Making stuff up . . . 2020 predictions!

Dear you,

It is coming, another big year.

2020.  The number is attractive to the eye.  A certain symmetry.  I am fabricating my version of 2020, a kind of wish list or wishful predictions as follows:

#1: That is the ticket as featured below.  Let it be.  (Added wish:  Joe does not do the word-salad thing during debates with the Donald.)

#2:  Fake jobs included in our seemingly hot economy and low unemployment rates will be replaced by creative pursuits that produce more than t-shirts, tech-toys, car mats, and desperation.

#3:  I will turn 65 and refuse to sign up for Medicare because I stumbled on to the secret to healthy immortality.

#4:  Shepherd Smith will take over the Fox News propaganda machine and Donald's 63 million will come to their senses, actually seeing and hearing what is really there.

#5:   The ASPCA will have nothing to do because cruelty to animals will cease to be.

#6:   All men will embrace the untucked aesthetic and none shall sound like Larry the Cable Guy.

#7:  All women will decide to relax and use their bodies like athletes and not give a damn about SPANX.

#8:   I will finally buy a house so I can stop complaining about how annoying the condo-world is during vacationer season.

#9:   Genetic therapy will rock something amazing out.

#10:  Pope Francis, Pitbull, and Kim Kardashian will form an unlikely alliance and save us all from _____________________ (fill in the blank .  . . they can do it all).


What do you think, dear you?

Here is to 2020 and the art of the possible.
Love,
Joyce XO

One psychological drama after another . . . and still thankful !?!

Dear you,

The above is compliments of a Google image search, prompted by my "challenging" week.  Clearly, my problems are first world in nature:  virus in laptop that pushed me into paranoia about everything (dude who invaded said laptop called himself "Dave"), rumor from weird local that an equally weird local named "Darrell" said he was my boyfriend and future housemate, spreading this "exciting news" to the nosiest condo owners here.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow.  And look at those problems.  Hardly life or death.  Although they did/do create high anxiety because, you know, WHO THE HELL IS DAVE?  And WHO THE HELL IS DARRELL?

They are Dave and Darrell, somebodies out there somewhere who think this is the best way to handle their business.

Sigh.

And so I am off my ass handling mine, doing whatever security interventions I need to do on both fronts.  Indeed, a first world kind of drama . . . stuck in my head.

So, back to Thanksgiving, here's the list of things to be grateful for:
1. Health/fitness!  I can still knock out push-ups and run around like a child.
2. The feline pet, Miss V.
3. This library where I am typing now filled with books and not weird people.
4.  Friends, even remote in location.
5.  Every odd thing I have ever done.
6.  Every odd thing I will ever do.
7.  My dental hygienist.
8.  Publix supermarket who literally cooks for me.
9.  The Gulf of Mexico.
10. Journalists (the ones from Earth 1, not Earth 2).
11. Athletes and artists.
12. And in some strange way, the Daves and Darrells who remind me I am not immune to the bull**** everybody deals with.

Joyful Thanksgiving to you all.
Love,
J

Write with your phone....oh, hell no.

Dear you,

Never

 Blog with a phone keyboard.  Here is a flower.  I have that. In the phone file.  Don't ask about the automatic centering of the text.

Epic fail!

Love...

J

Missing things . . .

Dear you,


For months here in Seagrove Beach, we had no rain.  We did have merciless, blazing sun and tourists grilling, setting the occasional fire due to flying embers.  Then finally, we got rain.  But we also got days of too much cloud cover and continual, depressing drizzle, see today.


My point is not to be The Weather Channel, but to contemplate missing something, then getting it, and then wanting it to go away.


Is this a shared trait or just part of my Goldilocks syndrome?  This gal only wanted “just right”.  But I wonder if after she found the “just right” she really enjoyed the gift, the thing she wanted/missed?

We are mysteries to ourselves.


I am a bit bored with the Seagrove Beach scene but never, ever, tire of the Gulf of Mexico.  When I drive a few miles in country to continue my search for a quiet, freestanding house that is “just right”, I can’t wait to get back close to the water.  Yesterday, returning from a showing and contemplation of a house purchase, as soon as I got close to Highway 30A (our coastal road), everything felt light.  Sort of just right.


But still . . . I am missing something like the rain during dry days.

Maybe I should aim for and accept “happiness” instead of vision-questing for perfection.  I guess happiness is not my idea of “just right”.  


And that remains a mystery to me.


Meanwhile, news of the California fires is on the television.  I see people on the run and leading scared horses to safety, wherever that may be.  Poor California, one of our paradise states, the place where everything is more than “just right”.  Even there, things burn.  And rain is not falling to douse the flames. 

Missing rain in California.  Missing something everywhere.


