Always the Tease

It’s 3:45 in the morning and I’m up as usual. My sleep-wake cycle is all weirded out much like half the country’s attitude right now. Social screens blowing up with contrarian viewpoints, arching flame-filled volleyballs across spiked nets … works of biased broadcasting to be sure. I’m certainly not one to kick sand in anyone’s face here. Or, am I. Atlas shrugged his shoulders at the man and then became a body of reckoning by facing down his bullies. Ayn Rand served up potential of the human mind and the consequences of our good intentions in “Atlas Shrugged”. Both are digging their heels, deeply, into the dark wet sand of our emotional ripples. We sit watching them play as the volley never ends.

Above looks like an itchy, painful, sand-in-the eyes mash of mix metaphors and cross-pollinating literary plaah. I grant you that. Again, it’s early (now, 4:32 a.m.), I’ve run low of hot tea, am checking in on Facebook as I type, and hear funny voices in my head. The latter not uncommon, by the way. Oh, and we are still Social Distancing … not from anything inanimate, mind you – just from anything breathing, moving, or otherwise capable of interacting on any level keeping me from losing my ever-loving mind.

So, let’s tie all this together .. the little bit I’ve here so far. Charles Atlas Shrugged (not shagged .. be careful – now, now) Ayn Rand at the beach playing volleyball. We’re watching them early in the morning on March 29th, 2020, during a mandated mindful-ish, societal time-out. I am sipping once again after filling my monopoly-themed mug once more with Garden Andes organic tea. Facebook became boring so I clicked out and the voices still remain but are less funny …

All this to say, you have my almost complete attention. For now. To the subject at hand: The word BUT. Not, BUTT, but BUT … only one “T”. Being ever so careful, I am clarifying for clarity, exacting for exactness. In the case of this word specifically, it’s … Always The T’s, … always. T’easing and pleasing, in the most joyous of ways, during these confusing, hard days.

This word has been peeking around the dunes lately, wanting to play with the big boys and girls on the beach. I am as guilty as the next bikini-clad, batman-boxer bathing suit, speedo sporting, sand surfing writer. We invite it on our literary towels, where tanner more sporty looking words lay, without considering its ability to shun onlookers. Once a but is seen, an interested glance accompanied by a wink and a nod turns away. Exposed to the sun’s light, a but cracks open a spasm doubt previously unkown to snufflers walking by. It negates any sweet smelling idea proposed by the sentence structurer. Therein lies the rub.

I’m not completely adverse to the idea of using the but word, however, it is used way too often. It’s crammed into sentences so often I don’t think even the most exquisite among literary laxatives would ease the log jam. So apparent in columns of online social and professional colonoscopical bloviating, I find its usage exhausting. No wonder we’ve seen a run on toilet paper. It’s not just due to the Covid-19 outbreak and panic buying ad nauseam. Some fault to all the professional editors who are scurrying about, raiding the big box stores, maxing out their corporate credit cards, driving up the stock prices of Charmin, Cottonelle and Angel Soft. They are trying to clean up the crap-storm, but messes of contradictory information floating around in every crevasse of porcelain popular opinions.

So, here we are … buckets upon buckets of wet sand starting to build castles on a beach that will, eventually, be washed out … BUT for now, we have to deal with what is. A world of he-said-they-said-she-said information where everyone is entitled to their opinion preceded by the word “but”. I see it everywhere, especially in the Facebook universe where a man-boy founder’s vision of a better, less ugly world is certainly not that right now. I would argue today is more in line with Zuck’s original intent, anyway. Lining up faces in a juvenile dorm room to poll away the pretty from the ugly … just now we are substituting opinions for faces.

We are caught, non-professionals and professionals alike, in this goofy paradigm. Our line in the sand is the constantly moving narrative of what is true and what isn’t. Every day the stories change. President Trump vacillates more than a well-oiled, grease pole of slimy day old engine oil and Congress couldn’t agree on where to take a sh*, well … I’ll keep it clean because they did, sorta, manage to pass a massive relief. err… bill, BUT …

We will pay for it … eventually. There’s the rub, again.

Opinions are like ***s … as the saying goes, so I will get back to my original premise. But is a problem, Give me any proposition, follow it with “but”, and you’ve just negated your original position.

“I think you are gorgeous, but…”
“Wow, you certainly look nice tonight honey, but…”
“Thanks for your order, but…”
“I hate being Socially Distant from you, but …”
“Spiders can go suck on poison, but …”

See the problem? Now, to be clear, as a reply to another’s opinion, I could be persuaded. For example:

ME
“I’ve been up four hours now and I think the two mugs of tea I’ve consumed so far are making me delusional.”
YOU
“Yes, but think of all the fun you are having click-clacking away knowing you have all day to do absolutely nothing … abso-freaking-nothing!”

Aside from me asking why you are sitting next to me and I can’t see you, get my point? As a reply, it is ok. After your own idea, though, I’d avoid it like the Covid-19 virus…especially on social media. You’ll confuse an already stressed, red-eye-ball popping public whose tolerance for anything less than a two-seconds meme is already stretched thinner than the skin of a …. _______ (fill in your own descriptor here). The above examples are fine for humor’s sake, BUT when politics get involved, nasty-nasties comes out to play. I’ve seen it. To my shame and pity, I’ve engaged in such malfeasance to such a degree … forcing my play shovel into the sand … causing me to say…

… Here I sit. Watching Atlas and Ayn lob and volley. There are consequences of good intentions. One of them being my ability to not sleep during the night. Another, a willingness to share deep, profound knowledge with you, my loyal reader. So, here it is:

“This whole Covid-19 virus could be a once in every 100 year plague, or a simple over-hyped common flu bug, but maybe neither one. Could be somewhere in between the two. What do I know?”

