The Equation for Infinity, Life, and Our Cell Phones

A camera-to-camera selfie in the mirror is infinite. To put this image into simpler, easier to understand language:

It’s infinitely more difficult to take a cell-fie than I thought. The little bubble eye-patchure thing is positioned in the upper 7th section of the phone just about where impossibility meets impatience. Granted, I don’t own the greatest and latest, but c’mon now! This should have been an easier task. Point, click, and shoot. Not to mention, although I will, last Thanksgiving a relative set the count-down-from-ten clock … an added ten seconds to my life I can’t get rid of in my phone. My “take this pic, and shove the backward ten numbers I can’t figure out how to disengage up your, well … ” Samsung, hip-hugging, pocket-inserting device which is the subject of a woe today.

More like a “whoa!” … said I, when settling into a familiar red booth, patting one of two empty pockets where said phone should have been.

It began as a morning of hope after a relatively good 7 hours sleep without neighborhood sirens, bodily interruptions, twisty-tie sheets jammed in my face, or pillows acting as suffocating murderers. Yesterday’s long blog in the hopper – thankfully so, as it was a day long project ending five hours later than projected. A bit surprised at the 9-degree temperature, though, due to the unseasonably warm February weather lately. With no expectation of an unordinary day, my hopeful self opened the familiar glass doors to a cafe of warm tea and friendships.

One friend was already quite comfortable looking sitting behind the steam of her second mug of coffee. Two others, under warmer circumstances, would have already been seated and served. With this, I had the rare, coveted choice of “inside or outside” booth-butt placement with the added bonus of being able to change my mind at any time. Having made a choice, I readied my posture … bent knees, tilted torso, momentum forward …

…then, “Whoa!!” I realized I left my cell phone at home. 🤦🏻‍♂️🙄

Of all the infinite problems an individual universe could visit upon someone, leaving a cell phone 4 miles away – in a familiar safe place – isn’t one of the unsolvables. It’s simply one of the classic “d’uhs” normal human-people stub their day on every once in a while. I didn’t recognize it as such until later. The moment I felt pockets as empty as wordy words without w’s, I knew my morning booth breakfast time was setting up to be more than one bacon strip short of a two-thousand calorie good time.

My leg twitched constantly. Righthand-smacking, a consequence of boredom, developed a red mark on the outside of a right thigh that didn’t deserve the abuse. Constant tapping, of what I believe to have been a Chopin Nocturne, on the table in front of my two friends (one new arrival adding to the mix) contributing to the vacancy of sanity in my head at the time. Head bobbing, not in agreement to anything, but in sync with the already metronomic twitching going on under the table … all of which, together, provide a symphony of laughs for the other patrons enjoying their breakfast fare.

At no time did I pay more than a few minutes attention to any conversation during the hour-and-a-half visit with my two friends … and this is a sad commentary on my life.

My phone was safe. I, clearly, was not.

Ok. Maybe that is overstating the problem a bit. It was a small wake-up. I was shocked how much not having my cell phone by my side changed how I thought – almost immediately. Granted, above assumed some literary license and I had fun writing, but it’s not too far from how I felt.

Mostly, the “what if” feelings crept in. What if someone important is calling me? What if I am missing an important text? What if there is a comment to a FaceBook post I wrote earlier? What if … this and that.

What if ….I missed important conversations with two really good friends because I was too worried about a cell phone missing, but safe at home? A question that never entered my mind until later.

It began as morning of limited hope. I can end the day with infinite hope having learned my lesson. Find your friends and a cafe. Not sayin’ to forget your cell phones at home, just maybe keep them in your pocket. This prevents a whole lot of twitching, patting, tapping, and metronomic nodding in public places and possibly saves an opportunity with friends that may never present itself again.

Leaning Overcoming Valuing Exceeding

Forty-five days since the beginning of 2020, we’ve arrived. February 14th. The day celebrated by a two-semi circled coming-to-a-point red symbol representing a feeling of eternal bliss. Credit to Pope Gelasius for declaring this day so in the year 496. Every year since, thanks to this fine pointy-headed gentleman, societies have been strapped ,err.. burdened, err… blessed with celebrating a minor holiday relative to dates set aside for giving thanks and starting nations. One-thousand, five-hundred, twenty-four years of knuckle dragging the glass of countless candy counters, eye-scratching over card covers, and sniff-snorkeling the classiest carnations. Yeah, thanks so much to Sir Gelatin, or Gelasuis. Whatever.

I’m not down on this day. Sounds like it, but not. Thinking maybe Pope G. was a bit lonely, though. Maybe if he had some extra minutes (and encouraging friends) to think it through, a few slurp-sips of timely wine ounces headed up into his brain may have been able to change his mind … and, by extension, our forced buying habits on this, the most cherished love day of all. Ah, there it is …. the word: LOVE.

The word “love” produced 18 Trillion results in .54 seconds. That’s trillion with a “T” in Google. Took me more time to say it. Here’s the copy/paste: “About 18,180,000,000 results (0.54 seconds)” … Geesh. Tell me, again, how unimportant you think love is to people? Not that you ever said it, but really? … In 1980, Midnight Star released a song, “Searching for Love” … They ain’t kidding!:

I am searching for love, searching for love, searching for love
I am searching for love, searching for love, searching for loveSometimes in my life, I feel that I may have
Everything I need
But deep down inside of me, my heart ….

Source: Musixmatch. Songwriters: Belinda Bo Watson. Searching for Love lyrics © Sony/atv Songs Llc Dba Epic/solar, Sony/atv Songs Epic/solar Obo Midstar Music

So, now 45 days in, we’re left with a (presumably) dead Pope, candy, cards, flowers, … and love. Carving out the first three, for obvious artificial reasons, I’ll focus on the last – one letter at a time.