Maybe it’s time to go Buddhist and overcome desire, the constant striving for “just right”.  But then again, what would it feel like to simply BE?  I would probably miss the feeling of longing for that missing something.


Okay, enough reflection.

Time for a few pushups, playtime with Vivo cat, and then a big Subway sandwich for lunch.  No thinking, or missing, required.

XO

Joyce

Getting over . . .

Dear you,


What a week.  Meteor showers in the sky and another war on the ground.


My country abandoned the Kurds.

My president did this.  I cannot stop him.


Now, I hear on the news that there are proposed sanctions against Turkey for attacking the Kurds.  Proposed, being the key word.  My president creates chaos/death and then wants to act all heroic and stop what he started.  


Surviving all this (psychologically) requires a special kind of exuberance.  A kind of resistance to a newly minted “reality”.   When I feel how I need to feel in the face of all this nonsense, it is like this:

 Are you ready to jump?


My previous blog was all about taking a knee, in sorrow, in honor of what we are losing.  Now it is time to get up and GET OVER. The vaulter in the photo is about to get over that little bar.  He is looking up at the meteor shower, universal reality of time and beauty, and with the help of a pole (tools/technology/knowledge) and sheer force of will (exuberance) he will GET OVER.


As will we.

Keep the faith. 

Keep the exuberance.

JUMP!


Love,

Joyce

Take a knee . . .

Dear you,

Life in Trumpland . . . our POTUS is creating his own little kingdom, day by day blatantly confessing to aberrant behaviors.  And it is feeling like he might just get away with it, yet again.  It feels like a really depressing sports movie:


Setting: football stadium, sold out crowd, major game

Plot/conflict:  From the opening quarter to the last, one team is openly vicious They horse-collar, rough the kicker, rough the passer, tackle out of bounds, grab facemasks, and those are the softer actions.  They also spit in the referees’ faces, reach inside helmets and break noses, kick the “enemy” mascot, scream ‘fuck you” at fans, and when one brave ref finally makes a call and beckons the offender over for a conference, he says “YOU TALKIN’ TO ME?”  The ref backs down.  And the bad guys win the game.

Subplot:  The majority of the fans in the stands support the fouled team.  They have faith.  They suffer the blows, aghast at the lack of rules or decency.  They have hope.  “This can’t last much longer; good will triumph in the end.”  But it doesn’t.  They are simply shocked and worry about the future of the sport.

Climax:  Post-game press conference features the quarterback of the bad team.  He is righteously indignant when questioned about his team’s rouge behavior.  And he goes further.  “They were cheating, not us.  They always cheat.  We have a right to do whatever we need to win.  And besides, they’re not patriots.”


Fade out and roll credits.


So, I take a knee this day for something bigger than a football game.

Good luck out there.

XO

Joyce

Why?

????????????????????????



Dear you,

Why are so many Americans supporting our President?  Every day, he stands in front of cameras and lies.  He doesn’t even blink.  Yesterday, he talked about how European nations have never contributed $ to help Ukraine protect itself.  And, of course, they have.  But he just keeps saying that, the lie.


So, on this day as we move towards impeachment, chat about the latest scandal (whistle-blower), and apparently back-burner the UN report about our Earth/bodies of water and wild things being pretty much . . . done, I can only ask WHY?

Possible answers:

1. The Trump diehards truly want a “white”, polluted, and fast food fueled culture.

2. The Trump voter has been taught over and over and over that democrats or liberals are “not really Americans”.  We are evil and pagan and too physically fit to be real Americans. That propaganda loop is running in their heads and cannot be shut down.

3. The Evangelical Trump supporters want the world to end so they can get on to their theorized version of heaven.

4. Like the old-school Republicans (see the Senate) who flipped from reviling Donald to kissing his ring, perhaps Trump supporters fear him and believe his threats about a ruined nation “if” he is ejected or not re-elected.

5. And finally, the worst possible answer, his fans are simply assholes.

There it is.

But guessing WHY does not lessen my confusion. 

Why choose something ugly instead of a forward-moving nation, one that works cooperatively with other forward-moving nations?


Because, see one through five above.


Currently the man in question is yakking at a televised press conference and blathering on about how everything he touches turns to gold.  Great success . . . etc., etc., etc.  He is living in his own head, his own movie.  I guess we all do. Which raises another question that is not “why?”:

What will I do today?


I will simply post this little blog-thought, take care of my Vivo-cat, step out to the beach in this record-breaking heat and pick up discarded beer bottles tossed aside by our lovely visitors, and do my best.  Try to do my best.  And write a better movie script!

XO

Joyce

Borrowed wisdom and this fragile flesh . . .

Dear you:

Am I the last person to discover the “dictate” tool on my Word Document production toolbar? 

