Tell-Tale Couch

Dear you,

Memorial Day.  Solemn and gracious memories we offer to those who serve and served.  I recall my Dad who fought in WW2 and the Korean War and Mom who worked as an Army nurse. Their serious service makes me proud.  I remember them, recalling stories large and small.  On the small side, I remember how they had a hard time parting with old things, especially furniture.  Our beach house had a stained wreckage of a couch in the den that they just lived with.  Here, in the beach world of hard-to-find labor, I suppose it was easier to do that than struggle to hire a handyperson.  Which brings me to my recent "crime" of ridding myself of a final piece of a hideous sectional couch:

A week or so ago, I couldn't take the old couch thing being in my world any longer.  I dragged it downstairs and placed it under the stairway.  Unwilling to take the tacky and easy way out (which is when owners dump their old furnishings and even appliances in our garbage dumpster enclosure),  I told our somewhat sketchy property manager what I had done and asked for his assistance to remove the thing.  As expected, no responsive action.  Days passed and finally another owner in my building had a handyman on site to do some work.  I tossed him a twenty and asked if he could take the blob away to wherever he took disposables.  "Sure!"  Hurrah!  But that was not the end of it.

Think about Poe's "Tell-Tale Heart".  In that story, a man murders an old dude with a creepy eye and stashes his body under the floor of his flat.  Not the end of that disposal either, he is haunted by the sound of a beating heart that drives him mad.  His crime will not let him go.  The old man, in his way, remains.  So it was/is, sort of, with me.  After the handyman's removal of my couch, I discovered it hadn't gone far.  While strolling around the condo complex, I looked over to a construction site next door.  By their dumpster sat the big blobby sectional, muddy and ratting me out.  Who does that?  Well, sketchy property manager probably saw it and thought I did that, dumping junk at a neighbor's construction site.  Now, many days later, it still sits there.  Like the tell-tale heart, it testifies to my failure to get rid of my junk in a responsible way.  Crimes in the name of minimalism.  Dad and Mom would never do that. (Smile.)

Best to all on this Memorial Day.

Be mindful of what you imagine you've disposed of.

Love,

Joyce

Inflation Pressure!

Dear you,

Morning news informed me that the inflated cost of food is headed down, slightly and slowly.  Good news on that topic.  But, my chosen brand of smokes now costs $15.29 a pack.  Interesting point of inflation, the oft-claimed election year top ranked concern for voters. One gal's inflation might just be another gal's motivation, another opportunity to expand her resiliency skills.  Why resilient?  It takes "bendiness" and bounce-back to not blame the current powers that be (in The White House) for our aching wallets and feelings of forced austerity.  The Dems have nothing to do with this.  Or any of the rising prices of edibles and smokables.  And I am tired of hearing rants about how a change in leadership (a.k.a. surrendering to MAGA/Donald) will make all things better, cheaper, steadier.  

Many ranters from the red side are denying the relevance of the erasure of women's rights, the hair-on-fire need to deal with climate change, the creeping loss of intellectual and even personal freedom.  Their "top two" issues?  The border and inflation.

Who are these people who buy into those programmed, heavily advertised fears? Who is that gal who runs to bow before the probable autocratic next reign of Trump simply because her cigarettes cost more than some world citizens earn in a day?

She ain't me.  I am resisting that pressure.

Now, as for how to adjust, resiliently handle this wallet-shock, here is what I can/will do as advised by Indiana University Health.  Instead of reaching for that cigarette: march in place, drink water, brush and floss, play with my cat, sing, do laundry, take a walk. Okay. Since I do those things frequently already, what are they advising?  Should I bloat myself into an H20 coma, annoy whoever is under me in the condo with maniacal stomping, interrupt my cat's napping hobby and start washing one pair of socks at a time?  At least those actions are somewhat necessary anyway and will not DRIVE me to smoke like these suggestions:  go to an amusement park, explore my genealogy, hug someone.  Amusement parks are hell; discovering dark ancestral secrets could be traumatic; hugging the locals and guests in this zone, yikes.  Thanks for the tips, but I prefer to shell out the $15.29. And, as confessed before, continue to pretend I'm immortal.  And rich.

Time to catch up on the Trump trial coverage, the cross-examination of Michael Cohen. Yikes again. This too will drive me to light up.

Stay cool, stay frugal, and avoid inflation-fear ranters.

Love, 

Joyce