attack on anyone. That was a bad day for the other gentleman – I am glad to grant him a “bad day”.

Facebook, especially, is full of you-are-wrong-and-I am-right political memes, commentaries, opinions, jokes, stats, pictures, and insults. More friends are lost than found. This isn’t the fault of Facebook. Mark Zukerberg invented a format for us to share ideas, loves, and dog pictures. Sure, he’s made a-gazillion dollars and probably has his political leanings – agree with or not – however, he has no culpability in our decisions to click the “post now” or “like” thumb icons.

We stand in solidarity behind the fence, yet argue with each other. What good is it to stand in the mud outside a wire fence, screaming insults among ourselves, when imps are playing unending, monotonous, irresponsible, rather expensive games on a field tilted, unfortunately for all of us, in their financial favor?

Yet, we have this day, President’s Day. A day set aside to honor George Washington’s birthday. The day became known as Presidents Day when it became part of the 1971 Uniform Monday Holiday Act. Pretty much an act to give federal employees a three day weekend. Way to go, George! Up to Me? Just give all guys named George the day off, and all the residents in the state of Washington, too.

The Presidency. Just don’t see us celebrating that office the way we used to, regardless who is sitting in that beautiful oval room. There will always be a narrow, focused segment of our wonderful fence claspers heaping unfounded praises upon the person duly elected to this great honor. As well, detractors dug in a few feet away, holding on just as tight, will immediately dispell those claims of praise and establish their own imaginary parameters of truth.

This is where we are. We can do better. I say let’s shut down the school. That way the playground swings, teeter-totter, and tug rope are all ka-put. No more games. No more fences. All of us on the same level, less-expensive playing field where we play by the same rules. We can learn how to have winners and losers again. Rich people and poor people (who can be cared for and looked after) hugging each other with no animosity or disdain. We can be less angry with each other and quit trying to decide who always right or wrong.

I decided recently that I like coconut and scallops. Way off topic; however, if I can do that, President’s day, 2020 can go a lot smoother for all of us if we decide to calm down a bit from our need to be right all the time politically. The earth will still spin. We won’t feel a thing because it is constant … as our calm spirit should be all the time.

Two Days from Love

February 16th, today, is two days from love. The consequences of vased floral arrangements are partially, if not fully, in bloom. Deep red, sweet chocolate strawberries, once nestled in the finest paper linens, have been kissed and consumed. Cards done. Exchanged, as inside words – from the hands of lovers – caressed plans for wonderful futures and reflected on one magical moment of first sight when all of time and space stopped ….

February 16th, today, is two days from love. The consequences of not receiving any acts or gifts of love or kindness are in full bloom. Chance meetings never happened. ‘Right place, right time” paradigm absent as some among us shuffle through their lives realizing it hasn’t been. Some by choice, others hoping a connection – a love – someday would write “I love you” in a glittered, $1.99 drug store find and slide it under their door. No chocolate strawberries or flowers necessary. Just that.

Two very different ways to look at today. We either want more, or desire less, depending upon our perspective. Seems a bit redundant to write it that way, but here’s what I mean:

Today is an after-effect of the love day. I’m allowing yesterday as a honeymoon/hangover period. All the wine and food needed a day to graciously find its way to the exit door, figuratively speaking😉. The “I love you” moments, hopefully, have continued, but maybe not with the intensity as before, or the “just another day-in-the life” ticks push forward into vanilla skies with no chocolate drizzle for those less fortunate. Both similar deep-breaths from that day 48 hours ago…

…When juices flowed, mixing with artificial stimuli creating magical scenarios rivaling only the greatest dime store romance novel covers. Engagement ring bells tolled, restaurant menus were filled to capacity with dilated eyes staring across wine goblets and rose-filled vases, while variations of “The Story of Our Love” were shared all across social media platforms. This was a wonderful day to be sharing love, indeed.

Until the realization that life has to be normal again. An after-effect of the love day.

“That day, nobody came to the door singing a valentine’s day song. The mail arrived early, so at least some of those bills could be paid and ready to go by Saturday morning’s pick up. Probably NetFlix was steaming a favorite t.v. show – watchable in 22 minute blocks; So, it’s likely a whole season’s worth of shows could be watched by the time eyelids become bricks around 11:00. It gets tiresome. Being alone. Especially on these romantic holidays. Year over year, desires wane and expectations lessen with each knock that isn’t heard on my door and every date not accepted”.

These words are living in all of our communities today. Some wonderful people are living wonderful lives, perfectly happy being alone, while others don’t want to be, but are. There could reasons, known or not, why a suitable partner hasn’t appeared in that AHA moment for them. We know as much about love-connections – and genetics behind match-making – as we do about socks disappearing in the laundry. To give up, or not give up? Refine the search, or settle with available? Wear two sock that aren’t really compatible because who really looks, anyway? Simply, push through another all-red holiday of mushy-mush and kissy-kiss, find some friends who will belly up to a bar for a few martinis or brews, and go back home to check the e-mail, facebook, and snapchat thing.

And realize that life has to be normal again tomorrow. An after-effect of the love day.

I’m not down at all on the February 14th day celebration. May sound like it, but no. If you’ve managed to get this far without clicking out of what seems to be a depressing post, congratulations! Your rewards check is(n’t) in the mail. The older, and higher, my age number goes, I get a bit more cynical in my opinion of these holidays. Love is a real thing. So is the “Wow, the big day’s over, now what?” let down.

I guess the whole point of all this is: Don’t lose sight of what’s normal, predictable, and steady. These special celebratory days are nice for the moment – and for those who are fortunate enough to be in a situation to celebrate them. Normal and steady can also mean being alone – happy or not – and this is also a reality for a lot of our neighbors.

This post is one day shy of President’s day, 2020. Another day to celebrate and THREE days from love. There will be no attempt from this writer to tie in Valentine’s Day with President’s Day. Nobody I know loves politics these days.

With that, my sincerely hopes that love found you hopeful in some form this weekend.

Doug