I'm hot (already)

Really, folks, my ancestry is a bunch of northern Europeans -- pale as milk.  My 'people' freckle at the word "sun" used in a sentence, burn to a color known as "fire-engine red" and cannot tolerate heat much above 75 degrees (F).

So here I am in Southwest Florida.

Yeah.

It is "unseasonably warm" right now, which translates into low 90s instead of upper 80s (yes, dear readers, a swing of approximately FIVE WHOLE DEGREES).  The humidity is high -- much like being covered in a sopping wet quilt.  I sweat before I get OUT of bed, even with the air conditioning on.

Yes, the AC is on.  Much to my shame.  I gave in yesterday.  It was too damn hot to breathe in my house without it.

For six months out of the year, Florida is a delightful place to live.  Warm temperatures, low humidity, few insects, copious amounts of sunshine.

The other six months? 

The reason why people leave this God-forsaken state.  90+ every day.  Humidity not lower than 90%.  Insects the size of small dogs.  Blinding sun followed by thunderstorms, followed by blinding sun again.

I am in the other six months now.  I wear 70 SPF every day.  Yes, EVERY DAY.  On the plus side of that 70 SPF every day?  My dermatologist -- yes, I have a dermatologist -- said the other day: "you aren't a native Floridian, are you?"  Translation: I don't look like shoe leather/alligator hide.

In two weeks I should know something.  Two Weeks. 

Florida makes me laugh.

I only wish I had thought of this first.

Paradise revisited.

I needed to keep reminding myself today just how lucky I am to live here. After 5 days of no sun (okay, it was light out but no direct warm sunshine), I was feeling about as down as I can get. I just wanted to curl up into my bed and sleep each day away. Not exactly helpful when I'm on a five day mission to see as many friends and relatives as possible.

I wake up today and the first thing I notice is the sun, peeking through the light cloud cover, welcoming me back home. The kitties were, of course, superglued to my sides in bed last night and today has been no exception to that rule. They clearly missed me and neither have willingly let me out of their sight today for any length of time at all. Even in my shower, Cleo came in between the two curtains and walked along the tub edge, just like she did when she was a kitten.

Caesar is beside me now, to my left, with his front paws wrapped around my left elbow, leaving me just enough space to type as needed. The purring has been unrelenting. Cleo has positioned herself between my knees on the bed, every now and again putting a paw on my knee as if to reassure herself that I am still here. It is these moments where I want to show all the people that don't like cats how sweet they can be.

I spent today getting some laundry done, tried to get a leg wax and had wine at Bistro 41 with Mary and KC. KC, for those that don't know her, is in wine sales and has been kind enough to hook me up for wine tastings all over Lee and Collier counties.

KC also had some interesting observations on Rugby -- which I found highly fascinating. There is nothing like a disinterested third party observation of your dates to reveal insight. Thanks, KC, you rock.

We discussed wine, sunshine, happiness and joy, among many topics. So looking forward to NYE at Mary and Lee's house -- am working on a few goodies to bring. Then on NYD, Mary and Lee's oldest has her 15th bday and I've worked a bit on a gift for that.

As for the failed leg wax -- one would think after a week of full-on no-shave madness my leg hair would be long enough but nay, it wasn't. They told me to wait another week. Oh Sweet Goodness, how am I gonna survive another week with leg hair like this? I mean, really? It hasn't been this long since I was 12. I may give in and give up on the idea of waxing. I don't want to, but I don't have another week in the frozen tundra of Indiana to let it grow out unnoticed. Right now I feel weird -- feeling hair on a surface that hasn't had hair of any length on it for 24 years or so does make for some strange sensations.

Tomorrow is work around the house, then potential wine with Mary and her mom. I think I'm getting used to this day off stuff.

South Florida 'pace'

The transition from Indy to Fort Myers has been overall good, with moments in time where I am incredulous at the differences between the two places and I'm not talking geography.

The 'pace' is one of those things.

South Florida's pace is slow. Reaaaaaaaaal slow at times. I have to check my tendencies toward "wtf" fairly often down here. In the grocery store, I could be in line a half-hour, with only one person ahead of me, because the cashier and the customer ahead of me are having a conversation about people that they might know ... and how they are related, how big the kids are getting, don't the tourists seem to be here earlier this year and on and on. Then, if you are to wonder if these two people knew each other, the answer is no. They might know some of the same people, might live in the same area code or might just have wanted to be chatty that day. Oh yeah, this is life down here.