Let’s hold hands in agreement as we sun bathe together here on my Superman towel. Oh, by the way, could you put some SPF 50 on my back? I’m starting to burn here.

I Had Other Plans Today

“I never thought in a million years this could happen to me. When I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong. We are guilty of not taking this serious enough from Day 1. For that, I have learned such a valuable lesson about life.
Last night we found out that I tested positive for Covid 19. I am the second case in Blair County.
This has been the worst 8 days of my entire life. I feel like I couldn’t possibly survive all of this for many more days but I need to find the strength.
If I can use my experience to help save a life, I’m happy to be honest about this with my family, friends, coworkers and community.
The good news for my coworkers is that because Jordyn was sick last week I only worked one day. I had no symptoms until 3 days later. So after speaking with the Dept of health today. They say you all are safe. ❤️
The same is true for Mikes coworkers as well. You are all safe ❤️
Once my symptoms started I’ve been home.
All it takes is ONE person that has a slight cough and thinks they are fine to go in public and touch a product at the store and not buy it and the next person comes along and touches it. Wildfire!
My symptoms started with
* severe headache
* High fever (102-103.8)every day and still going
* a cough so bad that if I had to guess I’m coughing thousands of times per day sometimes until it makes me sick or takes my breath away
* loss of taste and smell
* sick stomach
* dizziness and cloudy brain
* it’s hard to walk unassisted.
* The pneumonia has taken over every movement like how I breath and talk and use my energy sparingly.
I’m not going to feel any better for awhile. This isn’t something where you just wake up and feel better the next day.
Anyone that knows me well knows we weren’t very understanding at first of everything being cancelled. WE WERE WRONG! I am 37 years old and there are moments I feel like I won’t survive this because I feel so horrific. I can most definitely agree that an older person would have an extremely hard time with this. Do your part. Please stay home. HELP SAVE A LIFE!
Mike and Jordyn are doing well. We are under strict quarantine. I hope someone takes this post seriously and it can help change even one persons mind about staying home.
It has been impossible to keep up with messages so I’m sorry if I wasn’t able to get back with each of you. We appreciate the support so much.”

I didn’t plan on copying and pasting the above Facebook quote from our 2nd COVID-19 case in Blair County, but it moved me. Rachel’s words needed to be my words – replacing what I had planned for today’s reading. I intentionally allowed her “million years” to be your door into this experience today. Enter into a new world of us – a small western Pennsylvania county with, now, two positive cases of coronavirus.

I didn’t plan on unfollowing a Facebook friend a few minutes prior to writing this entry. A friend I’ve known over 30 years. I suspect today changed the cart path of our friendship that’s weathered far worse than one, yes one, nasty exchange. Over what? Stupid actions of guys playing golf when they should be at home … social distancing … being smart about all of this. You have two guesses as to my friend’s position on the matter. He’s all-in hoax, I’m all-in responsible “don’t know, better safe than sorry”.

I didn’t plan on being extra lazy today. It just happened. All my stuff took way too much time to not do. So many tasks undone. Minutes labored on … and on. The soup I did manage to heat up for lunch was extra slow as it turned in a forever’s time of 3 minutes. I watched with fascinating fancy as the chicken pot-pie-pea something soup spun around and spit itself into the wax paper cover. Eventually counting the dough balls as I ate them passed the time. Didn’t count the peas, though. Peas don’t deserve that kind of recognition, even on a lazy, do nothing kind of day.

I didn’t plan on convincing an elderly, close relative the virus isn’t airborne – as much as it is person-to-person contact – and he could have been outside enjoying a nice 55+ degree day. (As an aside, I do believe air can carry sneeze droplet molecules 45 minutes … if that’s accurate). He has been under this misunderstanding – mainly through watching too much TV – and self-isolated under this condition. Big props to him for “over-cautioning” (if that’s a thing) and I’m glad he did. Pleased, however, to be able to clear up the confusion and give him some breathing room outside of the rooms he has been looking at the past week or so. I believe he actually cut his grass today. Wonderful when eyes are open to what is true.

I didn’t plan on finding out one of my best friend’s sons has a birthday today. Josh would have been twenty-five if I read the Facebook comment correctly. Without knowing Josh, you’d have little awareness of his struggles in life. No need for me to give details of his life leading up to his exit from this world. Be advised he had a family who embraced his physical and emotional challenges with more love than is – almost – more than you would believe possible. I am humbly embarrassed to admit I did not know today, March 27th, is his birthday…

…Which, in a so sweet and caring twist, leads me into what I did plan for today … a memorial for another special candle day person.

My mom is, as well, no longer sharing in life’s journey with us. She died in 2012. Her long partnership with cancer gave us insight into her character as she never once complained or fought against the eventual outcome that was to be. Her joy overwhelmed us all. Her love continues to be missed.

Today was to be her day. Her 82nd birthday – to be shared, as I now know, with Josh, Rachel, and soup. Funny how things go.

I had other plans today. So did the universe. Happy Birthday, Mom. 🎂💕

Stuffy Classrooms and Hope

It is no longer an uncomfortable desk chair – among many of similar style with ages of scratched pen marks and gum – sitting in a stuffy classroom in August. This furniture in which I sit is plushy-comfy and significantly more adept at helping me stay calm. You see, as I write, I’m having 2 a.m. school flashbacks of first day, “What did you do last summer?” composition book, tell me stories. Didn’t matter what grade, teacher, building, bus I rode, or clothes worn on that first day back … some variation of “I want to know everything about your life when you weren’t here” had to be known.

Why this sudden anxiety? After all, those experiences were, … uhm, … some time ago and didn’t require any extra trips to the guidance counselor’s office or force me into a transic state of obvious obscurity. I moved forward into days two, three, and four of each year with little concern about that particular task. Giving no more thought to the teacher exhaustively pouring over my words of, “THIS is what I did …”, my steps tried to avoid larger pits of bullying, adolescence, and the blah-ugh of life I felt every day.

