Grinchy critique of the family Christmas card . . .

Dear you,

The day after 12/25, I am thinking about certain versions of Christmas cards.  The ones I appreciate most are generic, from acquaintances like my mail carrier and dental office staff.  The mail carrier is awesome and surviving the strangling efforts of her boss, that DeJoy man.  Her card, left in my mailbox before Christmas, thanked me for being a good customer.  The image was traditional, a sleigh in the snow, evergreens, and a wish that my Christmas and New Year be bright.  The card did its job as a messenger of good vibes.  I can say the same about the dental card.  Nothing self-serving.  Just good wishes and touching images.  The mail carrier and dental office greetings are wildly different from another kind of card I received, one of those “fabulous life” cards featuring the smiling nuclear family. You’ve gotten these before.  You see the family sitting together in a boat or something somewhere exotic. Their tans are complimented by their freakishly white clothes and teeth. These cards are the old-school versions of selfies, self-promotion cloaked as sharing and they bug me a little bit.  Yes, we all pose for self-congratulatory vacation photos, but we don’t all use them as Christmas cards. There is usually a tasteful reason to not do that.  I would say one tasteful reason is that Christmas is also considered a holy day (for some).  Probably a good idea to avoid the “look at me being all A-list” messages on holy days.

I got one of those fabulous life cards this year from a realtor I know.  Beneath each photo (there were several making up the front, back and center of the card) was a little summary about what this or that posing person achieved in 2021.  The did-list shared the highs.  Little Janey is graduating from an expensive California university and headed to the perfect internship with a company famous for making expensive things.  Little Bonita is killing it with her online influencer gig, and just take a look at that handsome boyfriend who joined us for the trip!  The husband and I are busy perfecting our backhands on our new tennis court and breaking sales records every week.  Real estate is hot, hot, hot! What a phenomenal year!

Yawn.  Look, I appreciate the good fortune of others, but this just sounds like bullshit.  Boring bullshit.  Why not share the lows?  You want to hook your audience, tell the backstory baby:  Little Janey will graduate with massive student loan debt. You aren’t paying for anything because she was a train wreck her entire senior year, binge drinking, binge eating, and binge f-ing all the wrong people.  You hope the internship at your uncle’s Ferrari dealership will get her back on track.

Little Bonita claims she is looking for a real job since her internet gig is “toxic”.  She’s been looking for five years now.  She’s 32 years old and lives in your basement guest room.  As for the boyfriend?  You all know he’s gay.  Bonita says he’s simply polyamorous; they’ll work it out once they’re married.  What can’t be worked out is his tendency to steal money from your home office petty cash drawer whenever he visits.

Finally, there’s you and the mister. He is cheating on you with your receptionist.  How cliché, right?  Couldn’t he have hooked up with someone further up the real estate food chain?  You don’t care because you are having an affair with your tennis coach.  And the guys who installed the new tennis court.  And the lawyer who is handling your IRS audit (those record sales will cost you).

Now that’s a card I want to receive.  Instead of the fabulous life posing, send me a TRUTH OUT Christmas message. Something the Grinch would enjoy.

Candor is sublime.

I hope your holidays are/were sublime too.

Love,

Resting Grinch Face Joyce

Artemis, help us!

 Dear you,

Events piling up. Post-Thanksgiving, I felt like a witness to everything troubling, standing by and carrying on but without words.  I need to channel my inner-Artemis, my power goddess of choice. We all do. So it is. Today, I have some words again about my body, my books, my cat, and my fourth estate, things I imagine Artemis defends.

Begin with the body.  Not specifically my body, but the body female.  That Supreme Court decision to let Texas do their anti-abortion, bounty hunter thing was expected but still shocking.  How can something expected shock? We see it coming and still reel from the blow.  Justice Amy hurts the most.  Dear girl, your declaration about pregnancy not being a burden, that was brutal.  Barbaric.  Why am I typing “her body is none of your business” in 2021?  Because conservatives are broken in ways I can’t explain. Don't mess with my body. So it is.

