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

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