The summer story was always the same, anyway. Work. Don’t want to complain. So many lives with dirtier, nastier, grittier experiences in comparison and I have no right to gripe. I have not a “In the mine a boy, out a man” story to tell as I less-than gleefully found my way into strawberry fields or paper routes for summer income. Later, as permits allowed, transitioning into fast food service was easy and the dangers of black lung, methane poisoning, or collapsing walls were distant, non-existant realities. Safety with no worries and little time to recreate, summer was the time jammed in between compulsory education.

Why the anxiety now … at 2 a.m. … 40 + years later? What do I look like? A Therapist?

GEESH.

Why yes, … yes I am. I’m called upon to be my own right now. This is probably why I’m a bit anxious and the gods of teachers past decided to poke my REM. They are asking me to resolve this before the sun rises on another day. So, me … the dutiful student of things, always do what I’m told when asked of me … will comply.

Teacher: “Welcome back kids. The classroom, you’ll notice, is a bit different than before. Everything you were used to has changed. Look around. Write about what you see … “

——————-

“I don’t feel comfortable. I know you wanted me to write about what I see, but what I see makes me feel bad. You used to have happy pictures showing people holding hands, smiling, laughing… Where are they?

I’m sad. My friends are sad. They are angry at each other because what used to be kind words turned into bad words. They are not listening. Some of them are doing this unfriending thing now. “BFsF forever” thrown away.

I’m sitting here writing this looking around. My classmates aren’t happy. Their heads are down and it doesn’t look like anyone wants to do this assignment. The air here is stale. In this written silence, I ask you to open a window knowing you will not hear me. I saw you lock the door … and am convinced few others did. For my security – or the insecurity of others – I’m not entirely sure.

The windows to the outside give little assurance. Trusting what is seen out there is hard to do right now. Once calming tree branches used to massaging with the wind are now resisting harsh, cold jabs of unpredictable bruising.

Corners of this very room are the starkest 90-degree angles math has ever seen. Black and white of no variation takes hostage all colors wishing to brighten our hopes as we put pencils to our paper. This is the hardest “What did you do last summer?” I’ve ever been assigned. It’s not summer. I’m not happy. I suspect there are millions of fellow classmates in school with me right now. We’re stuck here.

Want to know what I see? Confusion. Anger. Mis-information. Greed. Political stupidity. Sadness. Death. Hatred. Bigotry.

This isn’t the conclusion, though.

What isn’t seen, but is in us, is HOPE. Yes, there are pockets of doing-good we can see. Personal stories of humans stepping up. Certainly – MOST certainly – props to ALL the medical front lines heroes pushing forward all the miracle medicine and making the hard decisions. They are my hope that we can get through all this. I have little faith in a political solution. Windmills and wishing there.

Hope is my unseen hero. It is my one-letter anagram off chance of a p-r nightmare not happening in the weeks to come. Hoping some calm, rational, peaceful minds can stand before us and teach us what we need to know about living with this pandemic.

Certainly, as IT stands before us today, we are not being properly educated in the matters at hand. No offense to you, teacher, as you read my composition over your drippy coffee, but, kindly get a clue.”

—————–

This once/100 year problem is teaching us about ourselves and showing us the real others. I’m not opposed to learning about the machinery in other folks’ skulls; However, when social media likes and dislikes turn into hatred and lifelong friendship breakdowns, there is stinkiness afoot.

Not just social media, but our own biases as well. Inabilities to accept even the smallest changes in a normal behavior pattern – even for the benefit of society – can be hard. Social distancing, I’ve witnessed as recently as yesterday, is still on the sideline for some folks … laughing their way through the day. Hand washing, coughing into your elbow, staying indoors, the 6-feet rule, sanitizing everything, all of this is sooo uncomfortably annoying – out of the normal. It’s really difficult to grasp for folks holding on, dearly, to what they’ve always known.

Staying composed while composing. This is all I can do for now. No real answers for anyone, I guess.

I’m sufficiently tired now. Two hours later and the anxiety has abated somewhat. Thanks for listening. Kinda wish my old guidance counselor’s office was available, though … better yet, my counselor himself! Now, wouldn’t that be fun? Would like to take the ‘ole composition book into his office and insist he give it a read. He may tell me I have too much time on my hands and suggest I look for a job. Oh, that’s the moment I’d be hoping for…

… that moment when I can reply, “Do you want fries with that?” Experience, after all, is the best teacher.

Think.

Thinking about thinking. This isn’t a good thing for me now. I need to be active – moving my body around in bigger areas, bouncing ideas back-and-forth with other humans. Changing the world within 6-feet of each other is a more ideal situation than what is currently in place. As I sit here thinking, too many hours inconveniently pass without a single word written. Hours into days. Thinking about thinking isn’t ideal … for any of us.

This is one of many unseen, small tragedies of this stay-in-place mandated quarantine / isolation reality. Time. Thinking time.

Our bodies are made for movement. I’m in that sliver of the self-employed population where motion produces a nice little income, so a forced voluntary stay behind your own walls and think isn’t very kind to my wallet. This situation makes an unhappy relationship between my bills and the dust accumulating in my checkbook. Other folks in my industry have been slogging their stuff about town, money-changing for goods, however, I’m not inclined to do so because of the risks involved. Thinking, in this regard, isn’t a bad idea … I guess 🤷🏻‍♂️.

