Today’s social media world is all about posting negative comments, getting upset and offended by every single thing that happens in a day, investing in celebrities who don’t even know or care you exist, and arguing with strangers from a standpoint of entitlement and privilege. It’s about making disparaging and nasty comments on someone else’s post, even if it’s clear they like the person or issue it’s about. It’s about so much awfulness and making up for what the rest of us can only assume is a miserable life over which you have no control, that I find myself engaging less and less than I once did. 

That doesn’t mean my presence, in service of this very website, has lessened. If anything, I probably post more because it’s so easy to do so at the push of a phone screen. But I do not linger, and I do not dwell, and while the occasional ad for a robe or a jacket will sometimes call to me for further clicking, for the most part I’m moving away from social media as a means of existence. 

To go even further, and to drive home the point of this post, I will not tolerate or allow negative comments or disparaging remarks on any of my social media accounts. I’m looking at you FaceBook and Twitter, and I’m not explaining or justifying my methods of determining what’s negative. If you have to ask, then I already know we won’t get along on a social media plane, and it’s better that we disengage with a clean and simple block. I just don’t have the space for that level of idiocy, or for anyone who pretends not to understand. No ill will at all, and you are always welcome to visit me here to see what’s up.

As they say in the retail biz, forewarned is fair-warned, so let the delete-and-block era begin! May peace soon follow… 

Here we are, already digging into the month of February like it’s some easy-down-the-throat dessert or dick, both with a creamy surprise at the end if it’s al done right, so let’s just hurry up and get on with it. Here’s your Monday recap, blatant innuendo and all…

We began with some blunt pee talk, because, as adults, if we can’t talk about going wee-wee, what can we talk about?

Taylor Swift continued to polarize, not unlike a certain favored diva featured extensively here. 

When soap gets in your ears, and you power the meaning of the ‘Q’ in Q-tip.

This blog turned 21, but I’m into mocktails now so save your toast for breakfast. Virgins up and easy!

Pistachios and a squirrel. 

The first winter without my father.

Snow comfort.

What the actual duck?

A gratuitous deep dive for anyone missing summer days in the pool.

Fuzzy flowers.

Drink/link this magic tea, you’ll like it.

Dominic Albano: underwear entrepreneur.

A quest for the best in blandness.

Dazzlers of the Day included Jordan Stolz, George Eads, Shilese Jones, Jeannine M. Trimboli, Brock Purdy, Trevor Lawrence, and Usher.

With all this talk of tea lately, I just have one question: when the fuck does this shit kick in? It’s a cup of herbal tea called ‘Mood Happy‘, which contains St. John’s wort (which never worked for me back in the day), Shatavari root (never heard of it), Turmeric root (hello curry-not-in-a-hurry), Moringa leaves, Chamomile flowers, Ginkgo Biloba leaves (watch out for the dirty ginkgo trees if deciding to plant one), Lavender flowers (who doesn’t adore lavender?), Fennel seeds (and not even an Italian sauce in sight), Ginger root (love love love me some ginger), Black Peppercorns (I would have gone with pink because I like pink) and Cardamom Seeds (which brings to mind this glorious recipe). 

Maybe the tea is working – in going through the list of ingredients I do feel a little bit happier. Being mindful of the memories elicited has made for some magic. 

Counter-programming for the winter doldrums is simple: bring the heat, lose the shirt, and go deep. Add a Speedo for extra incentive to work off that holiday padding (I’ve got enough extra to fill the stay-puffed marshmallow man’s costume). Who doesn’t love an 80’s reference? And who you gonna call? These pool pics of the past will have to suffice until such time that I adopt a less sedentary lifestyle.  

The smorgasbord of my mind, rapid-firing across frayed synapses, is like the world’s messiest charcuterie board right now: there is some good shit there, but you have to wade through a bunch of garbage like rosemary sprigs and a jar of weird mustard that’s way beyond its expiration date. (And don’t even get me started on pitted olives.)

That strange charcuterie digression aside, (what is with all the charcuterie references on this blog?) let’s delve into some aforementioned counter-programming since the groundhog has predicted an early spring, and I always err on the side of the rodent when it comes to accurate meteorological predictions. Again, I digress, when all you want is to get to the Tom Daley and Michael Phelps Speedo posts. Hang on… I feel it… It’s coming… 

Summer days by the pool have always been magical, in their majestic laziness, and the way they slink so sensually through the hours. That sun works myriad spells as it crosses the sky, when really we should be thanking the earth for just sitting there and rotating (advice that’s been given to me on more occasions than need to be recalled). 

Summer discovers where the boys are then quickly works to catch us all up in its heady siren call. We listen, we hear, we fall into its gorgeous trance, lured willingly along for the heated ride. Sometimes summer is a soundtrack. Sometimes summer is a Speedo. Sometimes summer is a knife. Sometimes, summer simply breaks our hearts. 

Inevitably, and often with some reluctant relief, every summer must give way to fall, which comes with its own enchantments and glories. 

Some days are still haunted, while others are filled with healing. 

Some days are quiet and contemplative, made of mindfulness and merrily mired in meditation. 

We work our way through all the days, winding our way to another summer again. May it not keep us waiting for too long. 

Flummoxed by the way the world is seemingly headed, I’m left scratching my head and pulling my gray hair out of my head for the utter loss of making any sense of things. That’s a vague, albeit it grandiose, opening statement, and I’m even at a loss for specifics of what made me say it. Well, that’s not entirely true – I have ideas and specifics, but they’re mostly about politics and I will not sully this space with such talk right now. Staying away from the news and the political state of this country is my best recourse for retaining whatever shredded remnants of sanity I may still have at my disposal. 

Rather, the point of this post, and its title, is to illuminate how silly things are when you take a moment to put everything into perspective. When in the midst of a worldwide pandemic, perspective tends to shift in major and unexpected ways. Do not get weary or worn down, and if you do, remember to be fucking fabulous. It’s ok to not be ok, and to let people know you’re not ok, even if there is no solution or resolution. They may try to help, and try to be gracious about that if/when it happens. We are all doing the best we can. 

And so, whenever I feel like the world is gaslighting me, and I find myself getting bitter and angry about it, I turn that old standby phrase ‘What the actual fuck?’ around and switch out the ‘fuck’ for ‘duck’, and instantly I remember how fucking stupid and silly all of this really is. Perspective. Imperfection. Pantagruel. Rabelais. 

Always remember, when all else fails and you long to be something better than you are today, I know a place where you can get away… 

On the morning after a snowstorm, the world is blanketed in a state of quiet unknown at almost any other time of the year. Sometimes there is wind – brutal and cutting – but when there’s not, the day can dawn in almost complete silence. On a morning like that, I will pause before beginning the routine, and look out at the world transformed by snow. There are certain scenes of beauty that can only be matched by the power of stillness and silence. 

When you are homebound by snow, when the world keeps you quiet and subdued, there is the space to embrace whatever healing still needs to happen. Winter, for all its seeming cruelty, will offer many of these moments. In the past, I would sulk and mourn such days, as if I had something more important to do, somewhere better to be. Maybe that’s a passing fancy of youth. Maybe it was more pointedly a fault of my own. 

This winter, after a few winters of practice, I have learned to slow down, to appreciate the way winter rolls, the way it makes for a hospitable environment for growth in the most unlikely of ways. Many people think of winter as the season of slumber, while forgetting that sleep is the often the best way to recover and recuperate from injury and ailment. Healing comes from such sleep, and from slowing down and facing what hurts. 

Facing it, sitting with it, holding it, and, when it’s ready to depart, letting it go.