Boys will be boys…or not

So…I’ve been signing all my emails today: “We are all transgender.”

And – as you will understand – I’m reacting to el presidente’s evil words and would-be deeds.

But, I think my statement is true.

Consider this… If you are honest, you will admit that you don’t always feel like the gender you were assigned at birth. Men, don’t you sometimes feel a little (or a lot) like a girl? And I’m sure that my fellow women (see what I did there?) will acknowledge that there are times when you really feel like a guy. It’s normal (you should pardon the expression). We are multiplistic; an amalgamation. We are most certainly not one-dimensional in our sexuality or our gender identification.

Actually, I believe that embracing our trans-selves is both freeing and strengthening. To the degree to which we believe we have to play it like “a girl” or ” a boy” – that’s the degree to which we are self-limiting. Sort of like playing with only half the deck.

Parents are in the primary position of influencing where we stand on this issue of essential transgenderality. They can easily convey disapproval for any behavior outside the narrow bounds of a single gender. On the other hand, those mothers and fathers who are accepting of the blending of maleness and femaleness are most likely to produce children who are comfortable with all aspects of themselves.

Not to belabor this…I’m just sayin’…

Best foot forward?

How to determine which is your best foot? Longest or shortest? Fattest or thinnest? Strength vs. beauty? And why put it forward? Why not hold it in reserve – perhaps sacrificing your worst foot to the vagaries of street life, especially in the unprotected summer-sandals months.

I’m thinking of long toes – which were once prized as an attribute of a royal bloodline.

Do long toes a best foot make? Or is it musculature – the powerful arch that can spur a great sprinter or support a long-distance runner or fuel an extended bout of hopping or skipping?

I know how obscure this issue might seem – but you know how this blog works… its what’s on my mind.

I confess to a bit of embarrassment, if not downright shame, about my non-best foot. It always seems like an interloper. No matter how good I’m feeling about myself or my body, there it is – the second piece of my unmatched set of anatomical foundations. A strangely long second toe with a bit of a knobby knuckle (nicely alliterative, don’t you think?)

I fear I have crossed over into the TMI zone…so I’ll stop now.

In solidarity: We are all transgender.

Trump’s tenure

Let’s start a pool…step right up and place your bets. We’ll call it “The Prez is right.”

Put $10 in the kitty and claim your prognostication: By when will Trump be gone? I say by Christmas, what do you say? I say he can’t last; the mountain of awfulness and criminality keeps growing. Won’t the populace reach a point where they/we can no longer just swallow? I’m betting on the dormant but still extant honor of the American people. Care to wager with me?

If I’m wrong, and our capacity for stupidity and amorality is greater than I believe, I will be truly shocked and sad…I will also be joining the fleeing horde in Canada or Costa Rica.

I’m guessing el Trumpo will walk away before he’s impeached. I don’t see him having the stomach for that degree of humiliation; I don’t actually think he is a fighter – just a quick brawler, who will capitalize on a size advantage, but who can neither strategize nor go the distance.

And, while we wait for the end, there is a possibility that he will succeed in doing a great deal of damage to our political foundations. Sort of like jack-hammering the crap out it. In the slightly paraphrased, but immortal words of Gloria Gaynor: “We will survive.” Sure, it’s disturbing and even disgusting (like being infested with both silverfish and cockroaches simultaneously), but we’re the folks who withstood the decimation of our population in several wars (Civil and uncivil). We rose up from the ashes of Watergate, and we’ll rid ourselves of the current Donald-slime.

We can count on the fact that Trump will not change his tactics, even if they result in his demise. He’s a stubborn and grandiose narcissist who cannot reflect objectively.

Dasvidaniya, Donald. And, to sort of quote yet another cultural icon, “Don’t let those swinging doors hit you in the ass on the way out.”

 

midday musings

Sitting just inside of the semi-open-air outer room of one of the hotel’s two restaurants…

The storm clouds are gathering (as predicted) and I watch the skies with an extra measure of anticipation. A big-un is a-coming and I can’t wait. Okay – here’s the denoument:

My body is reacting to the changing barometric pressure. There must be some ancient primordial benefit to absorbing moisture in one’s body as the rains approach. Try as I may, however, I can’t imagine what that benefit is.  I do, nevertheless, feel like a balloon being inflated. Perhaps I’ll become airborne.

