First world problems and Thanksgiving . . .

 

Dear you,

Yes, the condo complex is loaded with visitors and most of the owners who live here have escaped.  However, the scene is not typically 30A obnoxious and even the visiting children are in chill mode.  You would think I would be thankful for that.  But oh no.  I lapsed into spoiled mode today and had to work my way out of the pouty zone; I dealt with first world problems like this:

    The Publix New York Cheesecake looked dry and dated, an insult to that great state.

    Some idiot parked his massive truck in MY favorite parking spot here at condo world.

    The lawn care workers are using those loud blower things again and annoying me.

    The owner of the unit downstairs has still not replaced his filthy “welcome” door rug.

    The Danskin brand yoga pants I love are no longer available.

    The expiration date on my lunch yogurt was yesterday.

    Trump is still tweeting.

Tough stuff, right?  Flipping the view of the above complaints:

    I can afford food.

    I own a car.

    Human beings take care of my property.

    The downstairs owner’s rug says “welcome” instead of “fuck off”.

    I still look good in yoga pants.

    I wanted a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch anyway.

    Trump lost; democracy is holding.

All that.  Amazing.  And so much more.  I am grateful X 1,000 for so many simply pleasures:  deep breathing, morning pushups, tossing yarn balls to the feline, eating Progresso soup loaded with hot sauce while watching Friends reruns, roaming the beach during low-visitor phases, smoking on the balcony at dusk, sipping cervezas during NFL viewings, splashing cold water on my face in the morning, re-reading Gore Vidal books, stretching, and just . . . being.

Happy Gratitude Day.

Enjoy everything.

Love,

Joyce

43% "believe" in Santa . . .

 Dear you,

Remember the good old days when we argued about Santa Claus?  Is he for real or just fake news?  Is he white or “other”?  Ah yes, the good old days.  Flashback to a piece by Andrew Kaczynski, BuzzFeed, December 2013.  Public Policy Polling results were shown as follows:

Do you believe in Santa Claus?

Yes 43%

No 50%

Unsure 7%

Agree or disagree:  It’s a verifiable fact that Santa Claus was white.

Agree 32%

Disagree 36%

Unsure 32%

Oh god.  Look at those numbers.  Close to half of us, grown ass adults at that, believe in Santa.  Worse still, we have the ever-present race-claimers!  Nearly a third asserted S.C. was white, as a verifiable fact.  How the hell are they going to verify that?  What are they using as evidence?  Do they know what evidence is?   

Ah, the good old days, a time when wacky beliefs wouldn’t bring down a democracy.

Now, we argue about empirical realities like math.  We argue about who won the election.  And for those of us who do not buy the lie of voter-fraud-everywhere!!!!!!, it feels like arguing with morons who believe in Santa Claus.  I cannot believe we are even doing this. However, here it is, according to numerous sources and polls:

Almost 50% of voting Republicans believe Trump’s claim that he won the election

I am pretty sure they believe in Santa Claus too, a white Santa who by virtue of his race is free to break and enter, consume your snacks, and leave junk all over the living room floor.   

Then and now, there is always a big chunk of American peeps who BELIEVE whatever they are told.  Fine.  Believe away.  Just don’t fuck around with my democracy.  Or my holiday retail excursions.  In those hallowed (and hopefully masked and distanced) aisles, I get to study the various forms of Santa iconography, critique his expressions, couture, and level of creepiness. [See the above photo of Santa at the local Wally.  On a scale of 1 to 10, how creepy do you think he is?  I say about 8.  Something about that hand gesture and lacy suit trim. Highly problematic.]  So, yeah, in a way I enjoy Santa.  I just don’t BELIEVE in him.

So, to close, I am just saying I wish we were arguing about The Man With The Bag instead of . . . you know who.

Just do the math.

Love,

Joyce

This Freedom Thing . . .

Dear you,

Today is Veteran’s Day.  Thank you, Veterans, for fighting tyranny and defending beloved ideals.  XO to our warriors, here or gone.  My Dad was a warrior. He earned a bronze star in World War II.  He is gone but kind of hanging around, commenting on my behavior.  At least in my head.  I am glad he hasn't been literally around to experience the Trump reign; it would have broken his good Republican heart.  But in many ways, I wish he was here now to feel what I have been calling the exhilaration of . . . clarity.  No more fairy tales.  No more scripted happy endings.  Case in point, our transition of power to President Elect, Joe Biden and Vice President Elect, Kamala Harris.  Donald is doing his best obstruction dance, but he just cannot bother me because I have learned to let go of other people’s stories, especially his.  This isn’t nihilism or postmodern erasure of all meanings I am talking about.  It is simply and finally getting it, this freedom thing.  Listen, please, to the narrator of Salman Rushdie’s The Ground Beneath Her Feet; he and Rushdie can say it straight:

