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