Irrelevant rules

 

Dear you,

Another spring break week in Seagrove Beach and the county is working hard to squelch reports of overcrowding, vandalism, and actual assaults.  They don’t want bad publicity. I can tell you Miami is not the only crime scene in Florida these days.  It has not been pretty in the panhandle.  But it seems hardly relevant considering the plight of others on Earth 1, desperate immigrants at our southern border, crisis in Ethiopia, Hong Kong fighting for its autonomy.  Yet here, irrelevancy rules. Today’s irrelevancies were brought to me by my condo HOA board; they just sent out an urgent email to owners re-emphasizing the rules for guests.  Here’s a select few:

PLEASE do not hang towels, swimsuits, etc. on patio or landing railings.  [But feel free to drunk-sit on balcony railings and projectile vomit on passing locals while doing so.  Just don’t give the owners who rent to you bad reviews online.]

Sunbathing should be confined to pool decks or balconies – not on grassy areas. [But you can set up a grill station, Karaoke stand, or toddler diaper changing/disposal area on any grassy area or any other place you choose. Just don’t give the owners who rent to you bad reviews online.]

Absolutely no pets are permitted in rental units. [However, your Uncle BoBo who likes to scream invectives against the government while he paces around the complex, armed, is welcome as are your children with behavior disorders.  Just don’t give the owners who rent to you bad reviews online.]

No motor homes, campers, trucks beyond pickup size, trailers or boats are allowed to be parked overnight. [Because it is all about SIZE, you know.  Don’t worry if your truck sounds like a jet taking off. But God forbid you bring your BOAT to the Florida coast. Just don’t give the owners who rent to you bad reviews online.]

Pools are closed after 10 PM.  [Ignore this rule unless Joyce comes down and tells you to get the fuck out.  Just don’t give the owners who rent to you bad reviews online.]

Irrelevant concerns.  Misdirected energy.  Perhaps my jotting these thoughts down is equally pointless.  So, I close for now.

Cheers to all this rainy Seagrove Beach day; come on down and bring your Uncle Bobo!

Love,

Joyce

Returnings

 Dear you,

In February, swarms of little brown birds appear at the condo complex and strip the red berries from the holly trees.  It is a thrilling sight.  There is a gorgeous holly by my balcony, so I get a closeup experience. But this year, no birds in February.  This made me sad.  I guessed the crowds and development were the cause.  But on Sunday, March 14, they finally returned!  They swept through the holly in waves and in a matter of hours, all the berries were gone.  This made me happy, the return of something beautiful.

Also returning were the spring break hoards.  This year, worse than ever.  The families are traveling in even larger packs and the teens and toddlers are even louder.  There are also very few signs of masks on the youth and forget about social distancing.  The return of something not so beautiful.  Some are trying to be civilized, but they are outnumbered by the maniacs.  Even the best are annoying.  Like the friends of the owners of the unit across the landing from me.  They checked in last weekend after midnight slamming, stomping, and screaming.  My unit shook.  I woke, went out my door and gave them the look.  I also gave them the order to move in with ease. I got the usual Southern Charm apologies and the next morning (after they woke me at 6 AM with more slamming, stomping, and screaming), they left a vase of wilted, cut flowers at my door with a note.  The note opened with these words:  “We are truely sorry . . .”   Truly with and E.  I could not read further.  I placed the flowers by their door and tossed the note.  I also avoided running into them, which took way too much effort.  They checked out today and I have PTSD.

And then there’s another return, according to an Associated Press release, “a decades old ban on yoga in Alabama public schools could be coming to an end.” They banned yoga?  For the love of god, the state of my birth just keeps rolling out the stupid.   I didn’t even know about this.  Back in 1993, the state Board of Education voted “to prohibit yoga, hypnosis and meditation in public school classrooms.  The ban was pushed by conservative groups.”  No kidding.  Because we all know how dangerous calming meditation and self-reflection are.  Now, the Alabama House of Representatives voted to lift the ban if schools want to.  It is now moving to the Senate.  Wow!  How progressive! A good return! But no. The bill lifting the ban still orders “yoga done in school would be limited to poses and stretches” and “the use of chanting, mantras and teaching the greeting ‘namaste’ would be forbidden.”