LEANING I’m a dog guy. “U” wouldn’t find this surprising seeing as how this is the only letter missing between our Doug & dog identifiers. Cat, Iguana, or pony didn’t seem right when pushing oversized pencils across inappropriately small lined paper, so I knew early on I would grow up to be a dog-man. Elementary school was great for drawing goldfish and stick horses, but there was nothing like a real dog welcoming home a tired pre-teen just off a bouncy, long bus ride from school.

Two legs or four, those first few moments were fresh and new. Suddenly, not so heavily worn were the paws of a friend waiting all day by the bay window, or the small canvas Keds tucked under a one-piece crayon scraped desk. An embrace between great friends. Love found a way through.

Hard times and rough patches are the large pencils in our adult lives. It’s certainly difficult to make things write a lot of the time. The paper is too small – if available at all – and drawing anything that makes sense to anyone else is … well … nearly impossible.

So what we ended up with is a long, bumpy ride on life’s bus to where-ever town … that place looking smokin’ hot in our fantasies until cold-showered by reality. Exiting the bus, we are searching for the one welcome home. The one real lean on me. The one who waits by the door with a hot cup of tea and an embrace saying, “I missed you. Come on in.”

OVERCOMING. Sometime around early spring of 2007, a well respected OB-GYN diagnosed stage 3 cancer in my mom. In my limited understanding at the time, this meant her cancer was a bit more serious than that “little small dot” was expected to be. This disease is sneaky. Mom accepted the news -tragic as it was – with full acceptance and a classic head tilt of resignation.

Those of us not in half snapped hospital gowns, partially torn bandages, and cheap paper thin sheets stood in the hallway half-stunned. We, the supposedly still healthy ones, were challenged more by the news than my mom who, by any reasonable standards, was merrily on her way thinking of someone else’s need by then. That’s how she rolled – or coped. Never quite sure.

Five years of treatments. I’ve told, and written, of her journey before and never tire of the story. Pain, for sure. Surgeries. Relapses. Never too far away from it. Travel. Rashes. Other ailments and problems due to the chemo and drugs. On and on and on ….. Her motto every day? “Today is my new normal!”

She died in March of 2012. I never asked her if that motto was original. I’ve also avoided googling it in fear it wasn’t. For me, it belongs to her. It is what I will always love about her. Overcoming her days of pain with optimism and hope … even when facing the most challenging of little, small dots that grew into monsters she fought so bravely to keep away from those of us she loved.

VALUING We have a True Value hardware store in town. I don’t visit very often for blatantly obvious reasons. One, hammers and I have an unfriendly business relationship. I’ve offered my thumbs as a contract bargaining chip without my prior consent too many times, so I temporarily halted negotiations. Two, if one more box of odd-sized brads, nails, tacks, or small pointy metal spears ends up on a shelf in my basement, my house will become the third magnetic pole. Finally, PVC cement smells so ridiculously sweet, I’m afraid the temptation to buy more under the ruse of building a gargantuan PVC playground would be too great.

This is the true value I place on not going into True Value. Sure, they’re silly words, but I do recognize the importance of not doing things that are not valuable. Ok, grammarians, I get the double negative no-no🤫😉🙄, however, you understand my mind-blowing, humbly proud genius here, right?

We need to love ourselves, and/or others, enough to value our time. If not, why do it? True value. Hold hands if asked, a meaningful hug, small dinner at home with the kids, time alone reading or playing an instrument, anything that helps us complete our picture of “full and valuable me”. Love is valuable. Try to not leave it on the bottom shelf of life where no one will see it.

EXCEEDING. In sales, if you under-promise and then over-deliver on a consistent basis, you’re as good as a ten-legged horse in a potato sack race. Promise $200, give ’em $100 … you’re a fool. Say, “I’ll bring ‘ya $50 by sun–up tomorrow”, and then deliver $100? You’re a hero riding a white stallion with four normal legs… maybe sporting a fancy black saddle with gold sequins emblazoned with a large “A” (for awesome), and …. well you imagine whatever you want from here.

Take this smooth ride into town – thankful it isn’t a long, bouncy trek – with your head touching the bottom of the highest cloud. This horse you ride is trotting you on a path well-deserved.

This attention to a career path has led many to great successes. Some continue to ride their great horses years after understanding the basic UP-OD principle. Translated, they love what they do, and it shows through constantly exceeding expectations of others.

My guess is Pope Gelasius leaned over, quite auspiciously in his wooden, creaky throne, to a random red cloaked Vicar and whispered, “Vicar, my man, we have not a day set aside to honor the greatest emotion among us – that of luuhve!”. He then, in quiet repose, must have retreated deeper into his thoughts. “I do believe, fifteen-hundred years in the future, a man will love dogs just enough to write a blog (note to self: I have no idea what a blog is) .. about what love really is on the very day I hereby decree a holiday”.

“Vicar! …. MORE WINE!!”

She Reads, Still

“Sitting outside, gazing down at the same page year after year, she is silent in her moments. Her right index finger always expecting to reveal the magic of the next page, but at no time given that opportunity. Not once will the casual breeze across her bangs unsettle those finely placed. Locks of gentle hair, solidly cast in youthful pose, will rest upon the head of this child forever. A child who will be ever so content reading, day and night, the greatest words she will ever see.”