Meanwhile, my popsicles are dripping, milk is getting warm and I am losing what is left of my mind.

Not one single person down here is in a hurry to do anything. If you are in a hurry, give up. You will be thwarted at every turn. Your patience is too limited to be in a hurry down here.

So I'm learning patience. Adapting. Adjusting. Slowly.

Hot Damn and Stan's ... a match made in heaven

(picture 1, note plastic "butt" shorts and bikini t-shirt, worn by a man and the flamingo hat worn by the female, picture 2, note flamingo hat and bikini t-shirt. See below for explanation.)

As all great adventure stories start, it was a random suggestion at a table full of fun people, made half in jest.

Then it became serious.

It was Friday night, I was at the Sandy Parrot (a local wateringhole of pleasant reputation) with Mary, Mary's husband, Lee, and Mary's mom, Carrie. We were talking about fun little places to explore, and my love of the random road trip, when Lee suggested we get in our cars and head, immediately, for a place called Stan's in Goodland, FL. Once it was determined that Stan's could potentially be closed for the night (it was 7 then, but we'll get to that in a moment), Lee suggested a road trip for Saturday. Carrie dropped out of the fun, but the three of us left were to meet at Lee and Mary's house around 10:30 or so on Saturday morning.

I had woken up fairly early on Saturday morning -- around 7 or so, took a walk around the neighborhood then went to breakfast at FirstWatch. Came home, read the paper a bit, started laundry. Happened to look at my phone, realized it was 10:10 and I wasn't even in the neighborhood of being ready. I called Lee & Mary and reported I'd be there by 11. All good.

I get there about 10:50, freshly showered, bag packed, mind ready for adventure. Mary is still getting ready at this point (no big deal to me) and Lee hands me a beer. It was at this point I knew the day would be most excellent. Ice Cold Beer on the start of a roadtrip always portends good adventure.

We had a couple of errands to run first ... dropping off items to both of their Moms (coupons to one, tickets for the Commodores to the other) and away we go in the convertible, zipping down I-75. Sunshine, glorious sunshine and laughter were our guides.

We make it to Stan's at about 1:30 or so ... and hear live music as we arrive. Stan's is best described as a funky little small-town bar with a great following. It sits on the edge of the Everglades, has a tin roof (in parts), two stages and about 60-ish tables overall. The crowd was light on Saturday, about 60 people or so all day, coming and going with boats, cars and jetskis in attendance all day. One particularly unfortunate man on a jetski reminded me of the Chris Farley skit "fat man in a little coat" as the life jacket he wore would not keep him afloat if it was paid overtime.

The music of the day was provided by Hot Damn, a husband/wife duo out of Maine, who happened upon this place some winters ago and are now a fixture. They play damn near anything, with some definite leanings towards country music, which didn't bother me a bit.

Picture this: wooden deck, metal roof, license plates as decor, kitch for days, live music, dancing and buckets of beer under a warm October sky. Truly heaven, if you've got any sense at all.

The hours rolled by and the beer continued to taste as if it were made just for us. We laughed, told stories, enjoyed the hell out of the whole experience. As all good things must come to an end, so did Stan's. Yes, it is true, Stan's closes at 7 p.m. in the "summer" (winter hours start in November -- then open until ???) and I bought some CDs for my listening enjoyment later (all three are fabulous, btw).

One especially interesting thing to note ... next door to Stan's is a shop called The Island Woman, which sells all manner of tschotches, nonsense and whatnot, and was the store that Lee suggested I do all my Christmas shopping at for the northern relatives. The pictures included in this post are of some of the 'treasures' found at the Island Woman. Please let me know if you cannot live without any of these items, as I'm sure Stan's will become a favorite of mine in short order.

Apparently Sunday is the day that Stan's becomes out-of-control outrageous, as it is a well-known destination for local bikers. From what I could tell (60+ tables, two stages and plenty of madness), Sunday must be seen to be believed. I think a Monday off work will need to be in order for a Sunday adventure.