The words yeehaw, kill the liberals, and roll damn tide are not forbidden.  Namaste is.  Namaste means “greetings to you”.  It can also serve as a tribute to the divine in all of us or a form of divinity in general.  I guess that is really dangerous according to Earth 2 protectors of youth.  So much for that return.

But at least the birds returned.

I shall keep my eyes open for other beautiful returns, rare though they be.  After Moderna shot #2 in early April, I can return to the project of finding that place without breakers, prolific breeders, and yoga police. A place with plenty of birds and NAMASTES!

Wish me luck.

Joyce

There's a VAX for that . . .

Dear you,

Last Friday I received my first shot of Moderna.  I am halfway to invincible! The day of the injection I was nervous but excited.  At my age, I didn’t expect side effects.  Other seniors I’ve spoken to only suffered a tiny bit of injection site pain.  Unfortunately, this was not true for me.  I experienced dizziness, chills and fever, random body aches, blurry vision, throbbing injected arm from shoulder to hand, and mega exhaustion.  The hours directly after the shot were strangely pleasurable, floaty, like I had smoked some really excellent weed.  But ten hours in, the buzz ended and the drama started.  It took me days to get back to normal.

So much for the first shot “not so bad” rumor.  It seems my immune system thinks she’s twelve years old.  She went DEFCON1 fighting that virus shot. I guess that’s good. My system knew to attack instead of just roll over.  But if she chose the nuclear option after shot one, the supposedly easy injection, what will she do after shot two? Don’t think about it . . . Don’t think about it . . . Don’t think about it . . .

Just keep thinking about a return to invincible!

The after-effects are worth it.  Vaccines are amazing.  We need more.  If we have an “APP for that” for virtually everything, we should also have a “VAX for that” for virtually everything. I want immunity from/an end to the following:

Leg hair

Conservatives

Spring breakers at the condo complex

Everything at the condo complex

Joe Namath peddling Medicare benefits

The persistent body odor smell at my local Tom Thumb (in)convenience store

Sean Hannity

Underwear

Those passive-aggressive “have a blessed day” ladies

Mortality

Oh, happy day when I can get those shots.  Side effects be damned.  No more compulsive leg shaving, chasing that smooth as Barbie feel!  No more cranky moods caused by invaders, body odor, or Sean Hannity!  A world full of groovy people going commando!  And none of that dying thing.  Perfection.

What is on your wish list?  We can make a VAX for that, someday.

Love,

Joyce

PS – Thank you Moderna! 

CPAC assumptions and me . . .

 

Dear you,

There they are: the young Trump fans super excited about their golden god at CPAC.  I expect young ones to have crushes, but crushing on Florida Man 45? And by the way, what are they wearing?  I assumed the young had style. They’re dressed like seniors on a Carnival Cruise. I guess I should not be making assumptions about anyone because of their age.  I don’t like it when the assuming is done about me.  Like last week.

I was back in Tallahassee for a change of scene and to check out property.  I am leaning towards that small city thing again, and I discovered a 55 and over residential community selling space.  I called and booked an appointment with one of the agents and met her for a tour.  I discovered things old people are supposed to love but I hate:

The townhouse I looked at was about twenty feet from a busy road.  So convenient!  No, that is actually so loud.

The townhouse was fueled by natural gas.  So affordable!  No, so environmentally destructive.

The clubhouse, pool, and gym were literally empty.  So quiet and uncrowded!  No, so depressing.  (Where is everyone?  Have they all fallen in their new homes and can’t get up?)

The complex is about to start construction on Phase 2, but the worst will be over by next year.  So many new neighbors on the way! No, so chaotic, and what makes you think I will make it to next year?

The complex has a 55 and over owner/resident restriction.  So exclusive! But wait! Owners can let their grandkids visit anytime for up to 30 days!   So no, no, no, no, no.

I came close to buying the townhouse; it was fresh, modern, lovely actually. But everything that was assumed to lure me in for the sale did not.  The sales agent was really confused by this.