I pass this statue almost every day. She is tucked into a little alcove over, in, and around a few small trees, knee walls, sidewalks, and parking lots. Don’t mean to say she’s hidden from view. Not at all. She’s there for the viewing. I am one-hand wrestling with car key rings attached to body parts – while circus juggling supplies, personal hoists, and cell phones with my other – shuffling by blindly … day after day. This is what I, and others, do to satisfy the busy minutes tick-tacking away under our feet. Yet she reads, still.

What does she think of us? Never looking up, she must begin to see us only through words spoken in passing. Dialogues we have with ourselves, perhaps, when a bad day is appeased by overtly self-proclaiming, “What the (bleep) just happened ?!”; Or, when we take solace in another’s equally miserable, temporary, hollowed-out-like-a-charred-marshmallow, mud-rack of an existence. In either case, she hears all of it. She must.

She partakes, also, in the auditory joys of our happy quotational exchanges as well such as the Friday heading-out for the weekend “Yeahs!”, accompanied by the almost always, “I hope you have a wonderful weekend … because Monday will be here before we know it.” I’m positive both warrant a reaction: her hard shell will not, but her soft heart will provide a response. Warmer months providing a recess from inside activities, kids find her to be a vessel of their happy words of play as they scamper about playing four-square and other make-up games in their fancy imaginations.

This girl about us, of happy and sad beginning words, sits. This girl is about us. What does she truly think of us? We can know the answer based on what we know about ourselves. The words inside her forever future are the rusty nails and gold crowns passed through her ears. These treasures and toils of our own doing sit with her still. She will, by the very nature of her existence, keep them in harbor to never set them free upon the seas of our audible, moving world. So we must look at ourselves, through her, to know what she thinks of us.

She may think we are too busy to care about her. Our words of “this to do”and “that is more important” are heard as “I don’t want time with you now” as her head remains steadfastly down. We don’t see little angel tears start to drizzle over sad cheeks framed around a disappointed smile. She wants this moment for her play while we want multiples upon multiples for our more adult work-stuff … and insist on walking by. Still.

She may think our things are more important than our thoughts. Flowery out louds, disguising our intended “I must have”s and “I need more than you”s, rush to her for a refined discernment – that which she, in her innocence, is narrowly capable of doing. For she only knows what is truly hers: an open book, stool, and passers-by who are in search of the next best instead of seeing the best in their midst.

She may think we are living in the future fuss, not the present pleasant she senses all around every day. The “I’m not sure where I’m to be tomorrow”, or “When was that? I forgot .. Too much to do lately” pitter-patter of adulting language so much in the uncertain wind surrounding her. She listens to the words. They are as unsteady as the source from where they came, but must come to rest on her bare shoulders … soon to fall into her heart and remain still.

By contrast, she may think we are the most wonderful of creatures by our acts of love. We talk of “Going home to see someone we love” and “Caring for one another”. Our words travel upon arrows of kindness to targets of need while we walk by her with bags full for food banks. The young chatter of children, stepping up into a bus – yards away – headed out to visit local nursing homes, saturates the air with words any future would welcome. She remains still and blessed.

She may think we are loved ourselves. The moments of unknowns between two, sitting on the small wall nestled in behind her. “I’m here if you need me”, “Yes, I know”. Could be two adults speaking words necessary after a tremendous loss. Possibly two children, unspoken, in a gentle embrace during recess. She is there as a silent witness to the magic. Still. There.

All of these words she must, by design, keep silent. These treasures and toils of our own doing sit with her. Thousands of words. Every passing fancy we believe to be only ours is never just that when passing such a gentile soul.

In her we see how we treat others … and ourselves. This little, innocent girl is about us. We see people we are too busy to care about. We let thinking about things get in the way of thinking about the moments. Our futures have become our nows. However, we are capable of so much love – for ourselves and others. We have magic in our words.

She reads. The words in her still book always true for her. She could be anyone you pass by, anytime, anywhere. Don’t be too busy to say, “hi”. You could give that soul an opportunity to turn over a new page … opening up their treasure chest of rusty nails and gold crowns they’ve been silently sitting on for years.

If you need someone to talk to, she’ll … still … be here to talk to. I hear she’s a pretty good listener.

A Please Read

It’s outside what is considered normal for me to write a blog such as what I am about to do. My fingers hurt as I type, but these words are necessary … and I am not viewed as normal, anyway.

This will be a very short announcement.

In light of the difficulty in communicating “Two-point-three-billon-plus-one … oh, and the two and three are actual numbers whereas all the others are words” when responding to, “What is your blog address?” … I’ve decided to re-domain this blog.

WordPress, my host, and I have been diligently chatting, via little-square-box, and all necessary other boxes are checked. Nothing will be changing except my domain address going forward. Email notices should still be arriving to all subscribers, but you will notice the new address, not “2.3 Billion Plus One”.

I am sad to let go of my baby. He’s just to big to hold … and a mouthful to say. I am still in ownership of same, just maintained as a secondary domain.

Once I receive word http://www.DougHugs.com is clear, it will be my new site address going forward. Quite possible this has happened already. Same content. Same goofy me. Much, much easier to say and pretty much within normal as I can be for now.

Idowatotab’it

I invented a new word. “Idowatotab’it“.

Six vowels and an equal number of consonants alternate quite nicely, one after another, when glossed over the tongue. I encourage you to give it a go if you haven’t already. See … how fun, right?

Why this word … Ido-wato-tab’it?

As with all things, necessity breeds all things necessary in a life open to what is, necessarily, needed for all things to make sense; Therefore, I had to come up with a catch-all word to cover all the non-sense things happening in order to make sense out of all of the things I didn’t understand. Einstein struggled with his Theory of Everything. I have Idowatotabit. We’re pretty much the same I’m-man-concept except he had over-sexed hair and an accelerated IQ – accompanied with space-time fussiness – while I struggle with why bugs don’t walk in straight lines. I’m still working on that.

