2021 Silver Linings . . .

 

Dear you,

2021, just hours away and I am experiencing a dental drama.  Oh, the pain. This forced me out of my condo and into the masses, the mob scene of Publix down the road.  I am in serious need of mushy foods, beer, and Advil.  The mob scene is happening because New Year’s Eve celebrations in this area are proceeding as scheduled, like any other year.  Just like last year, but EVEN MORE CROWDED.  Evidence suggests, based on the visitor’s pouring in (just like summer, endless summer apparently), there is no pandemic and people aren’t dying every day. Quoting The Red Bar’s ad for their event:

“Ringing in the New Year at The Red Bar is a SoWal tradition for many locals and SoWal beach lovers.  You just gotta do it at least once in your life and party to Red Bar Jazz Band and then DJ dance music blaring from the bar for hours on end.  Party Favors, noise makers, balloons, hats and tiaras provided at no charge . . . Walk-ins Welcome . . .”

Tiaras.

Other bars and party venues have similar invitations. All options sound tacky as hell, but some people “just gotta do it” at least once in their life.  No occupancy limits, no safety requirements, no nothing but contagion.  As for the “locals” going to The Red Bar, they voted for Matt Gaetz, so, you know. But I do wonder what those party favors will be.  Free Covid-19 test-kits?  Tickets for the “front of the line” to get a vaccine?  Used MAGA hats?

Oh, the pain.

I need some kind of mental Advil.  I do not want to enter 2021 pissed off.  So, in pursuit of a not-pissed-off-state-of-mind, I turned on NPR during the drive home from the store.  I wanted something very not “local”.  Fresh Air (I think that was the show, unsure) was on, paying tribute to a Broadway singer-actress, Rebecca Luker.  She died in 2020; she died young.  And she was a friend of my NYC buddy, James. (The source of the “wherever you go, there you are” mantra).  One of the songs they played was “Look for the Silver Lining”, featuring Ms. Luker, of course.  It was impossibly sweet.  Pure.

I hear you, Ms. Luker.  I can do this.  Even in the mundane now.  Yes, my old root canal is going bad.  Whatever, I’m alive. And yes, I look like I have a tennis ball stuffed in my face from the swelling.  I look ridiculous.  Is this important?  Is there a silver lining?  Silver lining, anyone?  Where is it? There it is on my dresser.  The 2020 MASK!  The accessory of the year will not only hide the tennis ball swelling, but it will also protect those around me who are prepping for their “gotta do it” night at the Red Bar.  It’s a win-win situation.

Thank you for singing to me, Rebecca.   Your voice was the silver lining of my day.

Tributes to all those we lost in 2020.  We remember you, going into 2021. Silver linings, everywhere.

Love,

Joyce

 

 

Pardon me!

 

Dear you,

Enjoying the holiday Pardonpalooza?  Not a single surprise on the President’s list of forgiven deplorables.  Accustomed to his vile choices, we expected him to pardon people like, oh, you know, war criminals.  Just in time for Christmas! Donald is the ultimate Bad Santa. And he still has four more weeks to forgive anyone for anything.  Do you need a pardon?  Act now!

Recall previous crimes. Which ones would you like erased? Don’t blame yourself for crimes of the heart or “I should have” omissions.  Try to remember those seemingly justified social contract felonies that, in retrospect, feel pretty ikky now.  Here’s a short list of my mea culpas for Don’s consideration:

When I was about ten years old, the very religious boy next door (Greg) told me I was going to hell.  I replied, “see you there”.  He burst into tears.

At Auburn U, I had absolutely zero qualms about breaking the girl code when it came to my sorority sisters' boyfriends.

My first year in NYC, I sold the supposedly sacred sorority pin (pearls and rubies) to some shady guy in the Diamond District.  I had no qualms about that either.

During a summer stock gig in the early eighties, I was oblivious to the concept of sharing-space-in-a cast-house when it came to MY BATHROOM, MY BATHTUB, and MY BATHING TIME!

When I taught aerobics in the nineties, I betrayed the trust of three clients.  I called them Hitler, The Big Stink, and Helmet-Head behind their backs.  (You know why they earned those names; don’t play innocent.)

I stole a stapler from one of my past-life temp jobs.  I still have that stapler.  It’s really good.

This week I verbally abused yet another mask-less, MAGA cap wearing teenage boy in Publix; this time I kept it simple: “You look like a total asshole in that hat”.  (Good lord, I said this to a kid.  Talk about punching down.)

Whenever I see members of my condo HOA board lurking about, I pretend I don’t see them.  Or I flip them off.

I could go on, but I think this is a good start.  Hopefully, Donald will add my offences to his list. He’s making a list, checking it twice, forgiving the naughty and harming the nice.   Send Bad Santa Trump your list of pardonables ASAP!  His time is running out . . .

Good night and good luck,

Your Inexcusable Joyce

PS – I do wish everyone well this Christmas Eve.  I am hanging on to the words of Captain Lee from Bravo channel’s unpardonable but fabulous Below Deck: “No sailor learns anything in calm seas.”  Stay afloat.

Mirror Fraud!

 Dear you,

I am worried about this guy, the owner of the Trump house down the road:

Yes, the banner is still belligerently there. Even now.  After all the bogus lawsuits, all the debunked voter fraud claims, and all the very very verified final vote tallies, this dude still loves his Donald. He can’t grasp the fact that he has lost something.  Face it, dear neighbor.  Some things just end.  Some things just disappear.  Like my butt!