Noted: I see yet another and then another individual who would probably tip the scales at 300 or more pounds. I’ve been observing this for two days. At first, I was just pleased to see that I was far from the fattest person in the room. Now, I am more interested in this as a sociological trend or a locale-linked trait. Has the word gone out to the large-sized community? “Here in Bermuda, fatties are welcome.” I’m good with that.

In my dawning awareness, I feel a communication from a VERY close, now deceased relative (NK). He’s pleased with the fare and the portion sizes. He is, however, a little peeved with me. “Get your elbows off the table,” I hear distinctly inside my head. “Yes, sir!” I reply, with alacrity.

For much of my life my father was a serious eater. Meals were not just something that one engaged in in order to survive. No. Au contraire. He was living to eat, not eating to live. Mass quantities of all manner of edibles were prepared and consumed every day. I recall there never being much in the refrigerator – because whatever was there got eaten. It wasn’t even safe to sit still for too long; you might wind up with a  Béarnaise sauce dripping into your eyes. Sometimes I thought I saw my own dear father sizing me up – Would I fit into the large roasting pan?

Okay, that’s really creepy and a bridge too far. But just barely.

I did acquire my love of food from the little big man. He was 5 ft. 4 in. tall and at times weighed more than the scale could measure. He was also a first rate chef. My mother seldom had to prepare dinner. He was on it like barbeque sauce on spare ribs.

From cook-outs at a nearby state park, when I was young…where 3-inch thick sirloins and entire watermelons were just a few of the staples, to grilled dinner for fifteen (with both indoor and outdoor cooking going on simultaneously) when I was an adult…to large scale parties with more hors d’oevres than one could count or even imagine, the preparing, sharing and enjoying of food was a main focus of his life.

Sometimes, when I’ve cooked a really good meal, I can feel his approval. I know he’s watching me – especially on Thanksgiving, our family’s high holy day.

I Hope John McCain is Okay

There are some people – a very rare few – whose character and authenticity transcend their particular positions in life (and politics). John McCain is such a person.
He is forthright and a pursuer of truth; he’s a man of dignity and humor (a great combination).
John (I feel as if the familiar is somehow appropriate. After all this time he’s almost one of the family.) – I repeat: John will always give as good as he gets, but there are places he won’t go, discourse that is beneath him. He has survived the multifarious, the weird, the banal, and the evil. His spirit and integrity remain intact. He is – if not universally beloved, then universally respected. And so, the great American deliberative body awaits his recovery.
To your health, John.

Bermuda, Shmermuda (tee shirt to follow)

Okay. So the ocean is an unnaturally gem-like turquoise; the landscape is low and lush and green. But the beach – the thing that you (that would be me) were looking forward to, is about 40 paces wide and that’s it.

There is no walking along the shore – which is, in life, one of my most favorite things to do. Bummer squared = meh.

But you know what Shakespeare said (and that would be Elliot – who has the shakes – Peer. You know him. He lives across the street. The guy who talks to himself in iambic pentameter: “Twas ever so. Verily. Tis pity she’s a whore.” (I just wanted to include that – it has no particular relevance.)

Oh – and it’s hot. Really annoyingly hot. Didn’t expect that.

A couple of other things to be acknowledged…The Bermudans are, without exception, friendly and helpful in a most natural and not cloying way.

Kinks: Many exist. But they are working themselves out. I won’t bore you with the litany of my 70- year-old rustiness, but I am confident that by the end of our stay, I will be rejuvenated. ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. Even though my PIC (remember him?) is certain that 70 is the age of no return.

Fearless Birds: The omnipresent sparrow-like little wing-ed beggars flying/hopping around the outside (and sometimes inside) tables. I’m surprised they’re not too fat to fly, given their eager (dare I say hoggish) attention to every crumb that falls from the tables. Perhaps they are the primary gatherers for a large tribe (gaggle?) of feathered folk who, I imagine, are anxiously twittering with stomachs a-rumbling.

Return from the dark side: Despite my earlier bitching (of which I say with pride I am a past master) this little island is growing on me. The air is soft. The water is just warm enough to allow N to go shirtless into the deep. The food is good and it seems as if anything we might desire will be provided if at all possible.

And yet. And yet. I must conclude in this manner: Quoth the Raven: “Fire Island.”