There's a drunk breaker peeing in my yard . . .

Dear you,


“Dow Plunges 2,300 Points: Stocks In Meltdown As Panic Selling Continues”



The above headline was from several days ago.  Now, on March 19, the virus spread escalates and too many Americans are still feeling immortal.  This, in spite of the science and noted market plunges. The spring breakers (as featured in photo compliments of Global News, I believe) are here and many are careless and wearers of bad fashion. The biggest number in my condo complex came from Tennessee, apparently a hot spot for the growing spread.  And they are still here, even after Walton County closed “public” beaches for the present.  The problem:


Here on 30A, the majority of the beach strip is owned by people who are literally on the coast/dunes.  That includes massive multi-story units where very few residents live.  That also includes the new three-story boxes that “sleep 50!”.  This means the vacay-renters are welcome on the beaches that are deemed theirs (private) while those of us who own directly across the street are banned.  According to law, the county can only shut down public spaces, not private.  So, this shutdown does nothing to limit the deluge of visitors who should be doing this:


#StayHome


I have been less than welcoming at Publix and god bless them for staying open and keeping the store stocked as best they can.  Earlier this week, I directly addressed a spring breaker and said “You guys really should not be here now.  This is a national emergency and you are stressing the system and potentially infecting others.  Come back later.  We just need a little time to slow this thing down.”  

His response:

“You’re mean.”


Yes, I am mean.  And I am experiencing something beyond normal spring break mean-mode because this year, the angst is beyond normal.  It is intellectual.  I cannot understand why these visitors (be they young or old) are invading now.  Something is off.  Something is missing in their connection to others in the community.  Are we merely a backdrop for their Instagram stories?


So here I am, a character in someone else’s story.  But I am intensely focused on defending the Floridians at risk. I am acting to shut the visitor shit down, especially when the visitors include a random drunk dude who invades our condo area and urinates on the flowering shrubs.


Classy.

Stay classy urinating dude!  That is the name of your character in your Instagram story.


Please, Governor DeSantis, shut down all beaches, including the private ones.  Only you have the power to do that.  And look into making drunk public peeing a felony.


Cheers and good luck out there!

Love, Joyce

Not so sweet home Alabama & #Coronavirus

Dear you,

I am looking at the news and a map of The United States, checking out which states have no reported cases of the Coronavirus.  Alabama is one of those states.  Good for them!  However, I have a theory about that lucky zero.  It leads to a story about last week . . .

My sorority reunion (don’t ask) was set to be held in Fairhope, Alabama, just under three hours via car from Seagrove Beach.  Since I am still looking for the perfect place to live and buy a cool house, I decided to attend the reunion and check out small town real estate while there.  The challenge was finding a place that accepted pets during my stay.  Yes, my feline could not be left behind!  After Googling galore, I found a Bed and Breakfast by Mobile Bay, close to everything and pet friendly.  I booked a week, looking forward to a break from “here”.  Even if the reunion was tragic and I did not find the ultimate house, I would enjoy being away.


The day of the journey, I loaded up my darling car with all kinds of cat things.  Like traveling with a child.  I made sure I had tons of her favorite foods, her giant scratching toy, litter box, toys, etc.  Then, I packed her in the carrier, placed her in the front passenger seat (cats love riding shotgun) and headed to Alabama. 
  

And then I arrived in Fairhope and discovered my B & B was a nightmare:

      1.  I was greeted by two insane, barking dogs in the check-in area.

      2.  My assigned cottage reeked of mildew and desperation.

      3. Beyond creepy 19^th century photos of dead people adorned the walls.

      4. The kitchenette was stocked with dirty glasses and a filthy coffee maker.

      5.  The bathroom . . . I just can’t go there because I’ll have nausea flashbacks.

Whatever.  I was tired and decided to just deal with it.  I turned on the TV and after changing from the pre-programmed Fox Cable News channel to MSNBC I heard the news:

The state of Alabama had just executed an innocent man on death row, Nathaniel Woods. You know the story. 

Hating Alabama, I went out to purchase food and cold beer to smooth my edges, which prompts the continuation of the above nightmare list:

      6. Piggly Wiggly has a salad bar you might want to avoid unless you like flies with your lettuce.

      7.  Driving back to the B & B, I was stuck in a traffic jam, a traffic jam in Fairhope, Alabama.

      8.  After the jam, I passed a big old house with a big old Confederate flag in the yard.

      9.  Back at the B & B, the heater barely worked, and the cold beer did not work either.

Kitty Vivo meowed under the bed while I covered the creepy photos with stained “complimentary” bath towels. Surrender and sleep, Joyce.  And I did.  (After a torturous attempt to shower in the nausea flashback inducing bathroom.)   Tomorrow is another day . . .