Yesterday, I shopped for some wintry fashion at the Old Navy Outlet in Sandestin.  I carried an armload of options into the dressing room, undeterred by the unflattering lighting and brutally truthful mirrors, things that might bother peers my age.  Me, why worry?  I am in good shape.  I exercise, moisturize, and keep it simple.  Everything appears to be as it should, time marching on in a not too depressing way.  Until this:  the wraparound brutally truthful mirror informed me during one costume change that MY BUTT IS DISAPPEARING!  What????  I knew my J-Lo days were over, but this?  I do squats!  With weights!  This cannot be!  It must be mirror fraud!

No.  It wasn’t mirror fraud.  It was mirror truth.  My butt is disappearing. Well, compared to what it used to be.  Sigh.  Carry on.  Add gluteal bridges and ridiculous fire hydrant exercises to the daily workout.  But accept the fact, Joyce, you have lost something. 

The Trump house dude needs to experience a similar political mirror moment.

This revelation might be too much for him since he is probably in the butt-loss stage of life too.  We can’t handle too much simultaneous losing.  Nevertheless, he and his fellow Trump lovers need to let it the hell go!  Darlings, you have lost something.

Some things just end.

Some things just disappear.

Like my butt!

Deal with it.

Love,

Joyce

Parler games . . .

 Dear you,

Did your grandparents’ have a parlor?  My grands, on my Mom’s side, did.  The room fascinated me, plush oriental rug, ebony furniture, oil paintings of famous women from the Bible (no, not creepy paintings, these were warm and romantic in style, the femmes were gorgeous and appealing), and felt-covered game tables.  This was the room for chats with guests and family card games, and when guests were gone and games over, it was the perfect place to revel in solitude.  Part casino, part temple, the parlor appealed to my pagan nature, mixing the sacred and the profane in such an obvious and slightly erotic way.  I hadn’t thought about that room in years, until now.

Meet Parler, a riff on the French “to speak”. (Parlar, I believe.)  Everyone is yakking about Parler, a very Trumpy version of Twitter.  Since Twitter has been placing alerts on lies, this is where the MAGAs now meet and P-tweet.  Curious, I searched Twitter for posts that hash-tagged this new site; I wanted to see if the rumors were true, see if the Parler people were as insane as I’ve heard, beyond red, beyond Trumpy, actually kind of Hitlery.  The Parler related tweeters I scanned were busy ALL CAPS yelling about the usual topics, the “stolen election”, “liberal takeovers”, and of course the “civil war” which, by the way, they seem to be really looking forward too.  And oh my god, their profiles.  Across the board, they love “god”, kids, country, guns, hunting, Donald, and whiteness!  I was fascinated, experiencing that can’t-not-look-at-the-car-crash thing.  I spent at least thirty minutes going down this rabbit hole and emerged slightly exhausted.

It was noisy down there.  Lots of screaming.  Lots of rage. 

I wanted to be anywhere but there.   I wanted to return to my memorable, actual parlor, listen to civilized people speak, play games that don’t require bullets (or animal targets), and revel in solitude.  Then, I looked for advice, the kind only poets can give.  And I found this; the poet Ha Jin, “A Center”:

You must hold your quiet center,

Where you do what only you can do.

If others call you a maniac or a fool,

Just let them wag their tongues.

If some praise your perseverance,

Don’t feel too happy about it ---

Only solitude is a lasting friend.

You must hold your distant center.

Don’t move even if earth and heaven

Quake.

If others think you are insignificant,

That’s because you haven’t held on long

Enough.

As long as you stay put year after year,

Eventually you will find a world

Beginning to revolve around you.

I hope during this noisy time, you are all holding on to your center.   Return to your parlor (not Parler).  Revel in solitude.

Love,

Joyce

Don't rat out an animal lover . . .

 

Dear you,

Some good news about the 2021 White House.  President Biden will bring his dog Major with him and he will also bring a new CAT!  Details about the cat are TBD. Another point of happy contrast, then and soon to be now. POTUS 45 has zero pets. I really don’t know the man, the Donald, but I am probably not alone in feeling there is something about his aversion to animals that mirrors his aversion to anything flesh and blood and wild . . . like us.  However, I think he is going to need a pet friend during his Florida exile.  A cat or dog wouldn’t work; they require love and attention.  What type of pet would work for our Donald?  What would he look for and like in a companion creature?

I recommend:  a fish (cold and untouchable), a tarantula (the power to kill), a roach (they won’t die), a snake (he loves that stupid 5^th grade poem), a parrot (the ability to echo his words like a Fox News employee), or a pet rock with a photo of Don’s face taped to the front (no explanation needed).

Okay, none of those choices would transform Trump into a true animal lover.  A baby step, warm-up pet wouldn’t change a thing about him.  I think feeling for animals is something that’s just in a person, or not.  I tend to have a bias in favor of animal lovers, not “pet keepers” per se, but those who respect and adore them.  Which brings me to the local here and now.

Last night, a random loud truck pulled up and started unloading for a December stay in the condo two floors down.  (Thank goddess they aren’t directly under me.)  Anyway, the truck owner couple and child seemed to bring EVERYTHING they own with them.  Including their dog. 

The dilemma:  There is a no pet rule for all renters; only owners can have them on the property.  These people either lied or didn’t read their contract.

Should I rat them out to management?  After all, they are a hot mess and it appears that the couple and child have now been joined by an endless stream of relatives/friends, also against management rental booking rules.  It would be beyond easy to get them tossed out with just a word to the management office.  But . . .

They have a dog. It’s an adorable Pug thing.  And from what I’ve seen, they love the animal.  They are animal lovers.  I am not ratting them out.

They stay.

So welcome, renter Pug pet, to the Villas!

And welcome back to the White House, POTUS pets -- Major and TBD CAT!

Love,

Joyce