Too many times I’ve walked away – like last night, for example – without a feeling of “I had that”, or “Wow, I figured all that out”. Consider the problem of math. Simple math. Theoretically, simple math. The following problem appeared on my split Facebook screen:

“Find three consecutive numbers such that when twice the first is subtracted from the third and the difference increased by 8, the result is the same as the first number, increased by 4.“

I had slight interest in the answer to this problem at first. I DID care about the pocket 9-J of spades I was nursing in a hand of free texas holdem over on the left side of my split screen. The math involved figuring out pot and implied odds, after a Jack, Deuce, and Two hit the table on the flop with two aggressive players yet to act after me, was infinitely more fascinating. However, after a few subsequent peeks, my math geek third eye couldn’t help but consider < x+(1+x)+(2+x) such that when (2+x)-2x = y + 8 = x + 4 … > This was quite satisfying knowing I had, necessarily, come up with “3” as x … the correct answer in a relatively Einsteinly, non-theoretical short amount of time.

What should have more obvious to me is the Queen jumping off the table that was turned over as the 4th card, joining the Jack, Deuce, and Nine. This was a quite hazardous card for player A (me) staring down at 9-J. While I was over playing right-screen footsie with x and y, players B & C were actually paying full attention. Oh, I was clicking in chips because of my two-pair … no worries there … but the math I should have been executing there was otherwise detained.

Final card. Ding! … an Eight!…. Uh Oh. I had 9-J. Still had 9-J. On the board: Jack-Deuce-Nine-Queen-Eight.

Give me a bit of leeway to historize this particular game on this particular day. I was in a position to make the final table of nine players. The cards hit the table with over 350 players and had less than 10% remaining, including this guy who sometimes worries about quarters not lining up in neat, organized piles (that’s for you, John). Faced with possible elimination after dominating the chip stacks for forty-five minutes prior, I lost the math early in the hand and failed to make the correct bet sizes early (lingo for “I slopped the bucket”).

Player B … big bet after I checked knowing I was probably no good with only two pair. Player C folded. Ok. So it’s up to me. He, She, a dog or llama (online … didn’t know who it was – just an icon) has me all-in if I made the call. I knew what I was up against. A “10” I knew I was up against a straight. I knew, as sure as I knew the answer was “3”, that I was beat. So what did I do?

Yep … made the call. And lost all my chips. Why? Because bugs don’t walk in straight lines.

WHY? Because I had to know I was right! and …

WHY? What other way possible is there to come up with a catch-all word to cover all the non-sense things that happen in order to make sense out of all of the things I don’t understand? …Walking away, head down … not sad, but frustrated. Solving a sixth grade math problem (did I mention quickly?) while creating an adult problem for myself seems to be the split screen in life. The solving one, but creating another paradigm all of us face. I suspect, when considering the ever popular Stress–energy–momentum pseudotensor. Einstein himself found no solace at times between this idiomatic rock and hard place. The 9-J of his time.

Not dejected, but thwarted, I began my trek away from the very computer where
“I had that”, but didn’t. I started talking to inanimate objects, kicking my emotional self for third-eye wanderings, woefully cursing the curse of understanding quadratic equations, and then I stopped. Halted by a wondrously, wonderful, overwhelmingly syrupy word!

IDOWATOTAB’IT

My escape key from the emotional straight jacket paradigm. And, may I suggest it for your use as well?

Say it slowly with a forward hand gesture and a rich, deep Italian accent … With all the fervor and angst you can muster … Got it?

I don’t know what a Stress–energy–momentum pseudotensor does. I hope, for all bugs everywhere, there isn’t one walking around tomorrow, minding its own business, walking in an arc of distress seeing as it will not end well for either of us. For me, bug parts attached under my shoe I’ll need to clean and, well, spattered bug parts under my shoe for it. The solving one, but creating another paradigm all of us face. Even bugs.

Eewe, Ido-wato-tab’it anymore.

Imagineer’s Workshop

Life is about words, one after another, written from a imagineer’s workshop – a place where gerunds, infinitives, modifiers, and many other grammarian tools hang at the ready. An author’s toy box of elfin ideas. This place of unlimited beginnings, caressing story arcs, and heartfelt closures, stays silent to the outside, but is always vibrant in an eager writer’s mind. It is ever open to new, friendly faces tapping at the sides, wanting to play along, anxious to join the matrix of merriment that is this inner world of a writer’s silent joy.

As one of many solitary minds playing with words in such a literary toy box, day after day, I am fascinated by imagined ideas coming into reality within the lives of the living. When fantasized wonders become real in poems, short stories, long reads or letters – simply one word after another – eyes see loves redder, ears hear “I love you” more often, touch is goose-pimplier, and one white rose smells as heavenly as a dozen red. The charm of inexhaustible possibilities, woven into word tapestries, cordially blanket the reader’s time with endless preoccupation.

I never knew this to be so. A free flow of ideas inside one’s mind for the purposes of enlightenment, fulfillment, engagement, and whimsy? Notions such as these never inhabited the younger mind of this writer. Immediately purged were thoughts of gentlemanly handshakes between peaceful words and hope for better tomorrows as I navigated my way through confusing earlier times. Harmful words, contaminated missiles not always a direct hit but leaving craters on my soul, I would later understand to be out-of -context and grossly inappropriate. “Consider the source” and “Understand the why of the other” common themes among those considered great council at the time when I, a lost wanderer, sought a welcoming hand. An open gesture never to be offered at the time. Opportunities and words dying. Year after year.