Am I also one of the last bourgie people discovering that Tom Brady’s TB12 menu makes so much sense?


So many tools to use and I am still searching for new ones.  The TB12 project began like this:

I am standing at the magazine section of the local Publix Supermarket.  On one cover, there is Tom.  The article inside is all about his workout program and diet, things he credits for being fabulous on the field at 40 something.  I have seen this basic information before, but this time, something clicked. I CAN SORT OF DO THIS!


I am a 60 something woman with a dancy-workout background and not an NFL quarterback/billionaire with a full-time chef who makes kale taste not like kale.  What can I adapt from this man’s plan that will improve my “game”?  I worked with the menu.  What to keep, what to cut, and what to add/adapt:


Keeping – coffee and orange juice (sorry Tom), and all fish (He may only do wild salmon, but I am keeping my pesca-options open.)

Cutting – dairy (except for cream in that morning coffee), silly energy draining desserts, pop and sugar in general, frozen dinners (which all taste like cardboard anyway), and 95% of beef, chicken, and pork.  More on that 5% later.

Adding – more greens, whole sweet potatoes, non-GMO whey protein powder shakes, and tons of H2O.

Adapting – sugar-free almond milk for those shakes instead of milk, gluten free-non-GMO bread instead of bad on-the-shelf bread (Toast, I cannot give up toast, Tom).

5% moments of accommodation – every now and then, I want that strip of bacon in my salad; a grilled free-range chicken breast at a restaurant is a nice change; a can of chili-mac Campbell’s soup is seriously good stuff.  And, once a week, a pizza, slated for Sunday NFL football viewing.

                                                                                      

How’s this going so far?   I am more energized, hydrated, balanced, and that occasional unwelcome visitor, heartburn, is gone. 


So, I am not going gently into that not-so-good night.  Okay, I admit Brussel sprouts are still appalling and the cutting beef thing is prompted by a desire to protect our planet. (Really, do we need burgers and gassy-ass milk more than a green planet?  Check out the Amazon, before it’s gone.)  But I like “projects” and change, so I am in.  This is my micro-version of willful evolution.  Still mortal, still fated for whatever, and still experimenting.


Enough for today!  It is time for a smoke on the balcony.  What?  Is that weird?  Why are you laughing?  Well, at least I don’t vape.


Flawed love from Joyce

Carpe Diem!

A "hairy" entry from 2016; I had no clue these dudes would be so dangerous . . .

Dear you,

The top dude is Sir Johnson of the UK "we are out of the European Union" clan.  And you know who the bottom dude is.

Both have interesting hair in common.  Fluffy.  Crazy.  Strangely albino-like.

And under both of those hair-dos (or don'ts) we can find fluffy, crazy, strangely albino-like brains.

Shared nationalism of the 19th-20th century variety and fear of global anything dance around their gray matter.  Which I have now decided leads to hair-reaction!

Both share rebellious hair.  Those strands on each reactionary head long to fly free!  They want to EXIT those heads they reside on.  GET ME OUTTA HERE!

So, don't blame their hair.

Blame their brains.

And that is as deep as I am capable of being this hot June day, 2016.

XO

Your Joyce

Damage . . .

😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡

Dear you:


Closing out August and grateful for allies abroad who are tolerating our President and “handling” him.  Still, the Amazon is burning.  And we hash-tag away (#PrayForAmazonas) and hope.  Fire fighters and troops are acting, or so I am told.  This is beyond grief.  Yet another beyond grief moment during the Trump era.  That is the zoom-out perspective.  Here is the zoom-in, back at the Villas in Seagrove Beach:


The fall school session relieved us from massive children invasions, to an extent.  But others still appear with parents and baffle me.  Why aren’t they in school?  Oh, they are probably home-schooled.  Fine.  But, more importantly, why are they SCREAMING and having tantrums?  This morning, enjoying my coffee on the south landing, I heard “NO, NO, NO” over and over.  Yes, I know, young ones have fits and yell.  But this was weird and went on for an hour.  (I stepped out on the landing again later for a smoke and the drama continued.) I felt bad for the child and his parents.  This was not an abusive situation.  It seemed to be just a situation, an angry kid situation.  But what is happening here?  Why does this scream-tantrum festival happen so frequently in this zone?  Are our children as broken and fearful as our world, our leaders, our “adults”?


The CDC gave me some data that answers the question or is the beginning of another question:

Approximately 4.5 million children aged 3-17 have a diagnosed behavior problem.  Approximately 4.4 million have diagnosed anxiety.  Approximately 1.9 million have diagnosed depression.  (www.cdc.org)

Millions of damaged young humans.  What causes this dis-ease?  Bad food, lack of interaction with the natural world, weak parenting, social media (yawn, not that again), or the relentless popularity of The Real Housewives of _____________ series?