Still, the trip to Tally was not a waste of time.  It was restful and fun, even if not property productive.  I enjoyed the retreat, strolling around the lake under the trees, chatting with other guests.  Doing that one evening, I dealt with yet another assumption:

Nice 30-something man:  Hi!  I’m _______.  How are you?

Old person me:  Excellent.  I’m Joyce.

Nice 30-something man:  Why are you in Tally?  I’m here to do some work for __________ Energy Company.

Old person me:  I’m here to relax, be somewhere else, and look for property.  I checked out a 55 and over thing, but too many negatives.  I like this town though.

Nice 30-something man:  I like it too.  Hey, have you thought about The Villages?  Lots of people retire there.

Oh my god.  The Villages.  MAGA hats.  Golf carts.  Xenophobia.  Death.  This nice man assumed I was one of them.  Because I am old.  I did not snap at him; I just said it wasn’t my style.  Then I went back up to my room to contemplate my categorization and the many assumptions to come.

Old.  Young.  Never assume.  Young men at CPAC inexplicably hot for Trump and an old lady inexplicably not hot for gas and grandkids.  Who knew?

Love,

Joyce

What's New, Pussycat? Acceleration!

 

Dear you,

Yesterday, 102.1 The Wave played Tom Jones’ sixties hit “What’s New, Pussycat?”  This fabulous waltzy song surprised me while sprinting the beach on a cold day.  It inspired bad public dancing on my part. I love, love, love this song!  My snowbird audience took the performance in stride. They probably just thought I was another local on meth.  But then, after the final “woah-woah-woah” chorus, The Wave betrayed me and played Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian”. From the ecstasy to the agony.  “Motoring. What’s your price per flight, for finding Mr. Right?”  Yes, that is just what we all need, a power rock band interrogating a virgin, acting all provocative and deep.  The Jones question, on the other hand, just lights me up: “What’s new, pussycat?”. 

“Woah-woah-woah!”

Ah, what is new, pussycat? 2021 is new and so is the feeling that everything now is like my musical anecdote, a schizoid rollercoaster.  We free fly down with glee, “weeeeeee!”  We trudge back up with effort, “screw this ride.”

Current events illustrate this contrast:

😊 Darling Texas furniture store owner turns his shop into a shelter during the weather crisis!

☹ Idiot Texas governor Abbot blames the power failures on AOC and The Green New Deal.

😊 The COVID vaccinations are happening and appear to be effective!

☹ The distribution/availability of those vaccines is not so good.

😊 NASA’s Rover, Perseverance, lands on Mars!

☹ Flat Earthers still exist. 

😊 The Real Housewives of New Jersey is back with a new season!

☹ The Real Housewives of New Jersey is back with a new season.

😊 Ted Cruz left the country and fled to Cancun!

☹ Ted Cruz came back.

2021.  A rollercoaster!

At least we’ve returned to spurts of acceleration.  The spirit of our age?  Trudge and fly. Fly and trudge.

Plug in to a “What’s New, Pussycat?” state of mind.  It will sustain you during those “Sister Christian” days of deceleration and drudge.

Love,

Joyce

And Tom

Kissing a Stranger

 

Dear you,

Valentine’s Day 2021 is approaching.  How are we celebrating this romantic holiday during a pandemic?  Beloved partners might be sick of each other.  The quarantine effect = intimacy overload.  On the other hand, beloved partners might be even more in love, having faced their fears (and boredom) together for a year now. The victims of intimacy overload are dreading V Day.  The in-love-more-than-evers are pumped!

But what about the uncoupled?  How do they feel about Valentine’s Day, specifically a Valentine’s Day during a pandemic?

When I was young and sexy, I was rarely in a committed relationship.  I had a long list of boyfriends and phases of intense couple-hood, but I never really wanted a forever relationship.  I did, however, always love romance.  And because I loved romance, I loved Valentine’s Day, with or without a beau.  I think about my New York City self during this holiday.  One of my favorite things to do was to go out to a lovely (not trashy) bar or club on Valentine’s night and meet a stranger.  Just for a chat.  Just for a dance.  Just for a kiss in the dark.

This was fun. This was erotic and sweet and fleeting and so not 2020-2021.