That was the holding pattern leading up to graying templed-head, split-screened eyeglass “now” years as I embrace my potential last third … if actuary tables hold true. Words reappearing, now, in understanding the why of me after intense inner-study, introspection, talk therapy, and writing … lots and lots of writing. A much, much better place to offer my own hand to hold.

At present, I capture each moment with passionate words just like my younger self; However, the tears are soaked with joy and the words go forth to you … not to leave craters on your souls, but to build mountains of hope for your tomorrows.

Past experiences took time. Bad and good ones developed into memories … into words, one after another, written from a imagineer’s workshop. I’ve only just begun to rebuild after tearing down what was once a place of limits and harmful words. Please visit my ever expanding toy box of elfin ideas – this place of unlimited beginnings where words fly free among all that dream .

Fantastical Whimsy

Approximately 9 p.m. last evening, I owned today’s writing. My formerly sharp brain and I, by extension, held captive an idea … written on the walls of imagination. There, among dreams of lottery winnings, high functioning mental health, youthful skin, and non-clicky knees, this most wonderful, uplifting theme for today took its place. Largely noticed within bumbling fantastical whimsy, it sat as I went about other matters knowing this morning would come quickly. “Alas, I have stumbled upon the golden theme for tomorrow’s posting!”, as paraphrased and foretold to a friend in a text last evening, thus setting a terrific tome for today…

…yes, a particular, predetermined post never to appear in front of your expectant, hopeful eyes. Unfortunately.

Sometime during the night, whispered Samsung gods stole my phone and, in the process, took hostage my sanity. All attempts to pull lucidness back into my 6 a.m. start blogging world came to a panicky halt … and with that, a delightfully original idea went into a disposable digital file stamped, “I may remember for later … but won’t. Even if I do, the brilliance I believed in my heart will have been sacrificed to the what would-have-been idols.” … (and, yes I do have tabs wide enough for such a label).

Let’s get this over with. I sleep rogue. With certain back issues and irregular patterns of wanting to be my own boss, the sofa is king. Charging station, multiple remotes for stuff I don’t even think are around anymore, trays for snacks and glasses, reclining possibilities … all comforts giving me at least a promise of 4 hours quality sleep. This is the healthiest option I have short of snuggling into a heaping pile of large bills on a swanky, velvety hotel bed somewhere in Nevada.

Mr. Samsung is never far away – within an arm’s length resting comfortably atop the largest cushion, overseeing my dream state. He is in a holding pattern at the ready, fully charged should I rise inspired. Until he’s not.

Welcome to my February 7th, 2020.

There was no reason for me to believe in ghosts until reaching for my phone early this morning and all I felt was a sliverly white charge cord. Familiar? Yes. Expected? What do you think? Not only did this feel narly in my already suprised hand, it also had its little “watcha gonna do ’bout it?” jack face staring right back. Picking up the little bastard, in my best grimbly, stubble-faced voice, I demanded, “Where’s my damn phone?! …. I need answers and I need ’em NOW!’. Silence.

Ok. Talking to inanimate objects wasn’t going to work. Corrective action needed. I knew my phone was within 3 feet. It HAD to be near because I plugged it in only hours before. In behind, down in back, across the front, up the sides did my not quite awake body-eyes scan. My every knee-worn move was mocked by the Jack King from its sofatic throne above with those quiet spits of righteous venom from …. hold on … I’m overheating through reflection.

So, anyway…. no phone. Off to the house phone to do the reverse-call-cell-number-gag-trick. You know, right? Problem being ….. what? Yes. My cell volume was …. off. No worries, though. Middle of the early morning with no noise meant I should have been able to hear the vibrating no-call default. Home phone up to one ear, the other free, I began my best impression of Tonto listening for cattle hooves. Slowly, up and across the sofa cushions, then down on the floor, I relentlessly ear-scanned with excellence. Puncing, poping, and prodding my lobe in places I never thought possible with rug burn as a reward…no vibration -save the ever increasing, irregular frustrating beat of my heart … still no phone…and jack staring me down.

Next. The dreaded “thrust hands in mysterious, dark cracks” method of retrieval. Jeepers. At this point, I sat back and contemplated. Is my phone really worth it? If ghosts took it, so be it, right? I like my phone guys. I can always write using my desktop, upgrade to an IPhone, … the options are aplenty. Stick my piano hands into where? Shit, no!

I was into this project, easily, 20 minutes and wrote off any hopes of following through with the original blog. This was developing into a Doug does a thing anyway, so I had to push forward into uncomfortable.

Squinty eyes aren’t my thing unless I have bad gas or eye sight too poor to pick people out of a crowd. This was an unfamiliar time to squint. In went my hands as two eyes, not used to partial closure in response to distress, closed completely from the horror of it all. Swiping around in darkness amidst textures I’ve never assumed real, my hands were assaulted by things. I have no other words. Grubly things. Stofly things. Glurkley things. Enough things to warrant my immediate withdrawal of hands without concern for any phone I may, or may not, ever see again.

Off to the kitchen. Two reasons. I needed to return the house phone. Second, in the everything drawer was a flashlight. Last resort. You may be wondering why I didn’t use a flashlight before – when looking in and around the sofa. Well, I’m a guy. We don’t do the obvious things first. Also, as an aside, if you’re ever frustrated, don’t look into the shiny end of a flashlight at 6 a.m. before turning it on …. and then. Maybe this life skill was covered in 2nd grade? I may have been absent that day.