I don’t know. But something tells me a lack of being outside our own noise and noisy heads has something to do with it.  Be here now.  Let it be.  Don’t cry over spilled milk.  Mantras.  They probably don’t help.  However, given an opportunity, I would like to tell these little screamers that they have power; life is short; and most of all:

DON’T LET THE BASTARDS GET YOU DOWN.


Easier said than done.


Cheers to the day, to you, and good luck to Puerto Rico as Dorian approaches.  (Dear Dorian:  Could you please shift towards the Amazon and drop your rains there?)

Love,

Joyce

High Noon . . . animals on the brink.

Dear you,

The heat index in Seagrove Beach today is up over 100.  I got my outdoor workout done early, thinking it was still morning.  However, at the beach, friend Jake (beach equipment rental dude and cat caregiver for those felines remaining in Inlet Beach) informed me it was HIGH NOON.


Dumb move.  Me in a showdown with the sun at its height.  I dragged myself back to the Villas and finished random workout moves in shade trying to forget another HIGH NOON event going down:


Trump is gutting the Endangered Species Act.


Every day, another horror.  But this topic-area riles me the most.

This Act is 46 years old.  We still have bald eagles, grizzly bears, manatees, etc. due to its protections.

The Big Donald Administration is, of course, doing this to provide more access for drilling carnage, a little gift to big oil. I am pretty sure Sierra Club lawyers are all over this.  Help them:

www.sierraclub.org


And please call your congress-people, futile though that may be.

In this case, I don’t want to “let it be” and pray or act like a stoic.


Stay cool . . .

Love, Joyce

About last night . . . and Gillibrand

Dear you,


The Dem debate last night started as I feared:  a long discussion of health care policy.  Not to dismiss the importance of this, but since the world is literally melting and environmentally “sick”, the debate point seemed silly.  I have listened to these coverage debates for decades.  The only forward movement has been the evolution of philosophy considering health care to be a human right.


But still . . . something strange happened as the debate moved along.  My support of front-running hard- core candidates like Harris or even Uncle Joe weakened.  Why?  Because Senator Gillibrand disrupted the game.  There she was, all dedicated, experienced, and true to her word.  And on a panel of dark-suited tough guys and dolls (Gabbard’s white suit aside), Gillibrand seemed stronger, the strongest.


Listening to and watching Gillibrand, I thought about El Woods, the character featured in the above photo, and recalled how she was judged as fluff, too pink/too blonde to be smart.  Well, we know how that heroine won the day.  And, in my opinion, Gillibrand won the day/the night too.  Unexpectedly.  In a pinkish dress.  All legally, seriously blonde.  And her voice?  Light and kind even when passionate or pissed.  Are all these details, these signs and signifiers of  the “feminine” causing us to admire but dismiss her for a power position like POTUS?  


I hope not.
Check her record.

Look at how she is out there on the ground.

Look at how she won elections in a Republican district.

Consider and reconsider.

I am!


Love,

Joyce

Moving on . . .

Dear you . . .


Today, for the first time since Hurricane Michael hit us on 10/10/18, I did not drive to Inlet Beach and feed/water cat Dinky and her daughter, Bastet (named for the goddess as pictured above).  I finally surrendered the task to a good local young man and his gal.  They love cats and I can give them a little bill-paying cash to cover their time and energy.  Finally, I managed to let this go, the last heart-task connected to the old Inlet Beach property.


I miss their little faces. 

I miss their resilience and fuck-all bravery as their space was slowly dull-dozed down to nothing.

I miss their gorgeousness.


As my friend Eric says, I have passed the torch.

That makes me torch-less.


Hail to thee, Bastet, mythic and real.

And hail to the fur-ball feline (Vivo) who made the journey with me to this condo life. 

Simple thoughts for the day,

XO

Joyce

Looking for beauty . . .

Dear you,

My morning sound-scape fetaured monstrous children screaming and running all over the condo landing . . . stomp stomp stomp scream scream scream scream.  This added to my annoyance after hearing how POTUS thought yesterday's hearing (Mueller testimony) went his way!  No sign of concern about Russian election interference.  No sign of anything but his usual spin. I was hating everybody and about to go all out misanthrope today.  But why should I swallow that poison?

So, as a remedy, my task was to find beauty in the local humanity scene.  I looked hard and discovered:

1.  My banker dude at the local branch is very cool and lovely.
2.  The man doing external wall repair on building #1 is working with a kind of grace and efficiency.
3.  The owner of a unit perpendicular to mine greeted me during a balcony encounter with an actual morning smile and wave (instead of the typical head-down-into-phone pose).
4.  And finally, I realized that are dancers all around us.