Our young (or old) uncoupled can’t do this now.  Bars and clubs are contagion zones.  Chatting and dancing six feet apart with a mask on?  So not hot.  And obviously, forget about kissing.

I heard one health expert predict we might not return to a kissable normal for seven years.  I hope this guy is really, really wrong.  I want our coupled and uncoupled to be able to do what Valentine’s Day is all about, at least for me:

Kissing a stranger.

That's all.  That's actually everything.

Happy V Day 2021; looking forward to our non-distanced, smoochy future.

Love,

Joyce

Shortages & Gluts

 Dear you,

I cannot find the perfect house in this zip code or in the zips to the east and west.  There are structures called homes available, some are nicely designed, but ones I am viewing are always in bad places.  Bad places are not within walking distance of anything, have no Verizon connectivity, are loaded with vacay rentals and barking dogs, and tend to be populated by at least one gal or guy who has a Confederate flag fetish.  Right now, the available stuff is usually in a bad place.  Case in point:

Their neighbor is an asshole. Nevertheless, the owner will get fifty calls a day because we, here and nationally, have a housing shortage.  Period.  Shortage of the bad and the good. I have options. I just don’t like them.  But what about the people who have no options?  Where are they living?  What chances do they have to find a place they love?  And, beyond aesthetic choices, how many are without shelter of any kind?

The estimated number of homeless in America ranges from 600,000 to possibly 1.5 million.

The estimated number of homeless in Florida is around 29,000.

Shelter shortage. This is us.  We are low on the supply side of survival basics, homes, shelters from the storm.

Another thing I am searching for is the vaccine, any version of Covid kryptonite.  But I can’t get an appointment.  I just checked the Walton County Health Department website again and clicked on the “eventbrite” link they use for registration. (Like I’m responding to a bridal shower invitation or something.) This is what I got:

“Registrations are closed.  Thank you for your interest in a COVID-19 vaccine.  At this time all appointments are full.  Please continue to monitor . . .” etc., etc., etc.

Thank you for your interest????? I am inquiring about a potentially life-saving vaccine, not a new refrigerator or smartphone upgrade.  I know my county only has X number of doses, so the Health Department is not at fault.  We have what we have and right now, we do not have enough.  But keep in mind my section of Florida (and pretty much all coastal areas) is about to be besieged by spring breakers, carriers galore!  We are in the kill zone.  So “please continue to monitor” my increasing rage.

The estimated number of Americans waiting for the vaccine is certainly in the millions.

Vaccine shortage in the 21^st century.  This is us too.

Now, what do we have in excess?  Where does supply exceed demand in the USA?  From my perspective, we have a glut of the following:

Brands and flavors of chips.  We can buy lime flavored Doritos!  Why?  Am I supposed to drop one in my gin and tonic?

Dangerously dumb people holding elected office.  Marjorie Taylor Greene.  Enough said.

Real estate agents.  We have hundreds in my county alone.  But we only have, like, two optometrists and maybe three good dentists who won’t jack up your teeth.

Bathing suit stores.  Most of these suits will disintegrate in the Gulf of Mexico anyway.  (That is not really true. I am just trying to get a rumor rolling about how the Gulf is full of flesh-eating poison to halt the spring break invasion.  Is it working?  Maybe I can ask Marjorie Taylor Greene to post this on her Facebook page.  That would hit my target audience of “please don’t come here” people. They believe whatever she says.)

Denim things.  OK, some people love their Levis.  But do we really need “denim-look” couches, cars and condoms?

Dollar General Crap.  Spend an hour or two walking around one of these 1$ type stores.  Yes, the merch is cheap.  It is also, for the most part, unnecessary.  Please explain to me how those “Ten Commandment” potholders and stained tube socks improve the quality of my life.

Finally, T-shirts that say things.  I can see you’re a “Professional Couch Potato”.  No need to reiterate that fact. As for suggestions that I “Work Hard, Play Hard, and PRAY hard”, just shut the hell up.  Your t-shirt is not my life coach.  (I think I’ve ranted about this before.)

All the things we need but do not have enough of.  All the things we have but do not need.

This is us.

Change the balance.

Love,

Joyce