10. And that day began with the sound of sledgehammers and bulldozers right by the bedroom wall!  This, at 7 AM!!!  Construction right next door!  Something I think most decent B & B owners would alert their guests about.

Fuck this nonsense. 

I ditched the reunion, the real estate showings, and the fantasy vacation.  I packed the car, grabbed the kitty, and got the hell out of Alabama.


I did not stop until I crossed the Florida line.  I did that with a smile.


Now, about my theory and the virus reports.  I am pretty sure no cases are showing in Bama because no one from the outside world wants to go there.  Hence, they perhaps will avoid contagion. 

Unless you are attending Auburn University (an island of wonderful in the middle of that mess) or doing business in Birmingham (notably at their fine medical center), just don’t go there.


Put a big red X on the map, something that mirrors their state flag, as pictured above.

So, they say you can’t go home again.  That is not true.  You can.  However, if Alabama is the state of your birth and you have managed to get out, I suggest you don’t go back. 

Love,

Joyce

XO

Signage . . .

Dear you,

Happy Sunday, the first day of March, 2020, an overcast/windy noon, suiting the season, the month.  But early this week, the sky was bright blue, literally SKY BLUE!  So, I strolled around the neighborhood, dodging bike riders and snowbirds.  My mission was just to "see" and clear my head with images of place.  And the above is one thing I saw.

Yes indeed, the newest mega-house (not meant for residents but simply a turn and burn income property a la VRBO) is certainly sending a message.  That is one big talking house.  It certainly spoke (or screamed) to me that strolling day.

Which brings me to my posting theme:  banners and signs that never shut up.

They just hang there.  They do not respond to opposing points of view.  They just hang there.  And never shut up.

What would my banner say if the condo-board allowed them? 

1.  God is a verb.

2.  What are you looking at?

3.  Yes, I see you smoking a joint at the pool.

4.  Legalize joints at the pool!

5.  Covfefe.

Remember "covfefe"?  Ah, the good old days when we were only concerned about viral memes and not viruses. 

Good luck out there.

Windy March love,

Joyce

XO 

Pouting and Contact Theory . . .

☹ ☹ ☹ ☹ ☹ ☹ ☹ ☹ X 2020

Dear you,


Yes, I am in a bad mood after that stupid debate last night.  What the hell was that?  Face-to-face trolling.  The Trump effect in plain sight once again, snarky comments and no information.  I need to learn how to live with MAGA-hat-wearers without getting heartburn because their reign (based on last night) might just be continuing.  How do I embrace them?  Is there an APP for that?  Some say Contact Theory is the solution, a theory that drifted into my soundscape while driving yesterday. I was listening to NPR (my driving in the Panhandle go-to soul saver) and the topic was our current political divide, the polarized American citizenry.  The speaker (forgive me for not recalling his name) logically analyzed the problem and noted it is not just about politics; the divide is bigger, broader.  Yes indeed, we do not “get” each other in everyday kind of ways.  The solution according to the NPR guest?  Contact Theory, the theory that the more we are around each other, the more we accept each other.  The “other” becomes part of the “we”.  Not so scary after all.

But does this work?  I have been immersed in the “other” for years now and I still want to pose the following questions to pretty much every person I meet:

Why denim and tucked-in plaid shirts?
Why tire-like running shoes that no one can run in?
Why burned animal flesh for food?
Why a boxy house and equally boxy car?
Why “hairdos”?
Why Toby Keith?
Why NASCAR?
Why bad posture and a puffy body?
Why the accent that clearly stigmatizes you on planet Earth?
Why t-shirts with annoying messages?
Why so many children?
Why plastic everything?
Why the “travel in packs” thing?


Or, better still:

Why not wear clothes that feel like silk and freedom?
Why not walk/run in sexy, pliable shoes?
Why not include avocados, raw fish, etc. in a meal?
Why not live in a loft space with inventive furnishings?
Why not keep the mane simple and clean (buns and ponytails rule)?
Why not anyone but Toby Keith?
Why not tennis?
Why not walk like a lion through this world?
Why not choose your own voice?
Why not avoid talking t-shirts altogether?
Why not choose to be singular?
Why not opt for green everything?
Why not revel in solitary pursuits?


So, back to Contact Theory.  Just a matter of knowing.  Just a matter of exposure.  Like, “Oh, the obese dude wearing the F*** Democrats t-shirt is not so bad after all!”    Now that I’ve shared zip-code, beach, and shopping space with variations of this dude, I can honestly say that Contact Theory isn't proving true in my situation.  My questions reflect my lack of really knowing “them”.  Still them and not we/me.  Exposure alone has not produced the expected outcome.  But I will keep trying!