My books.  Apparently, literature, fiction or nonfiction, that irritates parents must be banned.  The irritation is caused by the pinch of truth.  In the best books, that pinch becomes a slap.  A good thing for those who want to be awake and aware and not dumb as hell.  The list of selected forbiddens includes Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye (and of course Beloved too). The protagonist, Pecola Breedlove, lives in a racist Ohio community and prays for blond hair and blue eyes.  The problem for the banners seems to be references to sexual abuse in the novel.  Nice excuse.  Their real problem is having to acknowledge the society they prefer breaks people like Pecola on the daily. Slap, your bleached-out identity preference is soul-killing.  And then there is Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home, a graphic novel (memoir) about the author's father coming out and her own lesbian identity. This was on a high school reading list (Nevada) and pulled.  Not second grade mind you, high school.  Those readers would have enjoyed the book; many would have been elated to know someone like them is out there.  Speaking.  Can’t have that, can we?  Don't mess with my books. So it is.

My cat.  Baby girl has a lump on her head, right between those gorgeous gold eyes.  It has gotten bigger and sometimes bloody.  I have got to get her to the Vet now, no more procrastination and letting nature take its course.  I called a popular animal care group in Rosemary Beach and booked an appointment.  But overnight, I wavered.  They only do curbside drop off of pets due to Covid protocols. They grab and go while owners sit in their cars feeling sad and guilty.  I get it.  There is a pandemic.  But to hell with that.  I am taking her in the examining room in her little soft carry bag and staying there till the poking, prodding and whatever-must-be-done is done.  Where can I do this?  I did a little research and found a place right across the county line (I am in Walton, just to the east is Bay) where I can enter with kitty and never leave her sight.  Even in the examining room.  We’re booked to see the doc next week. I am traveling into deep, deep red territory (even redder than my county) to be with my cat and ease her fears.  And mine.  Is this selfish, careless?  Yes, I don’t care.  I am triple-vaxxed. I love this creature. I am not dropping her at anybody’s curb.  Don't mess with my animal. So it is.

My fourth estate.  Honest journalism is barely hanging on, at least in TV-land.  Last night, during prime time, I watched Liz Cheney presenting facts about Trump-crowd emails related to the 1/6 insurrection.  These were presented as reasons to charge Mark Meadows, Trump’s chief of staff, with contempt of congress.  My favorite came from Don Jr.  He was pleading with Meadows to convince Daddy to “condemn this sh*t ASAP”.  There were many others, notably from Fox cheerleaders.  Even Hannity was begging the madman to shut it down.  I was getting this from MSNBC. Kind of important news, I would say. I wondered how Fox was covering the Cheney statement and switched the channel.  They weren’t.  No Cheney.  No news.  Just dudes blabbing about defunded police and Vice President Harris (supposedly) trying to gas-up an electric car.  They called her Kamala. Ouch.  Little boys, derisive assholes having a blast not covering the big political story of the day because they would rather take a shot at two of their favorite targets, the first female VP and progressive transportation.  I suppose they would argue they’re simply framing issues of the day, see Wiki definition, “The term fourth estate or fourth power refers to the press and news media both in explicit capacity of advocacy and implicit ability to frame political issues.”  Oh, they are framing all right.  Framing and undermining and advocating the worst. Don't mess with my fourth estate. So it is.

As 2021 winds down in America, women’s bodies are under state-government control, excellent books are being banned, my cat has a weird lump on her head, and the fourth estate is fighting for its life, subverted from within.

So it is. 

Looking forward to 2022, days away, a new year where I can replace that dour period with happy exclamation points: “So it is!!!"  Artemis willing, so it shall be.

#Persist

Joyce

Thanksgiving ratings, children will listen!