The last point and the photo aren't meant to be literal.  But there are those who artfully occupy this space, this body, and make everything beautiful.

Do you see them too?

Please look.  Better still, please "dance" through and into all things. I am on task to do that 24-7, even if my aged-attempts at chorus-girl high kicks lands me on the tile floor with a big, bad bang.  Just consider it pay-back to the monstrous kids down below :)

Happy Day and Love,
Joyce

Summer time, and the living is . . . uneasy

Dear you,


The hottest June on record and the hottest July follows.  Everything is burning and I visit the beach carrying a little purple umbrella, shading myself from the sun like a cliché Southern Belle.  Shading myself from the other nonsense that abounds is not so easy.


Where should I begin?


Should I begin with the fact that my president tells opposition politicians that they should just leave the USA if they don’t love him?  Should I begin with the fact that his rally last night in North Carolina featured pissed off pasty people, some shouting “send her back”?  (This, as you know, referring to Rep. Omar, who is, by the way, a citizen.)  Or should I begin with the fact that yet another green space on 30A here in Seagrove Beach is being bulldozed?


The above posited questions/topics are too intense for me at this moment, so I will keep it light and consider the latest weird action by Kellyann Conway, Donald Trump’s advocate and fact-shifter.  During a recent encounter with the press, she seriously asked a reporter what his ethnicity was.  Oh yes, she did.  The question was so blatantly dumb-ass and horrifying at the same time I had to giggle it away.  But this did make me consider the obsession of many “white” folks I know, their pursuit of ancestral knowledge.  There’s a dot.com for that and no doubt an ap too.


I could care less what my ancestry is.  I am something from Europe, something from the Middle East, and something from the Mother Continent, Africa. (This is everyone’s home, no matter what nonsense they might be teaching kids in Oklahoma.) My last name is Fleming and I think my people were run out of Ireland.  And Dad said something about how during the Civil War his great-great-something or somethings was/were part of Quantrill’s Raiders, Confederate guerilla fighters.  Oh hell no.


If Quantrill is my ancestor, I want no part of that shit.


I make myself new every day. So, Kellyann, what is my ethnicity?


Again, I don’t care.  I do know my species, however, is devolving.  According to a piece in scientificamerican.com “Another point of view is that genetic evolution continues to occur even today, but in reverse. Certain characteristics of modern life may drive evolutionary change that does not make us fitter for survival—or that even makes us less fit. Innumerable college students have noticed one potential way that such “inadaptive” evolution could happen: they put off reproduction while many of their high school classmates who did not make the grade started having babies right away. If less intelligent parents have more kids, then intelligence is a Darwinian liability in today's world, and average intelligence might evolve downward.”    Considering that depressing factoid, ethnicity-niche is irrelevant.
  

Ciao for now!  I have to go handout birth control information pamphlets to our “guests” on the beach.


XO,

Joyce

Independence Day 2019

1776 . . . 2019

Dear you,

Sizzling July 4 here in Seagrove Beach.  Loaded with tourists, claiming everything as their own, even if this is not their home.  Perplexing, this instinct to travel in packs and lie to rental agencies about occupancy numbers.  Beneath me, a maximum four unit, at least ten random Alabama guests are stomping around.  They lied to the agency.  They just lie and think this is, well, fine because truth doesn’t matter as long as you fake-smile and say “howdy”.  Perplexing, that instinct too.  But this is a holiday, so I aim to pep up and enjoy.


However, this is hard to do.  The current President has staged a military style parade in D.C. and plans to speak in front of the Lincoln Memorial tonight, making this day his rally.  I am looking forward to all the satire to follow, especially graphic work that will no doubt depict the statue of Lincoln standing up and running away . . . or bopping Donald on the head and dislodging his comb-over.


Locally, on my drive to feed the remaining felines at Inlet Beach (a tiny cluster of brush to the West is what remains for their feeing haven), I noticed a group of four obese gals on 30A.  They wore identical tank tops declaring BORN IN THE USA.  I don’t think they were paying homage to Bruce.  I am pretty sure this was all about their feelings of superiority and claim to this nation because they popped out of someone’s vagina within our borders.  Perplexing, this instinct too.


I wonder what Benjamin Franklin or other brilliant founders would think about those shirts?  They probably would be struck dumb by the bad fashion and obesity.  Or maybe not.


2019 minus 1776 = 243

Two hundred and forty-three years of an experiment in governance and place.


The nation has gotten better . . . in big picture ways.  Yes, African Americans are no longer slaves, identities not limited by gender or strange religious codes are being acknowledged (slowly), and women are no longer property (sort of).  However, all those steps forward are matched by backlash and backward leanings.  (See the loss of reproductive choice in so many states; worse still, murderous racism and hate crimes continue.)  Perplexing, this devolution too.