So, as my “neighbors-they" would say, “turn that frown upside down”.  Okay, “honey”:

😊 X 2020


Signing off,

Love.

Your Joyce

Rip it good!

Thank you Shutterstock, for the image.

Dear you,

Unless you are a monk or nun on retreat, you know what that image is all about.  Donald's SOTU performance  was scary and hilarious.  The content of the speech, just plain scary.  And yes, Speaker Pelosi ripped her copy to close the event.  While my congressman Matt Gaetz is now fomenting and trying to find ways to punish her for this act, many (like me) are loving that moment.  Shred those lies, Nancy!

I also know I am one of many who hears an old Devo 80's song when reflecting on that gesture.  Thank you Devo for allowing me to wreck your work a bit:

When a Donald comes along
You must rip it
Before the lies make you agog
You must rip it
When something's going wrong
You must rip it

Now rip it
Into shreds
Tear it up 
Get straight 
Go forward
Move ahead
Try to correct it
It's not too late
To rip it
Rip it good

I love Nancy Pelosi.

And dramatic gestures.

Love, 

Joyce

Spill it . . .

Dear you,

After doing a few online essay reviews as my jobette requires, I feel the need to essay myself, but without direction or discipline.   Do you remember free-writing exercises?  Very 1970s. But they were useful, prompting composition spillage 😊.  That is my assignment for today. Let the spilling begin . . .

Carol condo owner next door invites me to go to Stinky’s for dinner.  Stinky.  Why do people name restaurants like that?  Stinky’s, Dirty Dan’s, Salty Sue’s, why not just name the joint Revolting Experience?  I don’t get it.  I don’t get the spin on the television.  Impeachment.  Games.  Senate turning away from testimony possibilities.  Why not?  Let the 800 pound gorilla in the room speak.  800 pound mustache, John Bolton.  Kobe Bryant, his daughter, and other sweet people died in a helicopter crash.  Celebrities and crashes.  Crashes.  Not thinkable.  Stouffer’s turkey and mashed potato, good.  Not stinky.  The demon dog barking in the lot next door.  Next door.  I’ve said that twice.  Hunter Biden.  800 pound red herring.  When did I first learn about logical fallacies?  I love logical fallacy games.  This lunch is good.  My cat is beautiful and I hear the word “rotunda” on television.  I am tired of my computer’s Word system underlining words indicating errors.  I don’t want to put dashes between 800 and pound.  I also don’t want to put commas before coordinating conjunctions.  That is over.  That is about as over as using the pronoun “whom”.  And I hate the fact that the machine automatically inserts an emoji when I just want to type the old school colon followed by a parenthesis mark. To whom it may concern.  I now gargle with coconut oil.  Is this a fad?  The sky is very winter blue today and the pine trees and palms I see through my giant balcony doors are stunning, like a photograph.  What does that mean?  The trees are real.  Why should a representation like a photo be the thing I say the real thing looks like?  Simulation simulacra.  Who was that French theorist?


Time is up.

Considering the last thing written:  Who was that French theorist?

I have forgotten his name.

I am pretty sure his name wasn’t Stinky.  Or Dirty Dan.


And this, my friends, is my post for the end of January, 2020.  Suitable for what appears to be a year of free-writing/free-wheeling incoherence and a nod to all of us who live and leave, sometimes forgotten, sometimes not.


Love to you . . .

Kobe . . .

And the koalas . . .

Joyce

The future?

Dear you in 2020,

Moving on is on my mind today.  My morning push-ups are noisy, meaning my shoulders make strange noises during the activity.  And I am using  massive amounts of coconut oil all over my body.  Literally.  All. Over.  But literal aging is not the thing I am pondering. I am head-tilting at change, evolution in general. I am thinking about the great Tom Brady and the Patriots' loss during the NFL Wild Card game last weekend.  New players and new teams are moving on to the big games.  He and the Pats are not.  And I am a bit blue about that.

Why?

Life is not cement.
Life is fluid.
We cannot stay in one place or in one crowd forever.
Even Tom Brady knows this.

So, again, why am I blue?

Because.

I will miss watching him work with that team, throwing bullet passes.  I will miss watching him mess with the opposing team's defensive strategy.  I will miss the way he and his pals and that fabulous coach (cranky) somehow always figured out a way to win.   It  made me believe "loss" was not the norm and forever there would be a happy ending.  Fade to black and seal it in cement.

But, on the other hand, there is something better than sentimental blues: expectation and surprise! Nothing is over.  Tom Brady certainly isn't.  And neither am I.  Where does he go next?  What will his "game" be?  Where will I go next?  What will my "game" be?  I don't know.  I don't care that I don't know.

Because.

Life is not cement.
Life is fluid.
We cannot stay in one place or in one crowd forever.
And even I know that.

Love,
Joyce