Back to the front lines I marched with flashlight in hand and two very bright white spots in my eyes. On my knees once again, battle weary with a chafed ear and traumatized hands, I mined the underbelly of the fabriced beast whereupon I once rested. Memories of those moments gone … simultaneous stares from jack above, dripping sarcasm every time I failed. The rails and metal parts scuffed and scraped until at last I saw a small little gem – an AHA moment heard silently around the living room. A sliver of silver so perfectly perfect was the volume control on the side of my phone!

Take THAT, Jack!! .. I found my phone. Step one. Here’s the new problem. This is a sectional sofa with an iron and metal configuration challenging the Eiffel Tower. My phone was jammed upright in between two rails making extrication almost impossible. Now, I knew the phone made its way down there from the pain-in-the-ass jack, right? Gravity works only one way. I had no solution. My hands were too large to fit in between and taking apart the sofa then, at 6:45 in the morning, wasn’t a fix. I considered sucking in deeply, thus reducing the hulkiness of my hands. Maybe the general laws of body mass would step aside? Yardsticks, yarn, another household item beginning with “y”, or another letter, wasn’t the answer. A quagmire🤔.

Out of ideas was I. The ring so close … yet so far. A bridesmaid, not a bride. Almost a full hour. All I wanted to do was wake up, blog about Chinese food, push “publish”, and go about my day. As it stood, I was being taunted by a skinny wire and beaten down through a series of sensorial slaps to my soul. All for what? To be left looking at my phone two feet away, pining for release …. a salvation I could not provide.

And then a cellular MIRACLE, my friends!!

….As if those very idols, of a blog never to be seen, released their powers upon me with alacrity never before seen. The force strong enough to force my little Jack “buddy” off his little perch and to dislodge my phone from its perilous position, falling gently to the floor where I scooped it up. Simply said, in a less dramatic way, I kinda banged the f*ck out of the sofa cushion above – out of frustration – which dislodged my phone.

I doubt today was the day you wanted to hear about Chinese food, anyway. Good thing ghosts decided to move my phone and for me to miss a few Friday happenin’s in order to write. It’s always good for me share as I hope it is for you to read.

With that, I will plug my phone in for another night’s charging. Honestly, if I wake tomorrow and find my phone missing again in the early morning, there will be a quite different fantastical whimsy dancing around in my head …..

Five Words

“Today…”, meaning yesterday, “started out real weird”.

It was barely 2:00 in the afternoon when my most wonderful friend, Mike, squeaked open the door to my favorite hotel cafe. My moments were few and a bowl of turkey noodle soup just arrived. Any lengthy conversation – a usual fare with him – wasn’t going to happen as I needed to be elsewhere at 2:45. So, a short visit. Politics, the weather, and food. These are the facts. Dry, rather uninteresting, tidbits of information.

Unaware of Mike’s future attendance, I assumed a half hour of right index blogging while, simultaneously, left-handedly mastering the art of non-drippy soup tasting. This circus act I’ve done in the past when challenged by time. It is a necessary, arguably life-affirming, skill those of us who can’t settle into one-task-at-a-time groove mastered early in life.

I began … five words with intention: “Today started out real weird.” With two slurps of really good soup, the tap of a napkin to ease slow moving broth escaping down the lower corner of a dry mouth, and a swig of over carbonated Pepsi, my blog for the day was on its way. So I thought. Five words. Then, of course, Mike walked in. Love the guy. No complaints. I’d rather visit with him than write, anyway.

Eighteen hours later, soup well digested and Mike’s conversation with me gone into the clouds of remembrances, I have time to finish. Time to use both hands. It’s 4:00 a.m. No clanging silverware or waitresses bantering about skimming for orders. No Mike. Better moments now, in a way, to look back. A quieter time. Only the hum of the furnace accompanies my words to paint a morning that was … before I opened the glass doors of my favorite cafe yesterday slightly before 2:00.

I’ll look back. Spin the hours. Assume the warp of time-space and finish my thoughts. Five words.

“Today started out real weird. I don’t know why. I know all of us have days like these. If you don’t, there’s a mis-step in your gait somewhere. This is a day to sit. Just sit.

Earlier, I sat … and listened. Well, partially listened. A skill I’m not too fond of doing. Probably better at double souping and texting than lending an ear for my benefit. Having a tendency to be dug-in, aka male trait syndrome, I’m not likely to be wrapped in conversation with someone – over an hour- listening to their advice. Such was the case, however, this morning. It kinda just happened.

These are the unplanned conversations we trip over. Not only trip over, but the top half of our foot gets stuck in the crack of one issue and it takes an hour for us to figure out how to twist our way out. In the process, a good person, standing by our side, isn’t helping the actual problem, but is gently talking us through life. Such is what happens when we don’t watch where we are going. Guys like me …. sometimes. Like today, for example.

I certainly didn’t listen the whole time this morning. There’s a better chance of a powdery Whig party reunion than my complete silence during a conversation. But, I did sit and listen. We talked back and forth. Most certainly an unplanned exchange of ideas, proposals, and hypothesis designed to alter the course of humankind as we know it. Two adults engaged in the highest levels of verbal repartee.

All I know? I was in the process of a one mind-set, mental Lego mansion-building idea of a morning when I stepped on a rogue out-of-the-box block. Initially, it hurt. Not gonna lie. Minutes into the dialogue, pain subsiding, I began to realize happenchances isn’t just a fancy 13 letter word used flippantly to describe mundane events. It is, maybe, a good thing. A great thing. A thing happening by chance bringing joy to life.