I think about my mom. She died in 2012 and is lucky to be avoiding all this mess. As the quintessential social butterfly of our family, her world would be a deep crevasse of emotional isolation. A dark time this would be in her silence behind the smiles. Most unfortunate would be her unwillingness to show it as she personified the sweetness of every rose. Always the optimist … always the, “everything will be ok”-er no matter what. This was her thinking all the time. I hesitate, but think it may be true, … most in isolation right now are staying positive.

My thinking about thinking also confirms that these same people are hurting underneath. Mom was very lonely, but never let it show. Needing contact, but staying strong to keep the proverbial plates spinning, or ovens warm is status quo for now in the homes where nobody greets us at the front door. Entryways we should not be near anyway – violating our own social distancing mandates.

What are we thinking? It’s important we share the anger, doubt, and sadness with each other at home. Facebook and other social media don’t get to sit here at our table.

Pick a quiet evening once in a while with only family – no outside distractions. Perhaps a take-out pizza with extra cheese sits in the center among a few cold beers for the adults and sodas for the kids. No napkins, just pieces of torn paper towels to wipe the inevitable mistakes off Grandma’s table you’ve had for years. Good idea using her table. It holds memories from the hard years when milk and bread were much, much harder to find.

Think things through, together, out loud. I would argue every day if possible for a few minutes in between news updates, memes, texts, virtual lessons, (blogs), essential work obligations if necessary, home responsibilities, and whatevers …. Talk real emotions and feelings. This isolation is so unkind to all of us. Unnatural and uncomfortable. Don’t be positive if you don’t WANT to be. Be angry. Be mad

If you’re gobsmacked because thinking about thinking is getting on your nerves? Write a short, incoherent blog about it. Get it off your chest!! You may start to feel better …

I said, “May”.

Have a wonderful isolation everyone. I have some more thinking to do. Ugh.

Thumbs and Connections

I recently discovered Google Hangouts. This delightfully little bit of technology escaped my perview, until recently, when a friend suggested using it. We had a weekly meet-up with his daughter who needed a social-distancing lesson. Tweeking and twisting our four miles apart cameras over ten minutes, the virtual hook-up went nearly blip free save a few gaggles and glitches. I must say, “pleased” is a word infrequently used in a sentence when conjoined with recent technology, but in this case, I was.

None of us raised with cardboard clickers in our bicycle spokes, or overnight sleepovers with flashlights hovering over scary stories, could ever have imagined ourselves living with such technology. A digital age where single digits are so much more important than ever before.

I’m a pianist. Have always been. Maybe my fascination with fingers is over-hyped because of my chosen hobby/profession. I haven’t taken real good care of my filangy-friends, however. Racquetball injuries – and more than my share of goofs – have set my hands with a permanently dislocated thumb, scars, bruises and hurties time will never kiss away. I’m surprisingly ok with all of that. My younger self wouldn’t have accepted it. He kinda had his thumb up his a**. We all did …

…But, we found ways to entertain our thumbs by engaging them in dirt filled holes, doll houses, and play-dough. We used them non-sparingly to flick a little metal bell on our bikes – alerting the little worms on the road of our approach. Occasionally, dad’s laziness would call our other fingers into service, assisting the thumb in the evening’s changing of the TV broadcast ritual … from one of three black and white channels to another. A pretty simple life for thumbs.

In the 70’s, a thumb could get you across the country from New York to Seattle. Granted, not so soon after you changed the channel for your dad, but possibly a few years after graduating. Knowledge wasn’t always absorbed thumbing through a Funk & Wagnall’s encyclopedia. The cab of a CB-ing trucker named Billy-Dee was the classroom of clarity for many a hitchhiking wondering-wanderer. Roadside ideas ruminated by professors of pavement prognostication were the time stamps on that era.

Not like today when thumbs are so vital in communicating information. I’m writing … using my Samsung phone, alternating letters when needed, using opposite thumbs. Could I be sitting in my desk chair, tapping in letters with other fingers, staring at my PC monitor? Sure. I, simply, don’t want to. It’s too inconvenient. This recliner is comfortable, I have my snack table here, a TV handy if needed, and plenty of blankets.

It isn’t just texting, blogging, and other hand-held forms of writing where we’ve exceeded all youthful imaginations. We’d thumb our collective bell-bottom pant noses at the thought of sharing our joy stick with anyone. The gaming industry’s use of thumbs has well exceeded the pong-era ping fancies we entertained. Slow bee-bloops … back and forth at the end of big, thick wires attached to heavy TV’s at one end and gaming consoles at the other – with thumbs glued hours to the minute.

Today it’s hi-tech, interactive gaming. Thumbs at the ready. Local colleges have team logo matched shirts. (Back when, as Gramps would say, we matched because all of us had orange cheetoh-snack dust drizzled down the front of our shirts.) They probably have regimented thumb push-up drills, finger-fun day, and aerobics for palms. It’s just that serious.

All this to say, I’m trying new technology as needed … and my thumbs are getting a workout for sure. Not so much with Google Hangouts, though. That’s more like a talk-y kind of experience once all tech stuff is out of the way.

Seeing another human live on screen, and also myself in an even smaller insert at the same time, is …. well … a bit more than my younger self would have imagined. I know I was asked many times early on, “So, Doug. Where do you see yourself, say, in the year 2020 (or, some such year)?”.

Pretty sure my answer wasn’t: “Well, most likely, if my plan works out, I’ll be under a forced quarantine from a once every 100 years virus, blogging about a virtual video site from a hand-held computer device connected to the whole world. We have a reality show president, my life is run by robots pretty much everywhere I go, and my thumbs are more important than ever before. Oh, and the Pirates suck.”

Ask me where I think I’ll be in two months. Hopefully right here on the recliner. It’s comfy. It’s home. I have my thumbs and they’re my connection to something normal for now.