 Dear you,

Inspired by (stealing) something John Green did in his Anthropocene:  Reviewed, my Thanksgiving thoughts feature the star rating schemata.  I am only sharing the best and the worst, the five stars and the one standout zero star.  Here we go:

Tiptoe the Reindeer – The sweet gal was featured in this year’s Macy’s Day Parade.  Absolutely precious; made me think about Bambi and other little critters trying to get their legs and bearings in our mean old world.  Even if Tiptoe is synthetic, she ruled the parade, vanquishing creepy high-flyers like Ronald McDonald and Pillsbury Doughboy.  They're troubling. She's adorable. I give Tiptoe a misty-eyed 5 stars.

The NFL on Thanksgiving Day – I don’t even remember who played, I just know it was great to have professional football on the screen, a far better option than Hallmark channel’s sanitary Christmas movies and other “family fare”.  I do recall the contests were fun to watch and no one got hurt.  The boys of autumn entertained and diverted with excellence as I sipped multiple cocktails. I give the T-day pro-football shows a tipsy 5 stars.

Chinese food for Thanksgiving dinner – Why turkey and dressing? Nothing wrong with the traditional meal, but what I really love is Asian food, any kind. My favorite restaurant gifted me with lo mein, eggrolls, and fried rice.  Microwavable for warm-ups and delicious, Asian cuisine should be the new feast for the 21^st Century special occasion table.  Reject the norm and eat what you crave!  I give Chinese Food on holidays an energized, fueled but not full 5 stars.

The Unknown Visiting Family Across the Landing – Even though high-season is technically over, holidays are still busy in the condo complex. I was prepared for the worse and awaited the invasion. The folks under my feet arrived, totally civilized.  Check.  Next, a small white car pulled up and mom, pop, and child exited, entering the unit across the landing without drama.  Too good to be true?  Perhaps.  Shortly after, a big minivan (oxymoron) pulled up and a huge clan (men, women, children, infants in arms) poured out in clown-car fashion.  Oh, good lord.  However, to my surprise, their move-in was drama-free too.  During their stay, they were out and about a lot and when here, they kept the kiddies under control.  No door slamming.  No tantrums.  No blasting music. No stinky cooking smells.  No garbage bags outside their door.  Wow.  I give this chill extended family an appreciative, well-rested 5 stars.

Music – Two geniuses were with me this week, Ludwig van Beethoven and Stephen Sondheim. Sondheim died a few days ago.  Ludwig has been gone a while.  Both dead.  But not. Their magic remains. During a particularly stress-ball day, I played (for the millionth time in my life) Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, his Symphony No. 9.   You hear it, don’t you?  A classic for a reason, the lilt, and yes, the joy! This was Beethoven’s last symphony and the only one with singing.  Lyrics and music sublime.  Then I got the news about Sondheim. The great composer-lyricist, gone.  His melodies and words go through my head all the time. Sometimes I get the notes and lyrics wrong, but they’re there in my jukebox of a brain.  I hear bits of “Children Will Listen”:  Guide them along the way/Children will glisten/Children will look to you for which way to turn/ To learn what to be/Careful before you say, listen to me/Children will listen. 

Yes, they will.  Masters Beethoven and Sondheim, I humbly offer you a grateful 5 stars.  (I can’t believe I made these gentlemen share list space with a plastic reindeer and spicy noodles, but my intentions were good.)

Now, on to that final item, the zero-star rating: 

Twisted Celebrations – See Kyle, the guest of honor at a Florida diner.  People gathered to celebrate his “innocence”.  What did they say to this kid during the meal?  What was said to him before he committed murder? Who was Kyle listening to?  Who is he listening to now?  Sondheim said it, children will listen.  Kyle was listening. Not glistening. This picture, this celebration, makes me incredibly sad.  I give it (greasy laminate menus and white nationalist chit-chat included) absolutely 0 stars.

End.

Thank you Tiptoe, thank you NFL, thank you New Jin Jin, thank you Beethoven and Sondheim. 

