Condensation

Yesterday morning I was explaining why the windows inside the house are covered with beads of water in the morning to my husband. This lead to a discussion about the dew point and freshman meteorology. I rag on Florida but I really did get a good education between the Dade County Public School System and Florida State University. This was, of course, in the 1980’s and/or 1990’s but nevertheless, I remain well informed. Keep in mind, we also had metal detectors and teacher/student sex scandals aplenty back then. Also, my middle school taught us the “Lost Cause” theory of the Civil War – that it wasn’t about slavery but states rights and commerce and other lies. We never got past WW2 in any history class I took until college. There was not a single mention of gender, gender expression — and sexual orientation was summed up as hetero = good, everything else = flames of hell.

And yet! I made it out of there alive. Which isn’t to say a more progressive agenda isn’t important. Indeed, I was vaguely suicidal from 1982 to 1987 because of how it feels to know you’re gay and know that everyone (including your parents) would be REALLY UPSET or even VIOLENT if you were openly gay – so keep a lid on that shameful secret and take it with you to your grave, please and thank you. Anyhow, being in Florida for 12 days got me thinking about all that because of Rhonda Santa’s new “Don’t Say teh Gehy” law. Rhonda’s mean, y’all. She really is. She’s the kind of snot nosed bully I had to contend with from 1982 to 1987 all grown up, shopping at Tuesday Morning, getting into fights in the parking lot because you “stole the space she was waiting for.” I think the thing about Rhonda is she just wants to be loved and found a group of people who are mean like her. So now she can go punching down at depressed kids in middle and high school and just generally make life shitty for people in order to be accepted by her crowd of bullies.

I do find it perfectly fitting that sentient fatty-tumor / ex-president Donald Trump, Rhonda Santa and now Jair Bolsonaro are all in Florida. Like really, you’re a horrible failed dictator who has a body count of 1,000,000 Covid deaths on your tab, where do you go? Orlando. Donald and Rhonda aren’t speaking right now but I wonder if Donald and Jair are meeting up for grilled cheese samiches at the snack bar at Donald’s gold plated wedding chapel and stolen top-secret document storage shed? Like does Donald waddle across the lobby of Mar-a-go-go, share a weird, grippy hand shake and then take Jair out for a ride on his golf cart? Both of them plotting and planning their return to power while griping about how the election was stolen from them? Donald seems like the kind of guy who shamelessly farts in front of his underlings. Who cares? You don’t even rate an apology and should be honored to inhale my fragrance. 

I got up to watch the sun rise over the snow covered peaks of Mount Wilson. Right now it’s still packed with clouds and the sun is just barely up. The house is quiet and freezing though I can hear the start of traffic down on Hyperion. I’ve started to turn into an early bird. I’m up at 5 or 6 most mornings now. Me – the former goth who was up all hours making VHS epics with my camera and all my Florida Goth friends in an abandoned dance studio or partially demolished movie theater. I suppose being an early bird is kind of the same thing though. It’s romantic and solitary. Plus, when the weather is cold like this it allows me to layer up. Where’s my 19th century wool cape that I bought on my first trip to London in 1988? (moths ate it.)

Top Five for Today:

1. Getting all my work done yesterday.
2. Podcasts under my weighted blanket.
3. The Mister.
4. Folded laundry, filed vertically according to the Conmarie method.
5. Back yard mandarin orange tree is absolutely bursting with mandarins and the rodents do not seem interested in the least.