Yet I know that the BORN IN THE USA tank-top gals and the Alabama slammers beneath my feet are down with this devolution.  And there you have it.  My dilemma:  How do I celebrate this nation that includes them, the ones I perceive as a threat to our progress?


I suppose I must simply LET IT BE.  And count the days until the slammers check out and SUV themselves back to the state of my birth.  The “ordeal” of “them” will end.  Perhaps this is just a bit of karma-lite since, really, I am the descendant of invaders too.  Just like them, I am a part of the project, for better or for worse. 


Here’s to the next 243!  Let’s hope it is for the better/best.

Love,

Joyce

I bought a condo on the Redneck Riviera and am perplexed by tourists from Missouri . . .

Dear you,

After my exile from the family Inlet Beach home, I bought a condo down the road, a county highway you may know as 30A, a smoke-and-mirrors zone doing its best to attract visitors with more money and more teeth than our average guest.  The complex is called Beachwood Villas in the Seagrove Beach zone.  I knew very few owners actually LIVE here, but I was in denial.  It is a cute place and I don't have to take care of the pool!  How bad could it be?  The guests are chilling on "vacay".  Most have small children, so the odds of them taking over the pool and blasting gangster rap at 2 A.M. are non-existent.

Nine months after purchase I can tell you this:  I would prefer pool partiers who blast gangster rap at 2 A.M.

What we have here is 50/50 mix.  Half of the guests are normal or even fabulous.  The other half is, well, deplorable.  And having studied the range of visitors for a while, I have compiled a top 5 "worst" list; it ranks the states who send the Villas the scariest people ever:

1. Missouri 

2. Texas

3. Georgia 

4. Louisiana 

5. Tennessee

Now, I am not including city people in this judgmental game.  And I am not generalizing about everybody in those states.  However, it is what it is.  Let's focus on the "winning" state, coming in at number one.  Why Missouri?  Because their representative visitors are maniacs who jam a "family" of ten into a condo.  Maniacs who have lots of emotionally whacked children.  Maniacs who throw their garbage bags ON TOP of the dumpster or just leave dirty diapers, pizza boxes, and "Naty-lite" beer cans in the parking lot.  Maniacs that I have to run out of the pool area at night because they can't read the "closed at 10 P.M." sign.

I am being unkind.  I know that.  But it is TRUE!  I know if I was visiting their state, I would bring my best self and be respectful.  But why would I vacation in Missouri?  Even if I could ignore their latest anti-choice/anti-female rulings and not boycott the state, why would I go there?  Other than the city of St. Louis, what draws the tourists?  I thought about this and decided to give the state another chance.  To find out where to go in good old MO, I "Googled" around for a while and found the following (compliments of insider.com):

Nuclear Waste Adventure Trail and Museum in Weldon Spring, Missouri

 

"This giant pile of rocks is essentially a mound of nuclear waste.

To be precise, it's 1.5 million cubic yards of hazardous waste entombed to create a small mountain that marks the spot that was home to the country's largest explosives factory turned uranium ore processing plant until 1966. After being left abandoned for over two decades, the US Department of Energy decided to cover it with rocks. Now, it features a museum and covered up TNT, asbestos, mercury, radium and radioactive uranium. Enjoy!"

A giant pile of radioactive waste.  Well, that would be an adventure.

I am not going there.

However, perhaps we locals experiencing the shock and awe of these "show me state" invaders can find ways to upsell that nuclear waste trail and museum. [What the hell is in that museum anyway?] If we dump money into their advertising attempts and build a big Nuclear Waste Adventure Swimming Pool next to the museum, then these Missouri folks might just "vacay" close to home.  And leave us alone!

We could do that!  Or we could just stop selling "Naty-lites"; that would be a deal breaker for our maniacal guests.

That is all for now.  I have to go clean the parking lot.

Happy June 26 to you all, even those in the top 5 list! 

Love,
Joyce

Happy Birthday in the rearview mirror!