And thank you, John Green. 

XO

Joyce

But, And . . .

Dear you,

Another Sunday, but . . .

Bright sun on the coast and crisp air, cool at last.  It’s an NFL fun day, but . . . my mind keeps going somewhere not so fun.  The Seahawks-Packers game is on, snow swirls on the screen, happy fans wear cheese hats cheering for Aaron Rodgers, their hero returned.  Oh, yeah, that guy.  The anti-vax-now-I-have-Covid man who no doubt spread the virus to unwitting contacts.  My preference for the Seahawks aside, his presence on my screen bummed me out.  It’s just a game; I never really had a beef with this athlete before, but . . .

I had to work hard to get back to that fun day feeling.  Forget Aaron.  Look at those cheeseheads!  Adorable.  Cheese themed cowboy hats, cheese themed hard hats, and plain old cheese wedges just being cheesy, bopping up and down on the heads of those loyal fans.  They love their Wisconsin team, but . . .

Wisconsin. The trial of Kyle Rittenhouse.  A deranged judge setting up the prosecution for failure on so many levels.  Doe-eyed Kyle is guilty of the worst, murder for fame; he wanted to be the “hero” his death cult followers admire.  He got what he wanted.  I can’t blame the entire snowy, whimsical, cheesy state of Wisconsin for whatever decision that jury will reach, but . . .

Let it go.  It’s fun day.  Check out the latest on Twitter.  Laugh with the supporters of Big Bird in the Cruz V. Sesame Street war.  Check out the latest antics of Marjorie Taylor Greene.  She tweets her devotion to the holy book, photographed with a giant prop version of that text, blabbing about how long it took her to read the thing cover to cover.  In the shot, we also see her unfortunate, predictable décor, a wall of crosses, crucifixion as a design choice. A cross adorned wall usually wouldn’t irk me, but . . .

Another Sunday.  I bring it to a close by re-reading bits of wisdom from one of my holy books.  I am reminded by Marcus Aurelius not to degrade my soul by caring about other people’s motives, their guilt, innocence, guile or purity.  I am told to be undisturbed and concentrate on myself, the perfection of what is mine to perfect; I haven’t graduated from the Aurelius school of stoic wisdom yet, but . . .

I love the way the Packers connect with their fans, the way Wisconsin snow swirls and cheese hats bop with joy, the way Kyle’s prosecutor won’t give up, the way religious iconography can be artful and even sexy like:

(Sorry, Marjorie.  80's Madonna would annihilate you in a CrossFit contest.) And I love the way we all want something we can’t quite name.

The point is I just keep trying to not have my head messed with on a daily basis by whatever, well, messes with my head, but . . .  since demented judges, the Arrons, the Kyles, and the Marjories aren’t going anywhere, I must see it as it is and stay steady.  I can do that by making a rhetorical adjustment that affects my frame of mind:

It’s not about “but”.  It’s all about “and”.

This and that.  Good and bad.  Both just are. 

Finally, slowly, stoically when possible, I’m catching on and catching up with everybody who knows this already.

Love AND kisses,

Joyce

 

We Want Wings

 

Dear you, a brief post for the week that was:

You heard the news about the Brazilian baby born with a tail.  That story got as much digital ink as this week’s political traumas. I confess, to take a break from thinking about anything relevant, I clicked a link to a New York Post piece summing up the tail-tale.  I learned this happens sometimes, rarely, but sometimes.  The tail the baby boy sported is normally absorbed as we develop in the womb, turning magically into our tailbone.  Still curious, I googled the tailbone topic and got sucked into other questions about our evolving bodies:

“Can humans grow wings?”

“Why do humans have no fur?”

“Could a person grow feathers?”

“Will we evolve into crabs?”

“Can humans evolve with gills?”

