Stephinitely | A word from the old parade beads in your closet

Plus, we DO talk about Bruno

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View on the web Go to our home page Subscribe to the Times Monday, January 31, 2022 Forward this to a friend Subscribe to more newsletters Your beads in their prime. [Times (2016)] THIS IS WHAT REGRET LOOKS LIKE Oh, hello. I didn't see you there, because I live in a shadowy corner beneath a duffel of clothes you keep meaning to donate, a stack of your dad's Western novels, a zip case of DVDs (what's up, Gigli!?) and a giant exercise ball that has never been used, not once.    No, not the pillow shams Aunt Jill made. Over here! Yeah, here. I am your parade beads. You got many of me at Tampa's Gasparilla pirate parade last weekend, where you were suddenly overcome with the desire to wear me (ahem, because you'd had three Captain and Cokes before noon). I'm mostly unremarkable, except for a few winners. These chunky ones with the plastic pirate ship on the end? You knocked out a lady's tooth to get them. Remember that? Have you heard from her lawyers yet? The last time you were so passionate was trying to catch one of the tank tops from the T-shirt cannon at the Bieber show.   So yeah, you've added about four pounds to my Microsoft Windows tote bag, mixed in with beads from Mardi Gras five years back, the downtown motorcycle toy run, the Santa parade, some picnic at your nephew's preschool, a Rays game, a Bucs game and a regional gymnastics expo. That's on top of the 24 pounds of other beads from the past seven Gasparillas.   I am an intricate plastic tapestry! I have a full inner life! I contain multitudes, as the kids say!   But if I'm being honest, I'm sad. You see, I'm the most important thing in your life for approximately four hours. I am it. Nothing matters more than me.   You beg for me. You dig me out of muddy gutters. You extract me from a tangle of White Claw cans and broken shoes and costume hoop earrings. You rip me from the hands of children just to add me to your glorious neck stack. Then, you take me home, and for what? Once the fog lifts, you realize you are stuck with me. I am a burden. You feel bad throwing me away, which I appreciate. If I had the choice between living in a landfill or next to the foam replica of a Norse tradesman axe you bought for the 2017 Renaissance Festival, my path is clear.   I'm just saying! Maybe use me to make some mixed media art. Trash to treasure dress? Fancy outdoor chandelier? Or sell my better strands. Did you know people collect me? Like, really collect. They don't shove me on the floor beside the muddy Converse All Stars. I bet you could pay off at least one of your 2 a.m. Amazon binges with what's in my bag.   Or trade me in at one of these sites so, just one more time, I can soar through the sky above a crowd of desperate onlookers and feel what it's like to be alive.   Think about it. Everyone out here just trying to relax. [Paramount Pictures] Right this way to rest and relaxation Did you go? I didn't go. Personally, I did not feel ready to bathe in the droplets of 300,000 pirates smushed in the streets of downtown Tampa. Will I ever feel ready again? I hope so. I trust one day I will. I believe!!! But reader, that day is not yet upon us.   I wrote this primer for newcomers to Tampa, though, who might be pretending to understand Gasparilla. The metrics tell me it was well-received, which got me thinking.   If you are new to Tampa Bay, what's something we do that you need explained? Is it a street name? Holiday boat parades? The particular way we park along the tiniest stretches of causeway sand with cars whipping past at highway speed instead of just going to a regular beach? Let me know!   Read it: First Gasparilla? A newbie primer for Tampa's pirate parade   It occurs to me I haven't introduced you to my new editor yet. My former editor, the genius Maria Carrillo, retired at the end of last year, and the genius Claire McNeill stepped in. Claire has been editing me for a few weeks now, and her grasp of grammar and word choice is unparalleled. She's also a voracious fiction reader and runs a fabulous bookstagram. Between us, I'm terrified to let her read my extracurricular fiction because she's so discerning.   ANYWAY, she is catching right on to the column vibe. Last week, she sent me a New York Times piece from Farhad Manjoo about trying to relax. It's less theoretical and more literal, a program of tensing and releasing your muscles. I gave it a shot, to, um, mixed results! But I do think you should read on and try it. I mean, really. You're tense right now, aren't you? How are your shoulders? Yeah, I thought so.   Read it: I tried this technique to relax in 2022, when nothing is stressful at all   Heads up: Coming this week, I have a delightful tale for you about 100-year-old identical twin sisters living together in St. Petersburg. Photographer Martha Asencio-Rhine and I hung out with them recently and got to know their story. They were born in 1921, and grew up with gas lamps. I mean!   The easiest way to get the column as soon as it's out is to follow me on Twitter or Facebook. You can follow me on IG, too, but that's more for pictures of my dog. Me listening to We Don't Talk About Bruno for a 64th time. [Disney] And another thing! If you are around kids and/or are a Disney Adult (you know who you are), you have probably seen Encanto. The cartoon musical about an extraordinary Colombian family is magic, and the Lin-Manuel Miranda songs play A LOT in our home.    The two hottest tracks are Surface Pressure and We Don't Talk About Bruno. I love them both (though I could use a break, ALEXA). Still, I wanted to use my platform to briefly say that Bruno was just stating the obvious. Bruno was all, "Hey, looks like it's gonna rain," and then it rained, and his family was all, "BANISH HIM, FOR HIS PROPHECIES ARE REAL." My household has decided that Bruno is like the Dutch footballer Jan Maas from Ted Lasso. He just says things that are true, maybe a little tactlessly, and everyone gets upset. That sounds like a YOU problem, family.   I stand with Bruno, and I'm sorry he had to live in that rat hovel for just saying what's what. Follow me for more takes. Contact Stephanie Hayes at shayes@tampabay.com. Follow @stephhayes on Twitter, @stephhayeswrites on Facebook and @stephrhayes on Instagram. Did someone forward this newsletter to you? You can sign up to get Stephinitely in your own inbox next time. Subscribe for free here. 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