Back (mostly) and forth words were exchanged as ideas and thoughts passed through filters of theology, idealism, and reality. Personal histories folded into current events while present ideas projected hope onto screens of future unsurety. Seventy-five minutes of this-and-that. Almost 1-1/2 hours of words causing me to miss an ugly friends 🤣 meet-up breakfast meeting in the very cafe I now sit.

They probably didn’t miss me, my sarcasm, or eloquence. No worries of any retribution either because none of them, fortunately, read this blog. I’ve enjoyed this time. Soup wonderful as always and the company of myself solitarily, texturally complete, I end as I began … All of us have days like these.”

All this to say I’m happy for three reasons. One, the Whig party is no more. Two, unplanned conversations can be a wonderful, inviting experience if we’re open to them … and willing to, uhm, listen. And, three, I’m so glad I have friends. Friends who interrupt texts at 2 pm on a Wednesday …. and friends who take time to talk with me when my day starts out real weird.

Keep those humans in your life if you have them. They’re the weird ones that will always be here for you.

Caucus .. what the F’aucus this?

“Caucus”: A meeting at which local members of a political party register their preference among candidates running for office or select delegates to attend a convention.

NBC news writers Carrie Dann and Mark Murray posted the following wonderful online article yesterday … to add clarity to the above definition I found on Google. I’ll see you on the other side – thirteen paragraphs, two aspirin, and one hand to the forehead down from here.

“There are a total of 1,679 precincts that will meet to caucus. The Democratic Party in Iowa will also hold a number of “satellite” caucuses (60 in state, 24 out of state and three international — in Tbilisi, Georgia; Glasgow, Scotland; and Paris, France) for those who are unable to travel to a caucus location.

There are 41 pledged delegates up for grabs in the Democratic race, plus an additional eight unpledged (superdelegates) from Iowa. (Whenever we refer to delegates for the Feb. 3 precinct caucuses, we actually mean precinct delegates to county caucuses. After county conventions are congressional district and state conventions, at which the real national convention delegates are selected

Democrats and Republicans hold their caucuses differently.

Democrats move around the caucus site — for example, supporters of former Vice President Joe Biden will gather in one corner and backers of Sens. Bernie Sanders of Vermont and Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts others. At most Democratic caucus locations, a candidate must get support from at least 15 percent of attendees to achieve viability. If that threshold isn’t met, a candidate’s supporters must realign to a different viable candidate or join with other nonviable groups to form a viable preference group. (One of those preference groups could be “uncommitted.”) And the number of delegates awarded at each caucus site is determined by a mathematical formula. So get out your calculators!

In a change from past Democratic caucuses, the party will release three sets of results: “the first expression of preference” before the realignment, the “final expression of preference” after realignment and state delegate equivalents (the number used to determine the “winner” in past results). The final expression number — rather than the first expression — is used to determine who gets delegates and who doesn’t.

All of the numbers will be released at the same time.

Another change: Only members of nonviable groups will be allowed to realign. In the past, candidates who had initially hit 15 percent could lose supporters in the realignment. But for this cycle, the initial 15 percent support gets locked in.

Unlike the Democrats, Republicans select their candidate via a simple secret ballot. There is no shuffling from one corner of the caucus site to the other. There is no 15 percent viability or realignment. And there’s no mathematical formula to determine delegates awarded at each caucus site.

With President Donald Trump receiving nominal GOP opposition, however, the Republican process in Iowa isn’t as important to follow this presidential cycle.

(This had been controversial in the past, right?) Yes. The last two election cycles in Iowa have resulted in controversy on caucus night. On the Republican side in 2012, Mitt Romney was named the early winner, but a closer — and later — examination revealed that Rick Santorum had won by a mere 34 votes.

And on the Democratic side in 2016, Hillary Clinton edged Sanders by just 0.3 percentage points, with Sanders supporters citing counting and reporting irregularities.

The activity on caucus night is electing delegates in each of Iowa’s 1,679 precincts to the county convention. But the Democratic “winner” is the candidate who accrues the most state delegate equivalents after the realignment process.

The Iowa Democratic Party says there will be more than 2,000 delegates to the district and state convention. So if you see that Joe Biden gets 35 percent on caucus night, that means he won 35 percent of these state delegate equivalents.“

I want to meet Carrie and Mark. I really, really do. Buy them a beer, soda, or whatever would calm their nerves a bit after attempting to explain the baffling beyond repair universe that is the Iowa Caucus. In thirteen paragraphs they tried, admirably, to teach me – a college educated, unapologetic, apolitical, motivated writer – the process by which 1,679 precincts delicately, and quite deliberately, decide delegates. Delicious, isn’t it?

Their article is well written and precise. No complaints from me at all. None. I’m not writing this blog from Tbilisi, Glasgow, or Paris so absolutely no complaints at all! Let’s look at what we’ve got here …

According to the article, “Democrats and Republicans hold their caucuses differently.” … Why is this important enough to mention, separately, in a stand alone sentence?. Hmm. First, I don’t have a clear definition of what a caucus actually is. The word sounds way too familiar to me, … a once – and possibly still – immature dude. Second, for what reason are they holding it? Third, do they know each are holding their own cauci differently? And last, what purpose does said cauci have when they’re done with it?

Moving on. We have the words, “viable” and “uncommitted” in the same paragraph. Two words one always likes to hear figuratively attached at the hip – explicitly when two people are attached at the hip. “Honey, my love, I’m so viable right now, but I’m uncommitted”. This duality of certain provocation might work well in politics; The certainty of one’s cauci is in doubt, however, seconds after stupidly saying that phrase in the throws of a Barry White moment.