That last question begged for a click.  A bit from the www.dailymail.co.uk article:

“Webbed feet, cat’s eyes and gills:  [These] Features are just some that humans could evolve to have to deal with a ‘water world’ due to global warming.  Humans may evolve bizarre features such as webbed feet and eyes like cats in response to changing environments. . .”

Evolution = survival.  Adapt or die. Or we could just nip global warming in the bud.  

Now, we have a shot at that.  At last, we can say it: Happy Infrastructure Week!  Finally. The trillion-dollar infrastructure bill passed this week aims to halt the heat, the melt, and the methane with innovative transportation, technology, and energy plans.  And we (you know who we are) are happy. We don’t want webbed feet, fins, or tails.  So de-volutionary. 

We want wings.

HAPPY INFRASTRUCTURE WEEK!

That's all.

Joyce

 

 

Peavy, Pointy, and Venus de Milo

Dear you,

While Marvin Peavy still flies his freak flag in my neighborhood, making news by resisting fines and hosting a Trump rally yesterday (nice choice for the Sabbath), I/we all carry on swayed by whatever version of “breaking news” we hear.  Depending on the source, the swaying effect can range from apathy, due to exhaustion and waiting for change, to red-in-the-face rage.  I know this because my cashier at the local Publix yesterday was an example of the latter.

After driving by that very unattractive rally group, I arrived at Publix a bit agitated but refusing to let them “own” this Lib on a pleasant Sunday.  I selected the best available produce and products at the current inflated rates and headed to the checkout lane.  The cashier is someone I always chat with.  She is retired and doing this gig to get out of the house, so you don’t need to sympathize in this case.  She is not a poor, fixed income senior who has to keep working part-time to survive.  The gal is rich.  You should see the ice on her fingers and wrists.  Anyway, iced up cashier was not in a cool mood this day.  I could tell by her violent tossing of items to the way-too-skinny bagging boy after scanning.  And her eyes above the required mask?  They looked pinched and pointy.  I don’t know exactly how eyes can look pointy, but they did.  When she was scan-tossing my items, we did the usual “how are you” exchange.  I commented on the fact that the crowds were lightening up on 30A but more fall break kids are bound to come.  She rolled her pointy eyes and said “I know.  It never ends.”  I responded with a reference to “school’s out forever” and added it didn’t matter anyway since so many parents are now enraged by education. “They, the parents, think they should decide what kids are taught. Might as well home school.”  Pointy stopped scanning when I said that.  “They should!!!! Parents should control learning.  Now all schools do is teach sex stuff and that CRT.”

Oh no.  She went there.  She has been swaying to the tune of Tucker Carlson or that OAN thing.

After dismissing her fear of sex stuff by explaining it’s just simple biology, anatomy, or sociology 101, I asked what she thought CRT was.  “Critical Race Theory.  I know what it is!!!!!”  I exhaled and noted she knew what the letters stood for but wondered if she knew what the course contained.  “Do you know the curriculum for that line of study, the reading material, the questions posed for consideration”?  Pointy Eyes went blank.

Of course she didn’t know.  If I had tried to explain the need for CRT, she would have repeated that cherished notion about kids only needing reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic.  She said it once already.  I didn’t want to hear it again.

No history, no art, no physics, no astronomy, no literature, no music, no geography, no philosophy, no political science, no chemistry, no critical thinking much less critical race theory, etc. etc.  Basically, Know Nothing.

Her ideally educated child will never be able to identify this:

I think she is what Pointy Eyes and Marvin Peavy want our children (and me) to be, mute, immobile, disarmed, unable to strike back.  Actually, they would hate Venus de Milo because she is Aphrodite, the goddess of sex (oh no!).  And then there’s the nudity thing (oh no!).  And the polytheistic world she ruled (oh no!).  Oh yes, we must ban her from the classroom too.

Talk about cancel culture.  Look out, dear you, Pointy and Peavy are all riled up and on a mission.  They sure know how to ruin a Sunday.  You can only imagine what else is on their “ruin it” list.

