January 17, 2017

There is a couple two sites down from me who arrived a couple of weeks ago. They are petite, slim and in constant motion. Their trash leads me to believe they are replacing electronics and other household items. Their park model has been power washed and polished, the outdoor area tidied, and there was a housekeeper there yesterday doing windows. Last night, as I returned from sunset, the man was polishing his truck. I told him I admired how well they took care of their things. The truck looks brand new but it is 10 years old. The man said he has 11 vehicles and they all look like the truck. He needs to get laid.

​I have put myself on a schedule to address over 60 postcards each day this week so that the mailing for January 23rd and 30th will be finished. I can't wait until Group B goes in the mail on the 30th so I can become depressed about the lack of response. I've assigned myself the task of coming up with the next campaign by the end of next week. I'll eliminate some of my contacts because I've lost enthusiasm for working for them – food purveyors, vitamin suppliers, boutique manufacturers which aren't large enough to need me (although I like their stuff). I'll target some private equity people in the next round.

Shortly after I arrived, a family of Québécois arrived to occupy the park model across from me. They left at New Year's. I assumed they were related to the owner until a cleaning crew showed up and a "preppy" old guy from Connecticut moved into it. Sherri invited him to sunset one night then she feared he might have thought it was a personal invitation. She learned that he has a brother here. I've never spoken to him, but I know he's a fake "preppy" because no real one would come here. I'm dying to talk to him because I hope he has a telltale accent – like from Queens. He also exercises too much to be a real preppy of seventy-something, golf and tennis notwithstanding.

At sunset last night I had the opportunity to speak with a woman who helped me learn a line dance routine two weeks ago. She and her husband have led interesting lives which included living on a sailboat in the Caribbean with their three young children. She told me she lost her 30-something daughter to cancer a couple of years ago. Even as someone who has never been a mother, I cannot imagine anything worse than burying a child.

Tonight was line-dancing. I had trouble mustering the enthusiasm to go, but I feel that way about all evening commitments, especially theater and concerts because they start during dinner time. If I eat before, I sleep during the show; if I don't eat before, I'm a low-blood-sugar complete fucking bitch who squirms in her seat. I went because I told Sherri, the woman who lost her daughter, and the Dutch couple that I would be there. I didn't dance very much tonight mostly because I couldn't see the instructor's feet. Sitting on the sidelines made me laugh because most of the technically correct steppers have no rhythm. The woman who was goofy last time was goofy again tonight, and she made me laugh out loud when she said, "I hate country music." Right. I like some country music, but I don't like most of the music to which we dance. I also don't get doing the rumba and cha-cha-cha to country music. I really like the Dutch couple and respect them for trying to teach us how to dance, but I'm finished with line-dancing.

Last night I ordered 18 12-packs of crack from jet.com. This morning they told me that they could only send 17 of them. No worries: that's still a 51 day supply. What the hell was I thinking? I'll have to store them in the cockpit. I'm almost out of wine: if jet.com sold wine, I’d have to buy another RV just to store it.