Sacrificial Spiders

The unavoidable updates on t.v., Facebook feeds, and over-the-shoulder glances at my local grocery store are forcing my hand. I wish upon wish it wasn’t so. This morning, my brother sent me a long text – one I’ve seen prior – detailing a higher level of panic and preparedness across the state. I wish upon wish THIS wasn’t so, either, but I don’t know … I just don’t know. And, of course, none of us know if this plan to quarantine under some “martial law” edict is the right thing to do – if, indeed, it is what’s going to happen.

I wish upon wish NONE of this was so. Every day I wake up not wanting to write about COVID-19. There are many, many other gorgeous propositions occupying my mind needing exposure. Alas, under threat of bulging eyeballs in the sockets of nervous neighbors, I cannot expose anything these days. One sneeze, a single cough … and I’m doomed to the Alcatraz of alarmism. It’s the way of us now.

On my mind are thoughts of my elderly dad with health problems and my wife, immediate family, friends, students, co-workers, customers … all under the umbrella, now, of COVID-19. No ideas of getting together soon for dinner and laughing. No wondering where we can meet up to eat pizza and ask, err … force, dad to pick up the tab. No jamming four adults into a small cafe booth to eat breakfast and, respectfully, pick on each other. No scooting around my cart to put my arm on a customer’s shoulder and say, “It’ll be ok” …

All of these are constantly swooshing around in my mind like the dirty little lines of water left behind before the final pass-over of a dry mop. I’m constantly being put through the ringer of COVID-19. All of us are. Irritating as these little lines are, however, they are reminders that there is a brilliantly waxable floor underneath. Just right now, the freakin’ dry mop is in the closet, locked up, guarded by the meany -man virus.

The watery-dirt of uncertainty is nasty stuff. On any given day … well, let’s say hour, information changes, and this depends upon who and what you’re watching. It is constantly refilling the bucket and swathered across our floors. At this point, we have no control of the kitchen mop, either. Feels like I’m standing on the seat of an emotional chair, spider-scared with a broom, swat-swinging at air, wondering what I’m afraid of, looking at cans of sorta-statistical-soup wondering if I have enough gas in the car to go buy T.P.

I wish upon freakin’ wish is wasn’t so. Right now, I want to be in my car headed somewhere – ANYWHERE – at this point. According to the unwritten law, I can go if information is correct. Limited travel is warranted to places necessary for survival. Food, medicine, the “necessaries” are allowed and avoidance of non-essential outside movement is what we’re all trying to do. Social Distancing, right? Flattening the Curve? Kinda wishy-wish my college 8:00 a.m. philosophy-of-whatever-life class professors would have considered “flattening the curve” back when I decided, mistakenly, to avoid their most interesting of lectures. Hey, I had the social distancing thing down waaay before all this started … except that I didn’t realize there were consequences. ‘My bad. Mmpffh.

And there are possible consequences, today, if we don’t do what is being asked of us. I don’t know, as I said before … none of us do. Information from the medical community is what it is because they, the professionals, can only guess based upon what they know.

As far as politicians, there are, granted, a few who care state-wide within their local district which, I would argue are the most important social connections we can have right now. Folks I can see and talk to directly are doing a great job… Senator Douglas Mastriano, Senator Judy Ward, PA State Representative Jim Gregory, PA State Representative Lou Schmitt to name a few. I’ll grant the odds makers a margin of victory on that betting sheet. A specific gripe could be directed to the national response from Washington. I very rarely opine politically here on my blog – and don’t care to ever again; However, the amount of unprofessionalism and partisan pandering on both sides, nationally, continues still as the average American steps into an unknown future without a sense of security.

What we face now is unavoidable – as was my urge to write about this stupid virus… again. Something like the moon, Google Hangouts with my dear sister, or EE bonds would have been exceedingly delightful in my overly charged wet-mop brain. This bonking (to be kind) virus is crawling its way around – no longer in the shadows of our imaginations. It’s real. I wish it wasn’t so.

Now, I have spiders to fight off. Amazing that I’ve been able to scribble this whole blog on one foot, atop a kitchen chair, with one hand holding a broom. We’re all making sacrifices right now. You’re welcome.

The Trophy

I’m due a trophy. Or, at the very least, a sincere apology. Sounds rather harsh in my head as I type those very words, but hey, truth is truth.

Well, maybe a nice dinner with a great friend … on him, anyway.

I’m either bitter about it , or pointy-toed, Ektelon dragons of imagination were visiting unnecessary memories upon my soul. Of a racquetball tournament gone horribly wrong is that which I opine. Swearing and sweating all these sleepless nights wondering why … why…WHY? Shelves full of trophies … bowling, business, … accomplishments abound my blessed life as I have slovenly slaved my last breath many times through that final push. Failure? Yes. But bootstraps always at the ready. Expected friend-fairness in the midst of life’s whacks? Yes. Willing to cede a well-done, “supposed”, equal tournament? Yes. Adult enough to stand second, even third, on a podium … supporting a great friend in his moment of,… err uhm…, victory? Sure, why the hell not. Able to drive home in a great mood wondering what the F**K just happened? Absolutely!!

I want my damn trophy! Ok. I’m bitter. 🤣🙄

You need a back story. There kinda isn’t one, but I’ll give you an edited version: I was systematically, methodically, underhandedly, schneidedly, gooberlistically, maleficently, mathematically robbed of my moment … by my best friend. He’ll claim the math gods did it. I don’t believe him. Why? Because he is still in possession of what is rightfully mine. The damn trophy.

We met in college. Both sons of wrestling coaches, our stories came together as easy as two grapplers meeting on the mat. I didn’t follow through with my less-than stellar wrestling high school career because counting ceiling tiles didn’t seem a good income source. My friend, however, was less likely to have a choice. His dad coached the college team and was – shall we say – ‘influential” in choosing his son’s extra-curricular, sweat-singlet activities.