Dear you -
 June 12th, I turned 64 and am happy to be on planet Earth (even as she melts and rages at us for being destructive jerks).  Procrastinating today and veering away from my little online-writing-tutor-gig, I googled fitness options here in my 30A/Seagrove Beach zone.  A website for a yoga-heavy joint to the west contained bios of instructors.  This one killed me.  I am a grown ass woman and (supposedly) not bothered by other people's eye-popping resumes/biographies, but this one made me feel really Type-B:

Prudence Bruns

Prudence followed an early interest in meditation and yoga in 1966 at the age of 18 when she started Transcendental Meditation®.  In 1966-67, she studied with Swami Satchidananda to be a yoga instructor, eventually opening and running the Integral Yoga Institute in Boston.  In 1968, she went to India to study with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and was made a teacher of Transcendental Meditation®.  It was at this course that she met the Beatles and they wrote the song “Dear Prudence” about her. After marrying and while raising a family, she began working in film as Art Department Coordinator for Woody Allen, and as a producer with artists such as Andy Kaufman, Pulitzer Prize winning playwright Paula Vogel, award winning directors Bruce Beresford and Alan Bridges and Tony award winning writer Hugh Leonard.  She is best known for originating and developing the feature film Widow’s Peak, starring her sister, Mia Farrow, Joan Plowright and Natasha Richardson.  She received co-producing credit. While continuing to teach Transcendental Meditation® over the many years, Prudence’s interest in yoga never wavered.  After raising 3 children, she returned to school receiving her PhD in South Asian Studies, Sanskrit, from the University of California, Berkeley, in 2007. She has published her memoir,Dear Prudence: The Story Behind the Song, a book on Ayurvedic pulse diagnosis along with articles on South Asian studies, world religion, Ayurvedic medicine and healthy living for academic journals and magazines.  She has presented at numerous conferences such as at Harvard University, University of Texas at Austin, University of Hawaii, University of California at Berkeley and taught courses at UC Berkeley and Rutgers University. She and her husband live in Seagrove Beach and have three children and four grandchildren.

The Beatles wrote a song about her.

All the other stuff might be mind-blowing to others, you know, like the PhD and Woody Allen thing, but I envy that muse moment!

Dear Prudence, good for you.  Now, can you please help me find a workout that has NOTHING TO DO WITH YOGA AND TRANSCENDENCE????!!!

Love,
Joyce

Is it just me, or is something odd happening here?

Dear you,

Wednesday, the Democratic Women's Club of Walton County met the Northwest FLA representative for our Senator (Marco Rubio) at the local Chamber of Commerce.  I was there with four other members.  Everything was just ODD:

1.  I entered to find an employee of the COC offering to pour water for attendees.  No, that is not odd.  What was odd is that she was wearing this huge flowered dress, black socks with sandals, and white MIME makeup.  What was that all about?  Perhaps she would prefer I see it as Kabuki-drag.  Maybe it was mime-day at the COC.  I still don't know.  However, I did stare.

2.  During the meeting, a couple of the senior members were all freaked out over ROBOCALL SCAMS.  Seriously, is this the most pressing issue of our day?  I kept having to talk over people to get heard and tried to insert questions about election hacking, affordable housing shortages, and environmental dramas unique to FLA.  And I might as well have been speaking Greek.  Or better yet, just miming my message.

The meeting was a drag.  But the odd mime-face woman was at least interesting, unexpected.

That's all I got for now . . .
Love and kisses,
Joyce

Hot, flat, crowded . . . Happy Memorial Day!

Dear you,

Apparently the beach of your dreams awaits, but it is NOT here on 30A in the Panhandle of FL.  I expected tourist action and jammed periods such as spring break when I bought this condo, but this Memorial Day thing is the worst.  Big trucks.  Massive families sleeping twelve to a three bedroom unit.  Screaming kids.  Drunk adults sitting in the parking lot (literally on the asphalt) smoking cigarettes and talking to themselves (angrily).

I have already come to grips with the fact that I cannot live here and am regretting the purchase as residence.  But the hoards are getting bigger and bigger and I don't know why.  We have no entertainment, really, and the roads are a nightmare.  30A itself is moving at around 5 MPH because out-of-state-gawkers are traveling in golf carts, gawking at 5 MPH.

Still annoyed over this situation in Florida.  Our coastal regions are being sold off to out of state folks who rent to the "sleeps twelve to a unit"-golf cart gawking folks.  And I am supposed to be grateful for the business?  Not grateful.  Just cranky.

That sorrow aside, I am thinking about all those who served us and serve us now, those who protect and defend.  Cheers to you.  Perhaps you can help Floridians recapture their invaded territory?

Leaning in nevertheless . . .
Forcing myself to claim my space in the pool and the shoreline . . .

Love,
Joyce

Aiming for chill...

Dear you,

It is a hot Sunday in Seagrove Beach and this is only May.  The parking lot here in condo land is full.  Children are screaming. The living is not easy and the cotton is not high.

So, the remedy is to be chilling like cat Vivo pictured on the table. Enjoy a lunch of fresh tomato slices and tuna salad . . . And do not think about how those fish were caught.

Yes, even as I try to erase concern and have a thoughtless Sunday, my lunch poses an ethical challenge.

Sigh.