“What if the whole deal – orientation, knowing where you are, and so on – what if it’s all a scam?  What if all of it – home, kinship, the whole enchilada – is just the biggest, most truly global, and centuries-oldest piece of brainwashing?  Suppose that it’s only when you dare to let go that your real life begins?  When you’re whirling free of the mother ship, when you cut your ropes, slip your chain, step off the map, go absent without leave, scram, vamoose, whatever; suppose that it’s then, and only then, that you’re actually free to act!  To lead the life nobody tells you how to live, or when, or why. In which nobody orders you to go forth and die for them, or for god, or comes to get you because you broke one of the rules, or because you’re one of those people who are, for reasons which unfortunately you can’t be given, simply not allowed.  Suppose you’ve got to go through the feeling of being lost, into chaos and beyond; you’ve got to accept the loneliness, the wild panic of losing your moorings, the vertiginous terror of the horizon spinning round and round and round like the edge of a coin tossed in the air . . . But just imagine you did it.  You stepped off the edge of the earth, or through the fatal waterfall, and there it was:  the magic valley at the end of the universe, the blessed kingdom of the air.  Great music everywhere.  You breathe the music, in and out, it’s your element now.  It feels better than “belonging” in your lungs.”

This is how I feel.  It feels good.  Others are not feeling so good.  Millions who believed Donald would help them slip their chains are feeling lost. Perhaps it is disorienting to discover the other half of the human race isn't interested in your version of "America". Orientation is always illusory. The smooth transition and happy ending are too. If these others were listening, I would say this:

"Step off the edge of Earth 2 with me and free-fall back to the unscripted spin of Earth 1.  Enjoy the wild panic of losing your moorings, and put not your trust in princes. I can’t say it’s going to be okay.  I can’t say it’s going to blow either. I can say that whatever this exhilaration is I am feeling now, it feels better than “belonging”.  It feels like free-fall freedom. Enjoy!"

My Dad would appreciate that suggestion.

Thanks for this freedom-thing, Dad.

Love,

Joyce

Throw it out!

Dear you,

It is the day after the day after the last voting day in America. We wait for results. Patience is required. In my case, I am impatiently waiting to accomplish something, the firing of a man who should not be president for another term.  

He has been (and still is) the equivalent of the behemoth couch that came with my condo.  That couch, a big grey Pottery Barn monster, never suited my taste.  I dismantled it slowly by first removing the grey covering, then moving one section into my cat’s room for her napping pleasure, and finally disposing of the remaining chunk on Election Day Eve.  (Thank you, Tanner, member of the Impeccable Roofing Crew, for making that thing go away.)

Now, my living area is wide open.  I can dance around the space or just sprawl on the floor, playing catch-the-yarn-ball with the feline.  The zone is clear and airy, free of a piece of furniture most people don’t want anyway.  Why “couch it” when you can roll around on a soft beige throw rug?  Why “sit” when you can luxuriate, all stretchy and unrestrained?

I tossed the purposeless couch.

It was the perfect time to throw the thing away.

Just like @realDonaldTrump.

I know getting rid of Mr. Trump will be much harder than getting rid of a couch.  Couches typically don’t have lawyers.  But since POTUS’s most notable legal advice comes from the sadly fading Rudy G., I think it is safe to anticipate Don's exit.

When he is gone, we can live in a head-space and real-space that is clear and airy.  We can luxuriate, all stretchy and unrestrained.  And then . . .

We can get back to work and learn from what we have experienced.  No more careless presidents.  No more pointless couches.

Happy day after the day after the day . . .

Love,

Joyce

Election Stress Disorder

Dear you,

I hear there is something called Election Stress Disorder (ESD) and the American Psychological Association claims 52% of us see the election as a source of stress. What is wrong with us? The last four years of botched leadership, a pandemic, and a rising tide of fascism, now those things are stressful.  But an opportunity to fire @realDonaldTrump, the ultimate stressor, is here.  The election is happening.  It is finally happening, and this is a cause for relief, not stress.  Granted, the relief is edgy. (Yes, prepare for challenges from the Orange One.)  However, that what-if-he-does-whatever edginess is a first world problem.  Most of us are not literally living on the edge, like this:

Those small figures on the roof are people.  These men, referred to as peripatetic roofing acrobats in my last post praising professionals, are on actual edges and working fiercely.  They are doing this . . .        Without union protection. Without safety harnesses. Without health insurance benefits. Without (for most I am sure) the protections of citizenship or the right to vote and bitch about Election Stress Disorder.

I watch these men focus and get stuff done.

I study the artfulness of their movements.

I talk to them with my goofy Spanish, Beyond the Basics! book in hand.

And on October 24, this past Saturday, I voted for them. 

#BidenHarris2020

Happy election time!

Screw ESD.

XO

Joyce

 

I miss plumber's crack . . .

Dear you, I really miss the classic “plumber’s crack”.   Here’s why . . .

Covid-caution has prompted a rise in self-reliance, or so I hear.  People are mastering all kinds of skills because they are wary of contact.  Facing a necessary repair today (replacement of a totally blown out kitchen faucet), I was encouraged to join this new-skill-mastery club.  The optimistic suggestion came from a receptionist at a local and very busy plumbing company (they are all busy, plumber shortage).   She told me “you can do it!”  I replied, “so not happening!”  However, I promised to purchase the replacement product and give it a go.