In between my music rehearsals and non-studying times … and my friend’s what-ever he dids, we whacked a lot of racquetballs. A lot. Morning, noon, night … weekends, whenever. Didn’t matter. We were entranced by the echoes in a chamber made between three solid walls and a plexiglass ping-panel across the back.

This room with a wooden floor that squeaked and spoke, walls having the scars of racquets and balls, and stale, heavy air that carried laughter over and over again for us remains, for me, one of the best memories of my college years. With my friend.

Our other-than-raquetball friendship grew into pizza eats, living together, talking out life’s inevitable in-our-20’s problems, standing in each other’s weddings, pets, careers, parent deaths, kids, ….

So, that’s the Hallmark version. Boy meet boy. Friends for life. Yadda yadda. Why now? Why bring up the bitterness ESPECIALLY after JUST yesterday so craftily writing about NOT being bitter? 🤔 I have my reasons. After a rather lengthy respite, my dear friend and I talked on the phone yesterday … and he upset my emotional racquetball cart. Reminding myself, as I am so apt to do, that I am still a-kilter over the slight I was awarded … not the trophy. Quick to point this out, I promised my great and “victorious” friend a blog expressing my woe. As an aside, I believe my grief therapist would approve as well🤣.

Here’s my beef, if it pleases the sweaty court:

Tournament, due to weather or some such event, had three entrants; A B and C. Now, don’t judge me here. It was STILL a legit competition!! For the sake of ease, I’m A, my “most excellent” friend is B, and goober no-name guy is C (doesn’t really matter)… There may have been a D … not sure.

A(me), handily I might add here, beats B(mpfh), B goes off slightly upset because he recognized superior play of A. A plays C – tight match, ends up split, or edge to C. B plays C. B wins – or so claims …. never saw score. Sketchy to this day. Final result? “B” got a applause and accolades from four people in the lobby drunk on Gatorade….oh, and a trophy. I got nothin’. Somehow, after all the dust and sweat settled, I came in last place. Mr. B, whose points I was still tallying up against on infinity’s hands, was awarded 1st place as I, the victor in my match again him, was stuck with nothin’…

Well … not nothin’. The right to have my dragons haunt me year after year is what I got. Year after bruised ego year.

I’m ok with the way things are though. I R-rre-ally am. No stuttering or bb-itternes left over at all. Writing about it today is helping me deal with the pain because I know my dear friend is reading this, counting his pennies, looking forward to buying me that nice juicy steak once this virus stuff goes away. I deserve it from him.

So comforting it will be … seeing him walk into the restaurant carrying what’s rightfully mine, setting it on the table beside a bottle of the finest wine (he’s also paying for) and saying, “Doug, my dearest of friends, I know you’ve been bitter about this a long time. I want you to accept this trophy. I’m so sorry. You’re the best, man.”

To which I’ll reply, “Nah, you keep it. I’m good.”

That’s how most excellent friends roll.

Don’t Mess With My Glitter

Lemons. I never ask for them in my iced tea. Sanitarily speaking, many fingers have touched that yellow bubble-skinned fruit from tree to glass edge, so I don’t feel the need to contaminate my caffeine. Ok, you can argue some waitresses place them in a side bowl. Great. One step shy of my glass, but many strides, still, from a dangling dirt appendagary. One other reason that may be primary: they’re bitter and I simply don’t like them. Maybe should have led with that.🤷🏻‍♂️

Also, bitter rhymes with glitter which is the main theme in this post today. Hey, don’t judge me. I have my motivations. They may not be yours, but if and until the blog police decide what goes, I’m goin’ with it…

Earlier last evening, I imagined the following:

“I want to be in outer space right now. No oxygen, yes, but complete silence and the occasional meteorite that may knock me unconscious before the lack of oxygen does. The eight-minutes late sun on my face. No news. No COVID-19. Just me, my earth under feet for the few seconds I have to exist, and the whole universe uninterrupted before me. The silence in the stars – a beauty for all of us.”

Any occasional or regular reader knows I like my Imagineer’s Workshop. The place where ideas can be lived out without the pressures of expectations. Fantasies and whimsies of illustrious magnificence are born from magical imaginations and experienced in my mind before ever seeing letters into words. Some logical, most crazical and fun-flopable. I like them that way. My mom taught me to see inside what had to be learned outside … make sense out of the world through a humor filter inside.

Cope with humor-hope. It’ll all be ok.

I’ve met a lot of people with the same outlook. “Crazies” as most normals would categorize us. We are a subculture of real-life comic book heroes saving the day-by-day doldrumers from their mono-continuo-laborio-adinfinito-itis. Our relentless puns, dad jokes, memes, and casual odd facial expressions unconsciously thwarting robberies of self-meaning and purpose. All under the cloak of self-sacrificial court jestering. You are quite welcome.

One such person I met a little bitty ago. She’s equally weird. In a good way, of course. A fellow-ette superhero who conquers the world of the day quite-ly nicely …. thank you very much. As is the case in my blog universe – and with all superheroes – her identity must remain a mystery.

We met in the most fortunate of circumstances. I, the illustrious instructor of keys, and her, the mother of four, requested my services. I obliged. From there, we became friends.

As such, she follows my blog and I, occasionally, reach out to her via text to gain knowledge and wisdom on subjects heretofore unknown to me. We are kinda-kindred souls on the who-can-be-a-one-upper game as well. For the record, I’m winning.😉

Most recently, our weaving-word exchange (d)evolved into an imagineer’s arena. My purple monkeys and party balloons found their way into an octagon grudge match with said superhero-ette. Her space is glitter-ati filled dreams on top of unicorns drizzled with ice cream sprinkles. We wrestled our way into a corner of infinitives and exclamatory phrases, when at once across my screen came:

“Just don’t mess with my glitter, dawg-man!!!!”