And the advice of Marcus Aurelius is in my head too:
So we need to hurry.
Not just because we move daily closer to death but also because our understanding - our grasp of the world - May be gone before we get there.

Cheery thoughts, no?

Love,
J

Welcome back to shock and awe!

Dear you -

I am a very undisciplined blogger.  It seems whenever I post I refer to time passed since last entry.  Whatever.  Let's just say I have been busy adapting to life as a resident in a tourist district (30A they proudly call the zone) and just knocking out some work for my online gig and maintaining fitness (and cats).

But attention must be paid.

Alabama just passed a law making abortion illegal.  Physicians who perform the procedure will be charged with a felony and face up to 99 years in prison.

As if this is anyone's business other than THE woman, the girl, who is IN the situation.

Yes, this is life in Trump-land.  Resist and persist as we can, the onslaught continues.

And now this.

No wonder so many lit teachers were assigning The Handmaid's Tale to students and no wonder too that the recent televised version resonated with so many . . . in terms of dystopian relevance.

A woman's body is her business.
A woman's body is her business.
A woman's body is her business.

This is NOT debatable.

Shut the hell up, those of you (male or female) who have your views on when "life begins" or are serving your "faith".  Attend to your body.  And leave other people's bodies alone.

I can only sign off with a base-line non-eloquent declaration:  fuck these controlling, Puritanical freaks.

And how was your day dear?

Love,
Joyce XO

Political slogans and the polar vortex . . .

Dear you:

Before I Google this fabulous pro-cocktail candidate noted above and refresh my election history database, I want to talk about slogans.  As you might expect, I am liking Kamala Harris as a candidate for POTUS.  I have appreciated her work as a senator and currently consider myself a supporter.  Her slogan, however, revealed this weekend, really confuses me:

Kamala Harris for the People

Well, I guess that beats being against the people.  But what does that mean?  I am "for" cold beer (like one of our SCOTUS dudes).  But what does that mean?  What am I considering doing in terms of cold beer?  Am I defending it from attacks by HOT BEER people?  And about that noun, people.  I have never liked the sound, literally the "pee pull" thing.  I resent being clumped into this "pee pull" thing.  What if I'm a hybrid, part cat part "pee pull"?

Anyway, I wondered why we even have slogans.  Why do we have to use them at all in elections?  But this is the way it is.  So, using my name, I've come up with the following for my future presidential run:

1.  Fleming for FUN!!!!
2.  JUMP for Joyce
3.  Flaming Fleming will BURN THE SWAMP
4.  Joyce will BUILD THAT BOUNCY HOUSE!
5.  Fleming and Capri Cigarettes!
6.  Vote Joyce or DIE TRYING
7.  Joyce needs a JOB!
8.  Support Joyce and STOP the polar vortex!

The game ends with number eight since that thing, for real, is rocking the USA.  Really cold.  Cold as in even Chicago residents are hiding.  Something is wrong with our weather.  The extremes are problematic, causes for political action and concern.  But I guess substantive points about justice, climate, or any other real thing won't fit onto a button or bumper sticker.  Therefore, even the brilliant Kamala simply surrendered and said OK to "for the people".

Stay warm, everyone.
Kisses and good wishes,
Your Joyce

Following Ari Melber's lead - Fall Back Friday!

Dear you -

Happy 2019 and happy Fall Back Friday too, the first of this year.  As a tribute to Melber as featured on MSNBC, I have decided to do fall backs here on my humble blog too.  To get on topic, first consider this photo:



This is FABULOUS!  This appears to be some sort of aerobics class, updated with expressive clothing choices and "dance like nobody is watching" attitude.  I love this!  I miss this!  In my zone, group exercise is dedicated to lame yoga classes and way-too-serious Crossfit style workouts. But the former is everywhere and totally replaced full-out movement fun.  There are no classic aerobics classes in this county, or the next, or the next.  But yoga?  It's everywhere.  Yoga on paddle boards, yoga with pets, yoga for Jesus, yoga in the nude. I am over its ubiquity and so I say on this first Fall Back Friday of 2019, YOGA, fall back!

I am sorry, but who wants to start a class by sitting down in some kind of lotus position and then awkwardly reaching overhead?  No sense.  It makes no sense.  And the talking that goes on, oh my god.  I know these instructors have good intentions, but I really don't need them to act as spiritual advisers or self-esteem boosters.  (Once, a yoga-gal told a class I participated in to "love yourself with every inhale and exhale".  What the hell does that even mean?)

So, to each his/her own.  BUT BRING BACK THE FULL OUT, UNABASHED AND UNEMBARRASSED PLEASURE OF OLD SCHOOL AEROBICS CLASSES!!!!

Yoga, fall back.  Aerobics, rock on.

Love,
Joyce
XO