Hours later, after a long consultation with an Ace Helpful Hardware Man (they are helpful), I selected the Moen “one handle pullout kitchen faucet”; the box declares that when you “Buy it for looks” you “Buy it for life”! (OK, as noted previously, I am wary of commitment so this potentially lifelong relationship with a faucet freaked me out.  But whatever.)  I returned to the condo, a new level of war-zone noisy due to roof replacement, and opened the box, spread out the contents and studied the directions.  Immediate halt.  While the brochure instructed me to shut off the hot and cold water valves before installing the new faucet, it did not tell me how to remove the old faucet.  And I couldn’t figure out how to shut those valves off anyway. Then there was the parts list:

Installation tool, deck gasket, outlet hose, supply line hot, mounting bracket, mounting nut, hose protector, hose weight, faucet body, O-ring and screen, spray wand, pullout hose, supply line cold, deck plate, deck plate gasket.

I could only identify three of those things with absolute certainty, the faucet body, spray wand, and the O-ring, because it was the only thing shaped like an O.

Indeed, this was not happening!

Surrender.  Seek professional help. I did and called the busy plumbing company once again.  Results: the perky receptionist said “he” was out handling a toilet emergency.  And the other “he’s or she's"?  All booked too.  Surrender again.  Seek any kind of help you can get.  So, I called the totally uncredentialed handyman who works around the condo complex. He also lurks around the condo complex more than he should, but again, whatever. Result of this call: “he” MIGHT be able to help tonight. Oh joy.

Having failed the self-reliance test, I have come to this; I am waiting ever so hopefully for a confirmation call from a lurking, uncredentialed handyman.

And this is why I miss “plumber’s crack”, the professional kind.

Kisses and appreciation to all professionals; plumbers, ethical politicians, poets, peripatetic acrobats on my roof, et al.  Your ranks are dwindling, and I hate to see you go.

XO

Joyce

VOTE or get Amy and Mr. Cornman . . . .

The above is my “I Voted” sticker from the 2016 election. As noted, “I made freedom count in Walton County”.  Well, my vote may have counted but it didn’t help win the electoral college for my candidate.   So here we are, four lovely years later and I am watching the consequences of other people’s votes, the confirmation hearings for future SCOTUS judge Amy Coney Barrett.

While viewing, I thought about what it would be like if we voted for these justices.  I would not vote for Barrett for many reasons, notably her kind of textual interpretation of the Constitution as inspired by Scalia.  That “whatever is on the page, literally” thing is just not going to make sense to anyone who is aware of history, semantics/semiotics/lit-crit 101 or human nature for that matter.   And while her professional cred is beyond impressive, I am not moved by the hymns of praise about her motherhood.  I think I heard the word Mom mentioned 2,399 times today.  What if she was childless and single?  What if she was a live-on-her-own kinda gal?  Who cares?  I know, the conservatives love the nuclear family thing and the Kids R Us culture, but Barrett’s serial Mom-ness doesn’t move me to vote for her.

Oh, wait.  I don’t get to vote for her.

I also don’t get to vote for virtually anything here on the Beaches of South Walton, a strip of unincorporated space.  I do get to vote for school board folks, the mosquito control dude, and whatever a county commissioner is.  But how about other public service positions?  Take the current County Code Compliance Director.  Did I vote for him?  Was he on our little local ballots?  If he was, I have forgotten the experience.  Here is a bit of news related to that position:

There are currently only 10 beach code officers.  Walton County announces they will be hiring more soon.  Code compliance will be interviewing for “more” officers Monday.  These workers are supposed to keep residents and visitors safe.  According to the current Director, “the first step is getting radios”.

“The radios will give us more communication,” said Cornman (the director).  “Anytime you got more communications, you got a better operation.  So that will also have us better communicate with the sheriff’s office with water rescues so that when something is going on.  At the same time, the code officers might not be trained in the water rescues; if we get there before the water rescue professionals, we can get to the area clear.”  (quoted material from mypanhandle.com)

What did he say?  Seriously, read that aloud and see if you can make sense of those words.  Break it down . . .

Okay.  Yes, radios will provide “more” communication if you’ve got zero now.  But I do not get the odd fragment “so that when something is going on”.  If something is going on, they can do what? Order pizza, have a beer, call MOM?? Finally, the water rescue points are head-spinning.  If the code officers get there before trained rescue professionals, why does it matter that the officers get there “clear”?  What does that mean?  Arriving clear as opposed to fuzzy?  And why even show up if they can’t execute a rescue?  What is the point? 

What is he saying?????

I did not vote for Cornman (his real name, by the way).

I am not "voting" for Judge Barrett.

But I am voting for a few people on 10/24, the first day of early in-person in Walton County. I do have the power to pick the people who pick the people who pick the other people who pick the other people who hopefully pick people who aren’t incoherent . . . or MOM obsessed.

Please VOTE; make your MOM proud.

XO

Joyce