Now, for the sake of comparison and my ego, look over that …. and then re-read my elegant, sweet, reflective, honest, non-combative, pleasant tome above. Who’s the superhero you’d trust? C’mon now. Be honest. She can handle the truth.🤣

I may – MAY – have instigated the friendly jabber-jousting betweeen us. I admit no fault beyond the genesis, however. Unicorns aren’t real. All I needed to do – in order to confirm her status in our Elite Hall of Heroes – was to verify her knowledge of such. She did. A little snarky, but she did. 🙄

There will be a day – soon – when I will be held accountable for this writing. Not by the blog police, I’m most positive. Anyone of normal or above average intelligence could figure it out … even my unicorn friend – my fellow “Crazy”. Oh, the sweet irony in that sentence.

Hey, if I didn’t assume the risk, no sense I’m wearing the cape, right?

Overall point? Find your glitter, purple monkey, unicorn, or whatever imaginary place makes you happy … and live there any time you need to. Be a superhero.

Just try not to drink iced tea with lemon while you’re there… or be bitter about anything. Life’s too short to be unhappy.

Pink Monkeys and Party Balloons

A large swath of us are not going to be recognized for anything we do. We’re plog-alongers. Sure, there may be those rare times when local celebrity status is draped over our shoulders, but we inhale and exhale normal air so conveniently, so unconsciously, most of our lives. Day in. Day out. Day in-between.

Gonna say this is ok. I’m certainly willing to belly up to the bar of normal and have the server say, “What’ll it be, Mr. DougHugs person?” without any expectation of another shouting, “Hey! .. I think that’s … yeah … that’s him… the blog guy!” in my direction. The only universe that would happen is a an oxygen-starved one where realities are shifted so bad Spock, Vader, or Homer sit in a darkened corner pondering string theory over a bowl of blueberry yogurt. Or, the world is paralyzed in a COVID-19 crisis. Either one seems, ultimately, implausible ….

Anyway, reality shifting aside, normal is normal until it isn’t, right?

I’m not J.K. with Harry, James Patterson, or IT on paper as penned by Mr. King. These folks are the not-normals. They are among the masters of many. So few achieve while many strive … and I am not a striver in this regard. I do not blog in the slow lane with my blinker on waiting for a opening. Quite content am I to be non-speeding my “one heartbeat at a time” auto-do-it down life’s express-myself-way. The whizz bys can go past. That’s fine because their cause and destination is as just as mine. They have fancier vehicles, anyway. I’ll spat-sputter along in my shifty little, two toned, paneled word wagon occassionally blumbling over a rumble strip or two. That’s normal.

So, I write.

It’s hard to separate from this problem. Lately, when I sit down to begin, a miserable malaise – this overhang of ugh -has an incessant drip of can’t get away from it landing on my intent. I can be full-in pink monkeys and party balloons only to be hijacked by social distancing, flattening the curve, shut downs, pandemic, Italy, ventilators, experts, thoughts and prayers

All of this is tiring. I know it is imperatively important and ultimately understandable. Normal, if I may, for the time that is now. I’ve reached epidemic exhaustion … if that can be a thing. Ugh, because we’re at the beginning of a long haul, towing a massive load of unknowns to a destination of who-knows with all variations of on ramps and exits along the way.

For a few hours yesterday, I had my 82 year old dad in my life’s car. We had to organize our way around some of his eighty-year old wonderful problems. It wasn’t easy. His normal isn’t my normal. There were many phone calls I had to make, back and forths necessary to make smooth possible for him again, and a few laughs to chuckle the stresses away.

Earlier, I made an attempt at opening my seasonal business. This is my 15th year – and, by far, the most challenging. It’s NOT going to be normal. I have to be closed – and remain closed – for some time until there is some settling down. There isn’t much else I can do. Wiggle room aside with some of my fellow restaurant compatriots offering drive-thru service, I’m content on the sidelines waiting this out. Supply chains are limited, customer sentiment and flow are both historically low and, overall, I just don’t want to be in the way.

So, in the true spirit of “blogging”, yesterday was “a day”. I realized (but already knew) being normal was my SOP, my business is going to lose money as the bills keep coming in, and my dad is pretty cool. He frustrates me like nobody’s business. If I had the time – and his permission – to tell you yesterday’s WTF’s, it’d be worth the ride … trust me.

If anyone says it’ll be worth all the aggravation – the shut downs and social distancing – to get to that final theme park of happy vaccines and cures, I’ll cheerio-clink a mug-o beer with them. Pull up a stool, I say, and join me. Be leery, however, of a crowd that may gather asking for my autograph once they recognize who I am – oh, though if it’s more than 10 people … or, wait .. we can’t be in the bar anyway they’re under a mandatory closure as of midnight last night. Buggers.

Dad’s free. Bowling alley is closed and I know he’d like the company. Can’t lose sight of the important things. It is so true. A large swath of us are not going to be recognized for anything we do. Maybe yesterday taught me a lesson.

I had to get some things done yesterday aside from COVID and dad. The little (aggravating, but necessary) get-along issues with dad had be completed, though. They were inconvenient and complicated, but resolvable. He needed help. I’m always around and willing to do so … and I do, laughingly, insist he buy me lunch for my efforts. Ultimately not necessary for me, but I know he likes to do it, so why not, right?

The lesson being, he has a normal. I have a normal. You have a normal. We have to try the best we can to be that normal and help our friends and family keep their normal as well.

The sash we proudly wear over our shoulders at the end can simply say, “I survived COVID-19 and stayed normal”.

Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s all pink monkeys and party balloons until it isn’t.

Well, Here We Are

Well. Here we are. This is certainly a situation I never saw coming and, for the record, I don’t like it. I don’t care for this at all. Somebody took my recipe for getting on with life and won’t let me cook anymore.