Nevertheless, we will keep the faith.

#Resist

Joyce

Tangled Up in Blue/Camo, Coors, and Cornhole . . .

 

Dear you,

This morning Captain Kirk went to space (for real) in a Bezos rocket.  A quick trip, but it seemed to do what travel to strange places does best – teach us to see things anew, pop our minds open.  During the post-flight interview, Shatner appeared to be transformed, intoxicated by that heavenly shade of blue and the beauty of Mother Earth below.  Most of us can’t afford this experience, so we stay local underneath that mind blowing blue.  Here in the Seagrove Beach zone, travelers keep coming, but not to see anew. The current crowd is heavy Tennessee since the first two weeks of October are fall break for their kids.

These TN travelers have been the recent focus of my ongoing anthropological study, and I have learned this so far:

1. The teenage girls wear camo themed clothing, bikinis, pajamas, tank tops and of course the ubiquitous baseball caps.  They are ready, day or night, to hunt or participate in a pop-up civil war.  Kudos for double duty fashion.

2. Coors light seems to be the beer of choice, especially at 9 A.M. for the under 18 set whose parents are totally missing in action.  They purchase this beverage by the caseload.  Without proper identification.  Good luck trying to buy alcohol here without an ID if you are a young black man from Atlanta.

3. They love playing cornhole.  They toss a bean bag into a hole carved in a slanted piece of wood.  They wear #1 (camo) while doing this and hold #2 (Coors Water) in their non-tossing hand.

Okay, it’s all a matter of taste.  Not every traveler wants to experience the shock and awe of the unknown or the beautiful.  Not every traveler can boldly go where only the rich and blue obsessed can go.  Some travel to one place and do the same things they do in any other place.  In this case, Tennessee is just doing its thing in a coastal setting.  Camo, Coors, and Cornhole by the sea. I understand.

Another pretty obvious assessment I can make regards political style. They (mostly) are conservative and thrilled by the “Trump Won” banner down the street.  Much editorial thought has been published about how Democrats better start courting this demographic or face annihilation by the GOP who owns their votes (and minds).  Even if they are outnumbered in our country, we should supposedly adjust, seek to understand.

Understand.  I do understand.  I just don’t live as they do, and I do not want to.  I don’t wear camo.  I prefer workout wear in solid colors and little black dresses.  And if you ever see me in a baseball cap, I’ve probably had brain surgery, possibly a lobotomy. I don’t like light beer. Especially Coors Light.  It tastes like swamp water.  Hand me a Guinness Stout, even in hot weather.  As for cornhole, no.  Just no. 

All those cultural differences aren’t critical, but the politics thing is.  Because of observation number four:

4. On many, many of their vehicles I see what I have seen all season, that revised American flag with the black stripes and blue line in the middle.

Supporting the blue line, no matter what. Tangled up in a not so heavenly shade of Shatner blue. Even after they view the latest outrage, the brutal attack on a paraplegic driver in Ohio, dragged from his car without mercy.  This stuff just keeps happening and happening and happening and the Dems cannot get a police reform bill passed because we need some of “them” to come on board.  We need to make sure we don’t alienate the thin blue line, camo wearing, light beer drinking, bag tossing people. 

No.  It is not happening, Dems.  You know that. We have to use whatever power we have to get some shit done as quickly as possible.  They aren’t messing around and they are not at all inclined to “understand” us.  And while we honor their freedoms and choices, please be clear about the fact that they do not honor ours in return. 

This is sad. Like losing someone, part of us.  As Bob Dylan wrote:

“All the people we used to know/they’re an illusion to me now/some are mathematicians/some are carpenter’s wives/I don’t know how it all got started/I don’t know what they do with their lives/But me, I’m still on the road/heading for another joint/we always did feel the same/we just saw it from a different point of view/tangled up in blue.”

A different point of view indeed.

See blue anew.

Anthropology class dismissed.

Joyce