Back to it. We then have three sets of results, or “expressions”. Well, we don’t. Iowans do, I guess. The final expression number, rather than the first expression, is used to determine who gets the delegates. Oh, yeah, the delegates. Delegates have expressions. At first read, I figured some guy wearing a seed-corn cap stood up and said, “I want this dude for President!” while others clapped in agreement. Nope. There are numbers involved. Numbers are expressions in Iowa. Not just any expressions. FINAL expressions. Kinda like, “I DID IT!”, but with numbers.

Reading on, Simple, secretive ballot on the right. Yeah. Ok. Secret. Got it. Republicans don’t do any of this math shit, apparently. One of two ways here. Either they’re too, er, crackbrained to puzzle out the figures involved, or too intelligent to unravel the nuances of the system. I don’t know. Don’t reckon I’ll ever care too much. There’s no opposition to the apparent GOP ticket holder, anyway.

The second to last paragraph is one of those I had to read, re-read, and … then … read again. I’m rethinking a lot of things in my life right now. Am I actually a guy? Did I just blow my nose and wash my hands before typing in this sentence? Why does my Wendy’s hamburger always slide out the backside of the bun after the second, not first, bite? What is the true singular spelling of caucus? Why is Schitt’s Creek so damn funny? on and on… This paragraph prompts my inner questioning. A winner wins, but possibly loses? I could be broken-brained. Very possible. My good friends, the “state delegate equivalents after the realignment process“, are most likely so much better equipped to be who they are without my understanding. My chakras align with political realities in other ways, I guess.

I’ll never run for political office or live in Iowa. Ever. On the extreme outside chance “ever” changes and I do, please – dear friend, please – remind me of my complete lack of understanding in this matter. I do understand simplicity in all its weird forms. Complexity, even when simplified down into an article well-written, can be an enigma to me.

Life stands on my pedestal of limited information. I’m fifty-ish years experienced in being wonderfully 10% immature and 90% happy I’m not holding my cauci differently, All of this adds up, even in Iowan weird math, to a great life.

As with anything in life, look at it. Study it. Say, “What the f*ck is this?” Try to get hold of it. If it makes no sense to you, move on … The math gets too complicated and you may just find you’re holding your cauci wrong, anyway.

Numb Butt and a Lesson

A line of exiting shoppers extending from the front door, easily ten yards ahead, to the same distance behind where I sit watching a cute young couple devour two hot dogs, one large hamburger, and two sodas. An all too familiar scene inside our local Sam’s Club as I wait, patiently and uncomfortably, on a red and white little elementary school-sized table not designed with me in mind.

Physically, I have a bony frame – specific to a certain part of my body in contact with a small, hard seat I currently occupy – that no amount of exercise will ever remedy. Emotionally, I’m not happy seeing unhappy people sloodged over their slow moving, thin-metal cages holding prisoner impulse bulk items they were unconsciously forced to buy. Spiritually, I focus on correct word choices I now type into my Samsung, praying for enlightenment as members jam extra shots of soda into their already full cups of overflowing carbonated poison at the fountain nearby. So yes, uncomfortable is the correct word choice for now.

Question: What would make me secure in my feelings right now? Well, maybe that isn’t the right question to ask. Rewind. What could I be doing right now – other than sitting on a toddler playground set in Sam’s Club, blogging about my first world problems, while anxiously slugging my knees upwards against the underside of a cheap plastic table? This the proper question! …

Answer: Absolutely NOTHING. This is where life placed me right now. For better … for worse, I am here.

A few minutes ago I was shuffling through the bread aisle sampling pizza off a small vendor cart. Before then, staring mindlessly into a self-serve kiosk that asked me, in a sexy, Angelina Jolie-ish robotic voice, if I wanted $2 off a bottle of dish detergent. I did stand there for an extra minute just to hear her ask me again … and, maybe again… before leaving without extricating a coupon from her welcoming aperture. In between, before and after pizza samples and, err… coupon moments, I wandered to and fro, in and among people-folk of all big-tall and smallness. They, as well, found themselves here – in Sam’s Club on Superbowl Sunday – pushing a cart full of expectations.

Twenty minutes ago, my good buddy Jim greeted me at the door with his usual smile and welcoming, “Hey, Doug … Nice to see you” demeanor. I pass through the doors of this gray brick building many, many times during the seasonal months of my business … February not being one of them… so, for Jim to address me in such a way wasn’t a surprise. Because we share a common interest in collecting small pieces of cardboard with athletes pictures on them (as wives understand them to be), the bond is natural and genuine. One of the few un-contractual benefits of “The Club”, I guess.

As I reflect, the faces in the never-ending line have changed. This doesn’t mean much except everyone around me looks different as well, which must mean I’m done in this place for now. My butt has the feeling of an anesthetized loaf of bread, the young couple’s food has been reduced to soggy napkins in the waste can, and I’m pretty sure there’s no more diet coke remaining in the soda machine. For now, time will not wait, but my thoughts will …

….I didn’t have any high hopes as I walked into Sam’s hours ago. My wish today was to fill time while Superbowl snacky odds and ends were being gathered. Writing wasn’t even on my mind. If any pangs of hunger poked a peek at all, I would have entertained a snack instead of observing. Eating is far better a diversion and time waster than staring at strangers while growing increasingly, posteriorly numb. Alas, I was driven to ogle. That is where life placed me and I was determined to make something out of it.

If there is a lesson, that’s it. Where we are at any moment – grocery, school, or park – is a place full of emotion, spirituality, and physical senses, etc … IF we see it that way. Observing our surroundings is filling up our lives with color that otherwise would be missed.

I was reminded of that today.

Now, when I get the chance … and soon … I must go back. I hear there’s a coupon for $2 off dish detergent.