Legs that were once confidently slinking around the kitchen at 5 a.m. ready to tackle the day are now carrying a less confident torso. The head sitting on top is convinced life is still a valuable pursuit in the midst of what is – all of us know what is right now. Just that activity involving hands, legs, arms, knees, and toes feels different for some reason. Something is off.

Do you feel it? Some crazed goober snuck up six inches behind all of us and clank-smashed the biggest stainless pan … and now we’re hanging upside down off the ceiling in fear with our heads arched back, looking down … wondering what the hell just happened.

I let go after a bit. Couldn’t hang on any longer. Frankly, my attention span gave out as I believed the b*stard who started this whole thing walked out. But, I did find a pot to wallow in. The water is warm. C’mon in!

Here’s what I can do. Maybe you can sit in this kettle of mixed up emotions with me – perhaps even grab the spoon and stir? Help me understand. I’ll list the ingredients of my coping, soothing, sorta soup-sloth and we’ll see if a sip-tasty spoonful comes of it.

Here’s what I’ve been doing in the coping kitchen of my life. Oh, and I’m being a rebel …. no apron of shame here.

Ingredient #1. Nervous eating. My favorite by a mile. Snacky temptations. In first place are salty pretzels with their tempestuous off-eight shape and no redemptive carbs. I’m not so much a pretzel stick fan – kinda boring – as I am more a loopy pretzel kinda guy. So many options there, although I process them the exact same way. Every. Single. Time.

Nachos and salsa, or hummus, swings around the corner in second as a nice alternative if I’m plinking away on the computer. Baby carrots can substitute as well … although I didn’t realize they’re not as healthy as I once believed. Trail mix, cookies, honey nut cheerios are always in the race as are grapes, apples, klondike bars and leftover pizza.

All of these, if available, give my hands something to do, temporarily acting as a transport of yummies. That’s where the satisfaction lies – unconciously placing potentially delicious digestibles into my mouth, down to a happy belly … making a very happy Doug. Over and over … and over.

Ingredient #2. Busy work. Papers, pens, music, desk drawers, boxes of unknown origin, cards, … so much to do I never realized was so important to do. Moving insignificance from one unimportant place to another. Boy, doesn’t that say it all? File this. Fold that. Found this. Figure I’ll need this later? Finally done …. nope. I spy another freakin’ file-folder flop-mess on the fringe of finality that is in need of fandangling. Ah, F*!!

I invite busy-ness by never allowing it to leave. Surprising I even offered to allow partial grabiness of the spoon above. For my life’s purpose, busy can be an acronym for Be Useful, Save Yourself if used contextually correct. Useful in the context of picking up processed pulp and placing it somewhere else, thus saving myself the aggravation of trying to find something else to do.

Ingredient #3. Bloated binge time with big T.V. I choose to sit, mainly, and combine ingredient #1 with this entertainment medium. The two combine to make the most delicious waste-of-time-stew. Actually, that’s not fair to either. Munchies are awesome and most of the shows I find ravenously appealing, so to shovel a heaping pile of waste upon them is stinkely unfair.

What’s unfair is my age. Waking up hours later to find half-eaten nachos on my lap and a screen saved bzzz-ed reflector ten feet in front of my split ankles without knowing what happened to the blind lizard that fell off a second story balcony hours ago? ….. that’s unfair! Now, I could go back, reset the program, and rewatch the show … but what’s the point? There are too many other different shows to attempt: comedians, TED talks, YouTube everythings, music videos, concerts, games, and my personal favorite …. the blank screen – where I can see my reflection close up. I, for sure, am able to wiggle juvenile faces as if someone on the other side of this limited broadcasting universe is being amused by my antics. That’s, like, all the above wrapped up in one, provided I can stay awake long enough to enjoy it myself.

Ingredient #4. Free Internet Poker. Nople encouragot gamblot. Latin for “I do not want you to think my desire is for your life to be about chasing aces”. Mine isn’t, ahem, either. Just because I know my way around the one site, recognize most of the users and their playing styles, and sometimes mix in ingredients #1, #2, and #3 while in a hand doesn’t mean I’m there a lot …. right?

But, I kinda am.

And I like it. The messy math, pushy players, unknown angsts, what’s they going to do-ests, crazy calls/folds/&checks, …oh, and the creative language I get to use occasionally. You know the kind, right? The messy dog poo find on the carpet at 3:25 am, or the chair leg / little toe meet-up kind of adjectival, archival, ancestral-be-proud, profound proliferation of probable profanity type. A literal spew all of us can beckon during a painful whimsey of fate.

Sometimes I win and find no need for anti-normal language. The victories are magnificent. Peaceful. To invest hours and receive one-thousand actual non-monetary credits as the top winner? Well, wait ’til the phone company gets notice that I’m paying them in online casino credits!! They’ll be Jack-thrilled, I bet (see what I did there?😄😉).

Ingredient #5. I spent my later teens watching Johnny Carson. As an adult, I teared up as he began his last speech, sitting alone on a stool, atop a mark on the very stage he stood making me laugh along with millions. In that speech he spoke a phrase I’ve never forgotten: “And so it has come to this ….”

And so it has. We are shut down. Completely. Whatever this means to you, I’ll allow that. There is no definition sitting well for any of us. I am at a loss for what to do. Here we are. Damn it, we’re here.

My last ingredient – my go to – is here. My Doughugs. My space. My words. My one heartbeat at a time. I will never, ever be shut down.

Find your heartbeat that can never be stopped. For the record, you don’t have to like what’s going on, but stay in the kitchen, hold on tight to the recipe you love for your life … and keep your head up.

I’m here in the stew pot writing. Come on in if you get bored. We’ll find something to do.